An English Honeymoon: Day IX

The ninth and last day of our stay in England was the day we visited Dover Castle, all the way on the coast of the country, where we looked across the Atlantic and could see France, even on what was a cloudy day. It was also the day my phone was stolen, along with all the extra pictures I had taken (as much of a blessing as it was a bit of bad luck). The journey was long (two and half hours - longer than anywhere else we had ventured to during our trip), but it was worth every second. We had to ride the London Underground first, then from Picadilly we boarded a train that seemed to travel at light-speed without making any noise.

While on the London Underground, I slept. Rarely did I sleep on public transit while in England, but today we were up earlier than usual, already had walked and made a couple transfers, and the almost empty train car was lulling and quite empty, so I closed my eyes, my head falling gently on Dan's shoulder...  my purse on the other side, side-pocket without a button or zipper holding an entirely big and new iPhone, waiting to be taken. After ten minutes or so with my eyes closed, I automatically reached for my phone, which was not found in its usual spot. I emptied out my bag; it was nowhere to be found. Dan picked up on what was happening, we got into a little tiff about where I had left it, ended the tiff, exited the train, found the nearest coffee shop. Dan called the phone company, reported it, cancelled everything regarding my phone... while I walked around, smoking a little, more relaxed than I probably should have been, still excited for Dover. So that's the phone story. We were heading towards the outskirts - and ultimately out - of London via the London Underground... so it wasn't too shocking that something like this would happen there. Less money, less people, etc. etc. We kept on smiling, the phone account being taken care of, and relieved we had a spare. 

We found out the rest of the way to Dover, took the very fast and very quiet train, and through the windows we marveled at the countryside, miles and miles of hills and green. When we finally reached Dover, we felt like we were in a different place entirely. It wasn't fancy or rich, the people were were older, poorer, and there were many children. The bus we were supposed to take up to Dover Castle was not running, or so we found out after walking in circles. We made up our minds to walk up there, which we knew wouldn't be an easy feat. The castle rested at the uppermost point; there was going to be a lot of uphill climbing. I was very optimistic and happy; Dan was wary and a little flabbergasted. I wanted to go into some places and order coffee or water, some places I walked into didn't have water bottles, others had water but no coffee. In any case, the whole place smelled of the ocean, the sky was full of seagulls, the breeze was full of the sea-salt, and soon Dan joined me in relaxation and the acceptance of what would be a workout. 

We walked up and up and up, and up and up and up some more, the foliage growing thicker as we went... we stopped to rest and drink water from time to time, continuing on... soon there was a clearing to a road, where people with cars were driving to the castle. We paid a fee at what was really a stop for the cars, and continued walking, up and up and up, the castle now coming into view. We were stepping onto medieval land... it felt humbling and grave and beautiful. And the Atlantic, blue and calm, came into view slowly, its ports full, its character stately. 

We laid our hands on the old stone, weathered and hard and smooth and rough, touched the greenery, the loveliest green I'd ever seen, moss and grass and small delicate flower growing in cornered meadows alongside ancient walls, each tree holy, each hill a dream. I almost could not believe where I was, I couldn't believe I was there. Inside I burst with a mysterious emotion that did not cower to fear. We went up, up and up and up.

Finally, after long moments of silence and solemnity, we burst into joy, happily smiling and grinning at Dover Castle and its surrounding land. What histories, what peoples, what events had been here? What horror, what joy, what pain? What blood and what seeds, what frolic and battle and glee? What animals, what plants, what stone? With what hands, if not eyes? If not eyes, with what hands? Oh, incomprehensible history. Oh, what incomprehensible war! 

We entered. Our imaginations ran wild with what it must of felt like, long hours in this place, working, thinking, dwelling, longing eyes looking outside at the tempting meadow, wondering whether safety allowed an escape from the very place of comfort, the very place which kept safe. The centuries embedded into the castle's foundations, its relics, made me feel sick with awe; I can still feel it now, looking at the pictures once again, writing. What kings, what queens, what princes, what princesses, what maids and cooks and henchmen, what wizards and sorceresses made this place come alive? What spirits still live? What drowning souls? A baby's laugh, an angel's wings, the happy rustle of the Queen's skirts, the gentle pound of a king's scepter, the forbidden devil's darkness, the smell of bread, a servant's solemn bow.

After exploring the fascinating premises, we decided on taking a tour of the deep hollows underground, the tunnels for the English soldiers, most prominently used during World War II for secret services. Dover Castle was the site where French and British soldiers arrived, if they survived their attempt to escape the Nazis from Dunkirk, where they were left for dead. If not for the Atlantic Ocean beckoning them to other side, ships of soldiers and men going back and forth from violence to safety and back again. We learned too much for me to retain, but traveling those tunnels and hollows hit me hard in the heart. I'll not share pictures from those sites, they are claustrophobia inducing, dark, damp, and full of memories that I'll bear respect to. But when we emerged those tunnels, the ocean sights refreshed our eyes and ears. The English Channel... you can just barely see France.

 We walked some more, uphill even more, went back inside, took the stoney steep stairs all the way to the very top of castle, in some strange burst of energy we didn't think we had in us, and rested as the wind and sun kindly touched both face and eye and ear and thought. We breathed in heavily, first from the rigorous walk up, second from the blessed air that graced us.

We stayed there for a very long time, exchanging little to no words, lying down, standing, looking out... looking inwards. After a while, we headed back down, explored the grounds some more. Dan found a secret underground tunnel once we reached some flat land. I decided against going with him and decided to lie down on a big patch of meadow (yes I couldn't help lying down on the stone and grass and anything)... and closed my eyes... and let everything sink in... for a while... I don't know how long... until Dan came running out of the tunnel, scared and laughing, but mostly scared, convinced the tunnel was haunted. I ripped a yellow flower from the meadow, a piece of ivy from the adjacent wall, and snuck in between the pages of my book before we headed down farther. 

Once we exited and made it all the way back to Kensington, we began, reluctantly, to pack. It was our last day, and we hadn't spent as much time there as we would've liked. There was still so much to see and do, but we promised we'd go again, maybe we'd stay in Richmond Park the next time. I slipped on my LIGHTS OUT hoodie (which I still wear from time to time). Lights Out/The Blackout was a period during WWII when there were specific times in Great Britain when everyone had to snuff out every single one of their lights to avoid being attacked from above. 

I fell asleep in it, early, preparing to make the long flight back to the U.S. the next morning... we woke early enough to catch the moon in daylight... and we waved goodbye to sweet Kensington.

- F