After an emotional C, time to return to being resolutely and stalwartly British – and where better to do that than Dover.

The journey to Dover is going to require three trains and a tube journey, so having convinced the ticket machine to vomit forth about 8 bits of paper, I stride confidently forward to the barrier.  And immediately try to get on using my seat reservation ticket.  Clearly having learned nothing from 3 days of travelling by train, I endure the pitying looks of the station staff as they point out which ticket I should use and I get on to the platform.  (As an aside, why do they issue a seat reservation ticket, when no seat has actually been reserved?)

I mull this over as I wait for the train.  Today is more leisurely than the last couple of days – at the start at least – so I’ve had the chance to relax a bit at home.  I still end up at the station far too early for my assigned train, so have my first cappuccino of the day.  While waiting I start my next book: Pierre et Jean by de Maupassant.  Which I am not reading in the original French.

The train arrives and the usual scrum forms to get on board.  I settle myself in, looking forward to a swift journey to Paddington as this is the express service.  It turns out that “express” means “train that travels at a snail’s pace through the first 5 stations”.  At one point I’m convinced that I could have got out and walked faster.  My irritation is soothed by the fact that the man diagonally opposite me is seething at the delay and his explosive huffs and constant checking of his watch keeps me highly entertained.

At Paddington, it’s a transfer to the Tube to St Pancras.  And this is when I discover that the Circle line is no longer circular.  Yesterday, I transferred to the Circle line without difficulties – we went a different way to the one that I used to take and the Tube platform was not the one I was used to using.  Today, I was at the front of the train, so headed straight to the Tube platform I have been using on and off for 35 years.  I jumped on the first clockwise train (easier than trying to describe it using eastbound/westbound) and got as far as Edgware Road where the train stopped.  The Circle Line is in fact now the Spiral Line.  It seems to start at Hammersmith, sweeps majestically past Paddington and then goes all the way around Central London until it passes Paddington again and terminates at Edgware Road – a station that no-one ever seems to want to use anyway.

Having huffed to myself about Trades Descriptions, I get back on the Spiral Line and head for St Pancras.  Sorry, St Pancras INTERNATIONAL.  When you enter St Pancras INTERNATIONAL you might be mistaken for thinking you have accidentally walked into the kind of soulless concourse that you find in any airport around the world.  Because you have.  The vast, dramatic arched roof of St Pancras still exists, but if you don’t raise your eyes you miss it and instead see nothing but steel and glass.  Having long been a fan of Kevin McCloud I can tell you he would not be impressed as nothing has been done to integrate the new and old architecture.  The new reminds me of Prince Charles’ quote about the extension to the National Gallery:

“ like a monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant friend.”

The train schedules are clearly displayed — if you are travelling internationally.  If, like me, you are staying in this country it’s a deal more difficult to find out where your platform is.

So, I start to fight my way through the people waiting for their INTERNATIONAL arrival and glare at them as they hold up signs with peoples names on them.  I head past the boutiques and coffee shops and still have no idea which platform my train is on.  And after a lengthy walk there it is.  The equivalent of being on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying ‘Beware of the Leopard.’  (as Douglas Adams might have put it).  As I finally get to the platform, I see there is another entrance with what looks like a shortcut to the Tube station – this was, naturally, not signposted from the Tube as why would anyone possibly wish to go anywhere other than an INTERNATIONAL platform?

Despite all of the barriers to my finding the platform, I get to the train in plenty of time and get myself a decent seat.  I have noticed that every train station now has large friendly signs telling people using the trains that the doors will be locked 40 seconds before the train leaves.  Clearly everyone will pay attention to this and not do anything stupid – or would they?  Today clearly not.  Just before the train is about to pull away, there is some banging on a door further down the carriage.  A woman inside the carriage starts yelling “DENNIS!” at the top of her voice and is soon joined by a child screaming and crying.  It was clearly loud as people were completely abandoning their attempts to pretend not to be listening, but were standing up to see what was going on (I’m sure it’ll be on Youtube somewhere by now).  As the time for the train to leave got closer, she got louder and shriller until one of the railway staff took pity on them and opened the doors again.  As Dennis (presumably that was his name) got on, the child attached himself to his leg like an over-affectionate Jack Russell and we all returned to our seats, secretly sad that the railway staff had caved from their strict position regarding door closure.

I have to change at Ashford INTERNATIONAL and so the train proceeds through Stratford INTERNATIONAL and Ebbsfleet INTERNATIONAL.  Without wanting to cast aspersions on anyone who lives in these delightful areas, they really seem to have nothing going for them whatsoever apart from the word INTERNATIONAL added to their station name.  The stations themselves have little to be proud off – steel, glass, no character.  Now let’s be clear, I’m not railing against modern architecture.  Some of it quite attractive.  This is not.  It’s bland, boring, soulless and reminds me of a McDonalds Happy Meal  (mass-marketed and not at all happy).

The change of trains at Ashford INTERNATIONAL gives me the chance to observe a group of chavettes in their natural habitat.  Tottering around on ridiculously high heels, and shrieking with apparent glee at nothing whatsoever they made the choice of carriage an easy one — any carriage that they weren’t in was clearly the good choice.  Having made my tactical choice, the train thundered on.

I always like the sea, so the approach to Dover by train is a treat.  Starting off high up above the sea, the track descends close to sea level before heading into Dover itself.  On a windy day it must be truly spectacular.  Today the sea is millpond flat with a haze in the distance through which France can be dimly glimpsed.  Pierre et Jean gets abandoned so I can stare out the window.

So I’m all keyed up when I get to Dover.  Which almost immediately is a bit of a disappointment.  I’ve forgotten that it’s a working port and a town.  But at least I can see the castle across the town, so I head across and soon find myself at the bottom of the hill.  It’s at this point that I should mention that it was a very hot today – clearly the right sort of day to climb a hill up to a castle.  This of course is nothing and so I trudge on up, quite glad that the road switchbacks on the way and a convenient gatehouse gives me a good excuse to stop and take a picture.

I then headed on up to the castle and towards the ticket kiosk.  As I hiked towards it, the two women inside give me the sort of look that Livingstone gave Stanley.  I was clearly not looking my best as when I asked for an adult ticket she very carefully asked me if I was eligible for any concessions.  Resisting the temptation to say “I am only 53 years old, madam!” I carried on — to find that the climb was not yet over.

Dover Castle itself is absolutely excellent.  I had not realised how long there had been fortifications here and it’s a rare place that has seen use from Roman times right through to the Second World War.

It’s varied and interesting with a ton of exhibits to walk around and some excellent views across the channel and up to the White Cliffs.

Now, I have to freely admit that this week has definitely started to take its’ toll on my legs.  My calves were aching at the start of the day and by the time I got up to the castle, they were killing me.  I had originally planned to hike across to the White Cliffs but threw that out very quickly.  Once I got up there I thought I would have an easier time of it, but the castle is on a variety of levels, so I maintained a constant level of discomfort.  Which I then topped off by going to the top of the Great Keep.  The Great Keep has 115 steps and by the time I got to the top my legs were complaining and clearly considering filing for a divorce from the rest of my body.  The top of the Keep was crowded, but just after I got there it started to spit with rain and most people disappeared.  Personally I welcomed it.  The views from the top of the Keep are quite amazing.

It’s at this point that I became aware of a bit of a problem.  Ladies, children and gentlemen of a delicate disposition may wish to skip the next couple of paragraphs and head down to where I start talking about scones.  I have always been pretty hot.  By which I do not mean that I am a magnet for either sex, no I mean that I am usually fairly warm.  My hands are hot (which makes making pastry a nightmare) and I’m the sort of person that happily wanders around in shorts in winter.  It also means that when I exercise I sweat a lot.  The Victorians claimed that:

“Horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glow”

In which case, I am about 80% horse.  (And before some bright spark decides to make the obvious comment, don’t go there.)  As time has passed, something in the atmosphere has made me sweat more.  It’s clearly that rather than the fact that I am old, fat and unfit.  Whatever this mysterious thing is, by the time I got to the top of the Great Keep I was sweating like a Shire Horse that has just completed the St Leger Stakes.  My t-shirt was sodden, my baseball cap was wet and my backpack was horribly wet as well.  Then, of course, I made the mistake of taking the pack off to get to my water bottle and then had to put it back on.  It’s difficult to describe the feeling of putting a wet pack on over a wet t-shirt without shuddering.  Naturally I didn’t have anything useful like a towel with me.  Luckily I had packed a spare t-shirt and I mentally added a towel to my list of things to pack for next week.

Suitably disgusted with myself (and relieved I was wearing a black T-shirt) I headed back down through the keep.  Inside several rooms have been set up as they would looked in the time of Henry II and it’s really worth a good look around – unless you’re wringing wet, that is.  I wandered down and then out and into the cafe.  I decided to go for their cream tea so after a couple of minutes headed over to a table with a cup of coffee and a scone, jam and cream which were elegantly and traditionally served in a moulded plastic tray.  No plates were provided, so I ended up putting the scone in the lid of the tray while I negotiated my way into the jam.  Managing to get a decent amount of jam on the elegant plastic knife, I jogged the moulded plastic tray and nearly knocked everything over the floor.  I managed to stop it, but let go of the pot of jam which, of course, disappeared under the table.  Now, being a bit embarrassed about my sweatiness I’d managed to sit away from anyone else and the last thing I wanted to do was draw any attention to myself.  So I furtively peered under the table for my pot of jam.  Couldn’t see it anywhere.  I thought at this point of giving up and doing with what I had in front of me, but as I looked at the sad amount of jam on my scone, I decided to keep looking.  Not under the table, not under my chair, not under the other chairs…..how the hell did it get over there?  I finally spotted over the other side of the room the jam jar on its’ side right beside a table full of american tourists.  Trying to look as casual as possible, I ambled across the room and (trying not to whistle nonchalantly) I collected the jam and headed back to my table.  The fact that their entire table went silent as I approached and then conversation started as soon as I got back to my table leads me to believe that I may not have been as subtle as I would have liked.  Ignoring them all, I tucked into the cream tea.  Which wasn’t bad.  Completely inappropriate of course – real cream teas, as we all know, come from Devon or Cornwall.  But it filled a void.

After some more wandering around, I headed back down the hill across Dover and back up towards the train station.  At the station I changed into a dry T-shirt with a great deal of relief and started the long journey home.  On the way back Pierre et Jean got finished.  Interesting book about familial rivalry and the effects of the revelation of old secrets.  If it was a long book, it would have been turgid and angst-ridden but as it was it moved along very nicely.  I then turn to something lighter – East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

As I head home, my first week is complete and I’m looking forward to next week.  This has been quite a success, with some surprises and been far more enjoyable than I anticipated.  The tickets are all booked for next week, and I’m looking forward to F – H.