The Saxon Shoreway
leg 8: Dover to Etchinghill 12 miles
18 March 2005

Past Samphire Hoe

Decided to do this leg on a Friday and avoid any wretched rail replacement service, but with my rail card, I had to get the first train after 1000. Which was 1003. Got a very nice hot sesame pretzel at Victoria to munch on the journey down to Dover. Thursday was hot, so I packed my waterproof, not expecting to use it. 

I arrived in Dover at just before 1200, and had the usual irritating town navigation, trying to find the right route back onto the cliffs. After a minor diversion, found the steps leading up to the Western Heights and a wonderful view over to Dover Castle.

Looking over the town to the castle

Here on the hill is the most extraordinary structure called the Drop Redoubt. It's a huge fort, surrounded by a deep ditch.

Looking down into the redoubt

It was started before Napoleon was around, but once we were at war with France, the building was stepped up in 1804. There's room inside this for hundreds of troops. I peered down into the deserted hulk. An information board told me that this was also were they used to hang people. Nice.

The path led round the sides of the redoubt. This is also the site of a pharos - a roman lighthouse - but I couldn't see any sign of it.

The other side, looking over to the castle

The path now dropped down to the road, then pointed me right towards an immigration removal centre. And just round the corner was a lovely ruin: the site of a Templar's church, with its characteristic round nave.

The Templar's church

This was built in the twelth century and must have been a tiny church. The path now took me close to the Citadel - another part of the Western Heights fortifications. Now it's the immigration removal centre.

The citadel

Even on such a warm day, it looked forbidding and lonely. I wondered if anyone inside was able to enjoy this beautiful day. The path now took me back out to a view of the sea, and down towards the busy A20.

Shakespeare's cliffs ahead

I clambered down, past some houses then under the A20. Up and out again, and then a steep climb up to cliff where, in King Lear, peeps go awfully close to the edge.

Looking over Shakespeare Cliff

Very close contour lines but I was up on top, and what a view! The sun was out, and I was down to my base layer. Amazing to think that three weeks ago, I couldn't get to Kent because of blizzards.

Looking back to Dover

At this point, the Saxon Shoreway joins forces with the North Downs Way, and there was a lovely bench in the shape of an arrow. I paused to glug some water. Onwards and upwards: and this leg's encouraging sign.

This time, it really meant it

The sign did not lie: the path got very very close to the edge. But the views back to Dover just got better and better.

From the top of Shakespeare cliff

The cliffs were at a drunken angle all the way ahead, as if someone had tried to push them over and not quite succeeded. 

The way ahead

The strange thing about this part of the walk was the constant sound of traffic from the nearby A20. It felt very incongruous: here I am walking a historic path but accompanied by cars and lorries heading for Dover. 

The edge of Samphire Hoe

I soon spotted Samphire Hoe - named after the samphire picker in King Lear. This is a modern construction, built from all the tons of soil excavated from the channel tunnel. It's now a country park...but it looks very flat from up here.

Stone way mark

There are lots of reminders of the second world war along the path - gun emplacements and pill boxes. I passed a waymark that showed I'd only done 2 miles from Dover: much slower than usual. But this is a roller coaster leg. 

Gorse bushes

There weren't many flowers out, although I spotted dock, cow parsley and others putting on new growth. Then I came to a gorse corridor, bright yellow in the sun. Once the path had cleared, I saw what I first thought was smoke drifting in. But it was fog, swirling in from the sea. You can just see it in this pic:

Fog ahead

I stopped to watch the fog slowly engulf the A20. The sun was beginning to disappear, and I realised that I didn't really know what fog is. Cold air? Felt chilly, anyway. And at this point the path went awfully close to the cliff edge. I got down on all fours to see the sea below.

A glimpse of shingle below

The cliff was very eroded here, and I was grateful for the fence to cling to as I nosed forwards.

Patch of erosion dead ahead

By now, the weather had really closed in, and I put my fleece back on again. I began to think about where I would finish: there was no point doing a walk like this if I couldn't see anything. Should I stop at Folkestone? For the time being, just keep walking. Up ahead, there was a strange concrete block - something to do with the war.

Concrete thingy

Slowly but surely the fog cleared - or maybe I'd just walked through it. The views became stunning again, and I warmed up. Samphire Hoe is enormous: it must have taken me over half an hour to walk past it.

Looking back to Abbot's Cliff

Finally I could see Copt Point ahead. Round the corner was Folkestone.

Copt Point in the mist

A little further along the path was a caravan park. I said hello to a man cleaning his plastic garden chairs. He came over to greet me, and I mentioned the fog. 'Ah yes,' he said. 'They call this the village in the clouds. But when the weather's good it's the best place in the world.' By village, he meant Capel le Ferne, and I was just on the outskirts. He wished me well and I headed off.

A bit further along I found a prominentory with a trio of benches. I chose one dedicated to Maureen Jeffreys, and unpacked by cream cheese and smoked salmon bagel. Yum. 

Looking back to my lunch stop

This part of the cliff is called the Warren, and there's a lot of erosion here too. Far below me I could see and hear the railway, which hugs the coast. In 1915 there was a big landfall, and the railway had to close for four years while they cleared up. 

Now it was time to go downwards, skirting a break in the landscape. I headed inland, then down some steps.

The path down...

...and back up

Then I was back on the cliff tops. Quite soon I got to an earthwork: it looked very neat. Checking the map, I saw that it was the Battle of Britain memorial. 

The memorial

Inside the earthworks, the area is paved in the shape of a propeller. And in the centre is the stone statue of a young airman, sitting, staring up into the sky. No plane, no weapons. Just a gaze into the blue and beyond. He looked young, and I thought of all the pilots, navigators, engineers and gunners in their teens and twenties who never came home. I stood staring at him for a few minutes, and felt very moved.

The airman

Outside the earthworks, there's a small exhibit of a Hurricane and Spitfire. They're replicas, but as I wondered round them, I thought how fragile they looked.

Spitfire and Hurricane behind

An information board showed how many airfields there'd been round here during the war, and how the south was divided up into different air sectors. And now all was peace and quiet. It's a sad and dignified place, and it seems fitting that what our iron age ancestors did for their honoured dead - tumuli and barrows - should be done again here.

Back to Abbot's Cliff in the distance

Now it was time to head on, along the last bit of the Warren. The path led down to a road and I nipped over to Crete Road East.

Just so there's no doubt...

There was a mile or so road walking now, and I had to keep climbing the verge as cars passed. I was still high up, and there was a great view of Folkestone.

Folkestone landing stage

Along the road was a field of geese, looking quite sleepy in the sun. One offered a half-hearted honk as I passed.

Crete Road geese

The road headed down and a new landscape opened up; one that I'd be with for the next leg of the walk. Rolling hills and ridges of the old shoreway.

Looking west from Crete Road

Looking down to my left was Sugerloaf Hill - a perfect dome with what looked like strip lychets all the way round its back.

Pretty Sugarloaf

Down I went, quite steeply, then crossed another road and into a field.

Looking back up to Crete Road at the top of the hill

Another switch back: it was uphill again to Castle Hill. This was the site of a Norman bailey and castle. It's hard to discern from the lumps and bumps of the hill top, but an information board gave a picture of the wooden castle with houses in the bailey next door. 

Castle of Castle Hill

The path led all round the site of the castle, with the most stunning views of the whole day. My pictures can't do justice to the panorama.

Waymark with the country spread out beneath

The view was awe-inspiring. And what a contrast: below were cars and lorries, and the huge channel tunnel complex of Cheriton. I could see queues of lorries waiting to get onto trains, while other trains pulled out and down into the tunnel mouth.

The channel tunnel terminal

I felt gleeful being high up in the sun and on my own two feet, while all the complex transport stuff was going on beneath me. I'm a biped, get me out of here!

View inland from the castle

By now, I was getting seriously concerned about the time. It was now around 1600, and there was quite a walk still til Sandling, where I'd planned to get the train home. Any muddy fields and I'd have to revise my plan.

Ploughing strips along the hill

I followed the road, then the field edge, along Cheriton Hill, where once there were cherry trees. I could still see the sea over in the distance, and as usual, tried to imagine the Saxon landscape with sea beneath me.

The pit

The path took me through some fields then down a dip into what my OS map called 'pit (disused)'. Chalk, I guessed, and there were chunks of the white rock all around. I picked up a piece and scribbled on the steps. Yep, white stuff. An information board (Kent CC always manage to put them in the right place) told me that chalk from here was mined for Sandwich castle, and that chalk was made up of the fossilised skeletons of millions of tiny sea creatures. How's that for a long shelf life.

Leading away from the pit

The path turned north again, along a good track, then down a lane that got increasingly boggy.

Serious poaching

This was clearly used as a bridleway, and much as I love horses, they don't half mess up a footpath when it's wet. And boy, this was wet. I slowed to a crawl, and took a good few minutes to negotiate one ten metre stretch which was like a quagmire, with brambles and blackthorn on either side. Horrible. And it was very very wet. It got a bit drier, and I spotted a remnant of the winter of two weeks ago.

Yucky path and lump of snow

I gave it a gentle prod and yes, it was certainly snow. I was really worried about the time by now. So I consulted the map and decided to head for Etchinghill once I was down form the ridge. But first, another mile or so to go.

A friendly face

I was very grateful to leave the bog and head over fields again - although the fields were studded with deep hoof imprints. A couple of fields in, I met the first walker I'd seen all day. We had a brief chat, and then the fog began to drift in again.

Wool on the ground

Then it was downhill - a steep descent off the escarpment, with the sun growing hazy in the mist. The light was definitely failing, but I felt the end of the journey was near. The mist was swirling towards me.

Last light along the ridge

At the foot of the ridge was an old railway bridge, then it was back uphill again to reach the road. And here I met my second walker: a nice woman who knew the route I'd walked. 

My plan was to get to Etchinghill, find the pub then call a taxi. But as I walked into the village, I had a look at the bus timetable and saw that the bus to Folkestone was only a few minutes away. As I stood and waited, the fog came in with a vengeance, and it started to get cold. Lucky I'd packed the waterproof. The bus appeared to be driven by a 15-year-old girl, but she was clearly competent and told me where to get off in Folkestone. The train was late arriving, but the lovely woman who ran the station buffet stayed open late so that we could all shelter in the warm.

What a leg! I hadn't managed the last couple of miles to Sandling, but that's not too surprising, given the climbs. The views along the cliffs were brilliant, and the combination of sun and fog turned out to be a bonus. Three seasons in one day. I've got next week off, so I'll try and finish the route.

On to leg 9