Day 3 – Ramsgate to Folkestone (iii)

Arriving in Dover, we followed roads noting nothing of exception. Indeed it seemed that Dover is about getting people in and out as quickly as possible for soon we were tangled with the dual-carriageways abused by cars and articulated lorries. Nothing really appealed particularly the steep slopes to climb out of Dover.

Soon we came to a cycle ‘path’ that was not a path next to the busy carriageways but really residential road which judging by its relative position to the carriageway, seperated by a wooded fence once must have bore the brunt of Dover traffic. I wonder if anyone still lived on this street who remembered a time when all the traffic did run in front of their home and wether they felt duped when they realised the traffic still ran in front of their house except they couldn’t see it.

Not long after we were guided onto a gantry bridge over the now fully fledged dual-carriageway arriving on the other side at one of the many NCN markers we will and have seen during our journey on the other side. I wish I had taken photos of the previous ones to have a record of the 1000 or so we will pass.

The trouble with Mr Wallace’s back wheel returned again which led to an unexpectedly long-timeout to try and get the problem sorted once and for all.

Confident in my technical skills, I offered to help to be surprised how tricky it was to stop the ball and cup from seizing up the back wheel. It just didn’t make sense compared to the ease of my Surly hubs which just required the tightening of axle bolts and go.
With Mr Wallace’s back wheel, when you tightened the nuts, the smooth running of the wheel seized up despite locking the ball & cup in position to prevent this. Why does this happen?

Nether the less, between us, using our genius powers of reasoning we finally had a working back axle and my delight quickly turned to dismay facing the climb ahead. It looked like another big climb. Mr Wallace was revelling in delight at the challenge. I seriously felt off the pace.

One good thing was losing the monotonous drowning noise of cars on the carriageway as we followed what seemed like an old service road doted with old delapidated buildings whose past use was hard to distinguish at times. Had they been part of the Second World War or used solely for farming?

The path meandered nearer to the cliff edge to provide a wonderful vista of the English channel. Although I live next to the sea it feels like seeing the sea after a long time. Perhaps it was the height we were at that gave a different perspective – of how vast the sea is. Still, it arrested me in my tracks to breath in the panorama in an attempt to capture the magic.

Soon, signs bore us away from the edge, towards another cycle path running alongside a busy single carriageway that passed the Battle of Britain memorial which we were both drawn towards seeing.

We found the Emergency services present. Was it some sort of an exercise?
Soon Mr Wallace reported back with news that the fire engines and coastguard were in attendance for a dog that had gone over the edge of the cliff (for yes, the memorial is sited near the cliff). The dog had not been found.

The site itself has to be one of the most well thought out war memorials I have ever come across. Inside a huge circular flat plain embossed with three blades making up the emblematic fighter propeller of that age, surrounded by grassy mounds was a lone pilot sitting on the ground, arms embracing his knees looking out to sea. Very poignant. What was so wonderful about it was that it did not glorify war and victory. It remembered all those who did not make it back and for whom we hope will.

In hindsight I realise neither of us went to have a closer look at the pilot – perhaps out of respect and not to disturb.

But here’s a  few photos I found on Flickr.

Two spitfires sat nearby.

Being so close to them, touching their outer skins, I could not help wondering what it would have been like to fly one during that time. The memories of imaginary childhood games where you were the plane, the sound, the hero were silent.

Pressing on, we were once again led to quieter roads leading us to Folkestone.

I’ve talked about the joy of single-speed fixed ‘flow’ in this earlier blog. That feeling of flow is just something else when on relatively flat or gentle slopes which a cycle courier colleague of mine quoted as the arcane equivalent of going to wash your clothes in the river than use a washing machine. There is something inherently nice about doing so.

That flow is completely lost during steep descents because downhill is about how fast you are prepared to go and not trying to reverse pedal for four miles to keep your speed down in fear your legs would turn into the legs of the cartoon roadrunner hitting turbo.

But we arrived at Folkestone never nearing the front or town centre as the station was somewhere near the outskirts. We bought our return train tickets, had a quick drink at the local railway pub and jumped onto the train to our homes.