There is a painting of the white cliffs at my Dad’s house that my mum’s dad must have purchased of the cliffs and I remember Mom singing that song. I always wanted to see them up close so after lunch I headed east along the the shore. Magnificent day (I’m getting some nice colour the past few days) and since I had been seved well by Robert from Asda and had had a good, hot soak in the tub that morning, I felt up to a walk.
Folkestone from the Warren. The cliffs here are riddled with hundreds of miles of caves and tunnels where the British Army had sequestered supplies and ammo with lifts to carry munitions up to the surface where guns were ready to resist ant German attempt at invasion.
Folkestone from the top of the Warren.
Not only have I seen the White Cliffs of Dover, I’ve touched them.
The far spit of land, if you zoom in is actually my hotel.
And the whole in this photo is a vent hole.
This tunnel from the car park takes one to a footbridge over the highway into Dover. The whole wander was over 10 miles (16 K).
As I recall, my cousin Larry was on the team that engineered the venting of the tunnel under Boston Harbor. This system sucks all the fumes from the Chunnel.
The commercial queue to enter the Chunnel,
Low tide
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