What a year, 2016. Brexit. Trump. Leonard Cohen’s death. Job applications. Rejection letters. Assorted plane crashes and terrorist attacks. And, oh my god, the manufacture of the last-ever video cassette recorder; now that’s the end of an era. My era. Honestly, this is one year I’m delighted to consign firmly to the dustbin of history.
To give the new year half a chance of success, minds desperately need to be cleansed of the copious detritus of the one just gone. In other words, we must take a long hike.
And thus, we found ourselves by the white cliffs of Dover, dressed in our best hiking finery, on an exceptionally sunny day. The English Channel stretched out before us, a bright shiny blue, the French coast glinting on the other side. We started our cleansing walk in one castle, Walmer, and ended it in another, Dover, rambling over an iconic part of the incredible British coastline.
The weather was perfect. Sunny, windless, and cold. We had taken an early morning two-hour train ride from London to the little Kentish town of Walmer. Walmer Castle sits right on the sea. It looks like a big flower; a high central circle is flanked by four large stone petals, making for a most un-war-like shape. But it was built for expressly military purposes by Henry VIII, him of the seven wives, when tensions flared with France in the mid-1500s and war seemed likely.
Three hundred years later, this became home to the Duke of Wellington. After leading many war campaigns, including against Tipu Sultan in Srirangapatnam and Napoleon in Waterloo, and a brief stint as Britain’s Prime Minister, he lived out the last years of his life here. There’s a lot of his memorabilia on display, including Wellington’s very own Wellington boots, and the actual chair on which he died.
Sheep graze on the vertical walls of Dover Castle.
For some reason, very little is said about his time in India. Ditto on his wife — perhaps the curators thought it best to brush their allegedly miserable relationship firmly under the carpet.
One of the castle’s top-billed attractions is Wellington’s bronze death mask. It’s a slightly macabre insight into how the English used to deal with the death of notable people. They made a cast of the face from the dead body as a keepsake, or if the face was in bad shape from injury, they made do with a cast of the hands. It disturbed me a little, peering so intrusively at a dead person’s face, but the guide assured me it was okay, Wellington really wouldn’t mind.
Leaving Walmer Castle, we were immediately on a beach. You’re picturing sand? Erase that thought. This beach was shingle. Noisy, rustling, crunchy shingle. Millions and millions of pebbles were set in little wave-like patterns by the daily comings and goings of the sea. We rested a minute, watching cruise ships, ferries and container vessels scurry across the English Channel. At the insistence of a local chap, we downloaded an app to give us intimate details of every passing ship: its name, weight, age, speed, the whole lot. Endlessly fascinating, and, I found, worryingly addictive.
At Kingsdown, we ascended muddily onto the famous white cliffs. The skies suddenly opened up, the horizon expanded, and before us was the shortest sea crossing between England and the continent. My phone announces that it is in France and I’m paying roaming charges, that’s how close the continent is.
The stretch between Kingsdown and St. Margaret’s Bay is lined with several large jealousy-inducing houses with huge sea-facing balconies. I studiously averted my eyes from them and focused instead on the benches that lined the trail. They were planned so cleverly. There were plenty of them but when you were sitting on one, the next one was out of sight and so you had the feeling of being all alone, at one with the sea and the birds.
The Brits really do understand a walker’s mind. The benches were set well back from the crumbly cliff edges which are, I later learnt, eroding at the alarming rate of 8-12 inches a year.
A man in St. Margaret’s Bay told us that part of a neighbour’s garden recently fell into the sea.
Shingle beach at Walmer.
After setting off from Walmer, we got first sight of Dover’s port and castle in about 4 hours. We stood a while on the cliffs above the port, admiring its busy-ness. Cars and trucks snaked around the vast tarmacked area by the boarding points. Apparently a ferry leaves the port every 30 minutes heading to the continent, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.
Dover’s proximity to the continent has historically made this a site of tremendous strategic importance. The castle that dominates the city skyline today was built by Henry VIII, but there have been forts here since the Iron Age. It was an important military base during World War II; the underground tunnels and military hospitals used at that time are open for visitors to explore, as also a Roman lighthouse from A.D. 43.
As we stood on top of the tall main tower admiring the sun setting over the English Channel, I found myself staring unblinkingly at the fluffy white sheep grazing on almost vertical grass banks around the castle walls. I couldn’t tell if they were real. Yes, they were. Wait, were they?
Soon after, we clambered mud-caked and tired onto a London-bound train. We’d walked 15 kilometres and ascended the equivalent of 65 floors. With all the exercise and fresh air and looking out beyond national borders, I could feel the last tastes of 2016 receding.
Mission accomplished.
Shobha Das travels extensively for work and leisure, and adores hiking. She lives in London.
