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Ramble Near Dover - Along The Cliff Westwards.

Having heard much talk of this interesting spot we were determined to devote our Saturday holiday to visit it and declining the advice to find our way under the cliff resolved to go over the cliffs by name of Shakespeare and Roundown. Leaving the Old Folkestone Road at the Coastguard Station we took to the footpath and commenced the ascent of the far named headland.

Whose high and bending head

Looks fearfully on the confined deep.

Having no ladies to assist we quickly reached the summit 476 feet above the beach known description of our immortal poet in “King Lear”

“How fearful and dizzy ‘tis to cast one’s eyes so low'

Underneath as we stand, is the celebrated Shakespeare Tunnel of the S. E. R. 1,393 yards long. It consists of two separate tubes each 30 ft. high faced with brickwork, ventilated by seven shafts sunk perpendicularly from the surface above and the same number of lateral outlets towards the face of the cliff originally made for the purpose of throwing the excavated matter into the sea. The Folkestone side of the tunnel is interesting as being the site of the preliminary borings of the Channel Tunnel and also as the scene of the famous blasting of Rowndown Cliff was effected with consummate skill by the use of 19,000 Ibs. of gunpowder causing the disintegration of no less than 4,000,000 cubic yards of chalk which in 10 seconds without noise or accident were distributed over 18 acres causing a saving to the company of about £7,000.

The viaduct on the Dover side though of a different and less stupendous character is no less interesting as a result of engineering science, it is about half a mile long and formed of heavy beams of timber securely framed and bolted but left open so as to offer less resistance to the waves in stormy weather. Of course the most prominent object in view as we gazed on the “scene so charming” was the wonderful Admiralty Pier commenced in 1847. You get a much better idea of the enormous amount of sea and coast covered by the turret gun of this structure from our vantage ground than you can from the pier itself.

Turning from man’s handiwork we cast our eyes sheer down and there many hundred feet below dashing madly against magnificent blocks of chalk with small sandy flats between or rolling shore-ward in successive lines were solid white crested waves and beyond these the silent mass of water.

A heavy mist lay to seaward when suddenly out of the dull grey vapour which shrouded the whole horizon the sun burst forth and revealed the glorious channel in all it’s majesty and right away the white cliffs of la belle France smilingly nodded to us. Grey gulls circled and screamed round us and swimming about in lazy circles, gradually stretching so far out to sea that they appear a mere cloud of moving clots, on its surface are a flock of the same birds while others are careering round the cliffs below.

Man truly say’s of the gull

Now lightly skim

With wheeling flight the water brim

Wave in blue sky the silver sail

Aloft and frolic with the gale

Or sink again his breast to love

And float upon the wave.

A happy life must theirs be on these Kentish Cliff’s this bright June.

As we mused on these and other things the inward Calais boat came in sight and visions of passages made in all sorts of weather, with all sorts of companions passed before us. The most amusing description I ever read of the channel passage was written years & years ago not by the late Charles Dickens. “ I have frequently crossed that vile British Channel and it was always in a rage, as if it had no patience for that hollow “entente” which it has become so fashionable to refer to on all occasions. I consider myself a good sailor and yet alas! I was mortal.

The terrible example of some half a dozen Frenchmen and the savage custom of distributing a basin to each passenger, as you would distribute a pack of cards at once utterly destroyed my peace. We had the usual assemblance of passengers such as one has seen a score of times, but rather above the average number of those unwashed nondescripts whose stale tobacco smoke and aroma of old cheese are so powerful an aid in bringing about the final catastrophe. As we went aboard a sailor was pointing out to a Frenchwoman the way to the cabin, and to our great amusement we heard him say in reply to inquiries as to the hour of sailing “Parley vous Francis down stairs if you please Madame” - with an air so complacent and self satisfied as to lead you to the belief he thought himself quite a proficient in foreign languages.

Of all the living creatures to be at sea with a Frenchman is I think the worst. The sea is to him perfect purgatory-the postures of misery-the utter prostration - the noise and agony and contortions of the inevitable process. Some with bloodless faces and dishevelled beards clasped their basins convulsively to their bosoms as if they were their only friends-some with hoods drawn over their heads and great mufflers round their hairy necks groaned terribly as they held their splitting heads between their knees. Some lay like variegated pieces of old carpet beneath the seats and others hung themselves over the piles of rope like wet clothes to dry. The sea spray went over them-the rain and wind beat them but all in vain. Mind and body were prostrate.

And then as we lay and watched the endless stream of vessels of all nations and peoples tongue that panoramically passed long, tales of disaster at sea naturally suggested themselves and as we glanced towards Hythe remembered that the undoubted inventor of the lifeboat died and lay buried there. Mr. Lionel Lukin was a coachbuilder in London who took out a patent for an un-immersible boat on the 2nd November 1775. George III knew him personally and bore the cost of many of the experiments. Dr. Sharpe of Bamborough hearing of the invention and having charge of charity for saving life and property at sea sent a cable to Mr. Lukin to be made un-immersible. This was the first lifeboat that was launched. Mr. Lukin retired from business in 1824 and settled at Hythe where he died in 1834.

Having expressed a desire that the fact of his being the inventor of the lifeboat should be inscribed on his tomb-the following inscription was adopted. This Lionel Lukin was the first who built a lifeboat and was the original inventor of that principle of safety by which many lives and much property have been saved from shipwreck and he obtained the Kings patent in 1775.

There is not a family in the land that has not a relative or a friend exposed to the dangers of the sea and hence their is not a family or individual that can escape from contribution to the grandest of our institutions “The National Lifeboat Institution.”

Descending the slope on the Folkestone side at the first appeared the path leading to the channel tunnel works, but we contented ourselves by merrily craning our necks to get a peep at the few wooden buildings that bear strong resemblance to those at the mouth of a coal pit. The path from here to its junction with the old Folkestone Road is fairly level and is one mass of wild flowers.

Passing the Coastguard Station some hundreds of yards from the cliff another zig-zag cropped up, used by the preventative men to reach their cutter housed on the beach below. This cutter being employed at the time of our visit for nothing more dangerous than a fishing party. From this point we travelled rapidly and soon reached a large villa built on the very edge of the cliff, all the seaward windows being fitted with double sashes. The thought at once suggested itself who can live here? and reason replied, nothing small, cowardly or luxurious, nothing after the pattern of a Rotten-row “Masher” or a Pall-mall lounger could exist here facing day and night the tempestuous Channel.

No one would voluntary make his dwelling here without being a passionate lover of all that is wild and picturesque stormy and peaceful, a true lover of all that is grand and noble in nature. Just beyond this residence we found the path that leads down to the “Warren” to visit which was the principle object that had brought us so far by the land and by the sea. This famous resort to visitors both from Folkestone and Dover is simply a large expanse of under cliff-thickly covered with thorn, alder and brambles, through which countless footpaths formed by generations of explorers run in all directions.

Viewed from the Dover side and from above with the background formed by Folkestone rising tier after tier with Shorncliffe Camp beyond, in the foreground Folkestone Pier, and even that right away in the hazy distance Dungeness, the railway cutting through the centre and ever and anon a train dashing across the picture the tout ensemble is grand in the extreme. Clothing the slopes of the cliff in indescribable profusion were plants and flowers. Who shall call cliffs barren after a visit to this spot? Wild clematis, trailing bindweed, prickly blue bugles, the horned yellow poppy, sea kale, wild thyme, white scurvy grass, sea cabbage with its yellow heads of blossom, the tiny white flowers of the all-seed and numberless others of which we neither knew nor had ever heard the names. Arriving at the foot of the cliff we found ourselves in the labyrinth of underwood before mentioned among which are said to grow the finest blackberries in all Kent. After many a bootless scramble we struck a track that led to the shore where rock pools especially abound of all depths and sizes for a wide platform of cracked and honeycombed rock is covered at high water. Occasionally fish are left about impatiently in the glass clear water to the intense delight of children who make the cliffs ring again with their shouts of glee-seaweed-green, purple, rose pink, red, brown, black and white-grows in and around these pools. Red anemones opening as if they were really flowers in the sunshine and closing up into blobs of jelly in the shade. Little black and green crabs lurk under every boulder and sometimes the red edible crab may be hooked out from crannies in the rocks. Strolling here for some time with our hearts made as gay as the sunlight dancing on the sea by the beauty all round we were at length reminded that home had to be reached again, and so retracing our steps we eventually reached the path by which we had descended and accomplished the return journey to the upland at a much slower pace and with a greater outlay of labour. On arriving at the summit we kept along the cliff to the westward till we arrived at Caple Lodge, so long the residence of an old Doverite the late Rev. W. B. Briggs.

Following the land adjoining the finger post stating that it led to Caple and West Hougham we presumably passed through the first mentioned hamlet and thence through a succession of lovely Kentish lanes beautiful as only such lanes can be towards the end of “the leafy month of June” to Hougham. Now Hougham is not a pretty spot it being to bare of trees to have any pretentious to the picturesque so hurriedly pushing on we again left the main road and turned into the fields to our left and along a cart track that leads to the beautiful Valley of Poulton.

Very few people except the regular inhabitants know anything of the beauties here found and if more did know of it, it would be too quite for the taste of the multitude. No doubt this view of the question entirely coincides with that of the tenants. We unhesitatingly assert that nowhere within two miles of any town can there be found such quiet pastoral beauty as here abounds. Descending the valley into which we emerged close to the farm house and the first sight of a large meadow adjoining, laid down for hay, caused such exclamation of delight from one of the members of our party in advance that we all hurried on to the ascertain the cause. A pot of old fashioned gold pupil oxeyes - now of course known as marguerites-is very beautiful but imagine if you can acres of them in most wonderful profusion and you will see what we saw. Disdaining bailiffs, bailiffs, dogs or summons for trespass one athlete at great expanse of wind and garment forced through the quickest and possessed himself of handfuls after handful which he threw over to the equally guilty receivers awaiting them.

Not deeming it wise to remain very long at this stage of the journey and once out of sight of the scene of our depredations we breathed more frequently, freely and began again to admire the beauties of nature so lavishly ranged before us. The hedges were hung with the sullen purple, yellow antlered blossoms of woody night-shade, tall smooth mottled stems of the hemlock choked the ditches, ragged robin, the cuckoo flower and the white petals of the stitchwort boarded the road. Through the grass the purple spotted leaves of lords and ladies pierce their way. Sky blue speedwell blossoms peered out at us. White and pink and purple clover studded the banks with yellow banded bees buzzing now to this blossom and now to that. The green wheat barley are spotted with scarlet and black poppies and the fields are fringed with tiny yellow pansies, purple, yellow, and red vetches, white streaked sainfoin and the scarlet pimpernel.

Peeping into the woods we see the hazel boughs laden with abundant promises of “four’s” and “sixers” as we used to call them “in the days when we went gipsying a long time ago” Scentless violets, blue and purple are still in blossom and wild columbine, butterfly orchids, lilly of the valley, wild hyacinths, glossy leafed periwinkle, the fox glove with its spikes of spotted bells and here and there out side the copse patches of orange golden furze. At this time the shades of evening began to fall and passing through the yard of Coombe Farm the geese white and grey were cackling good night to us and the bell of the sombre looking pile of buildings devoted to housing “Its only a pauper whom nobody owns” noisily and most unmusical clanged “the curfew” as we arrived at the London Road, and here gentle reader we bid you also farewell.

(Dover Express 1885)