Looking for something else, naturally, I stumbled onto two journal entries from my sojourn in Britain.
Entry 1 British Channel, Calais, France.
The ferry to Calais was fun. Sun shining but you could tell the clouds were on their way from the east, just as predicted. Two Irish blokes joined my small round table on deck. They could have been out of a Frank McCourt novel, one a quiet listener, the other with the gift of profane gab, but what a storyteller.
“Jesus, you’re a different sort of chick, you are,” he said when I told him I had no phone for the trip, just wanted to enjoy my present.
“Jesus, your husband is probably having the time of his life, out with the gents every night, having a pint.”
“I hope so,” I laughed.
But it was the sweet, quiet follower who looked back to wave goodbye, timidly, when we ended up on the same return ferry.
Calais wasn’t much, but it was fun to “be in France.” I sensed that the town didn’t want anything to do with British tourism, not even a t-shirt to be found although they did sell postcards. I walked quite a bit, took a few photos, ate lunch in a charming restaurant garden, where I miserably tried to order a salad and a Bloody Mary in French, and bought Tony a pack of French cigarettes. I lucked out with the rain again, which didn’t begin until boarding.
When I watched on the news during the 2015 summer migrant crisis, desperate Africans and Middle-easterners trying to get to Britain, I recalled the loneliness I felt walking through the massive port.
Entry 2, Kent.
Today was amazing; I ate breakfast and sipped my coffee in the St. Crispin pub before getting ready for the day. I am always a little nervous about driving the narrow roads, but I bit the bullet and took off, stopping in Sandwich for a few hours, roaming the quaint village. I found the perfect teacup in an antique store—I have a collection—and bought my third umbrella of the trip at a charity (thrift) shop, which I needed a few hours later.
Next, I drove the back roads ending up in Canterbury, where I had a quick outdoor lunch at a Prèt a Manger and walked and walked and walked. I returned to the car and decided to head north towards the sea.
I happened on Reculver, a magical cliff side Roman ruin and cliff walk.
First, I walked down to the rocky shore, and then I walked the footpath along the cliff, probably a mile or so, snapping photos of dogs being walked by their owners—more often owners being walked by their dogs—and enjoying the sun and wind.
The whole day was relaxing and perfect; there were moments I wanted to cry, it was so lovely.
I roamed the back roads back to the Inn, had a light dinner, and now I am reading and will soon sleep. Tomorrow, I take the train back, heading first to Hatfield, near St. Albans, just north of London, where I will spend the night and visit a Hatfield House—one of Britain’s twelve “Treasure Houses.” It is where poet Anne Finch and her husband, Heneage, lived for a short time after James II and Mary exiled to France.
I could stay here forever.
