The White Cliffs of Dover 5-22-12

DELAYED POSTING FROM BERGEN NORWAY

Somewhere in the North Sea

It’s a glorious cerulean day here at the White Cliffs of Dover. After a generous repast in the refectory at Canterbury Cathedral there was sufficient time to walk about Canterbury’s town centre and visit the Canterbury Castle, which claims the largest central keep of any British castle. The appearance of the castle suggests very early Norman, perhaps as early as the post-war era after the Battle of Hastings (1066 AD). There’s something haunting about staircases no longer having landings, going to nowhere but open sky. A sound common in ancient castles is that of pigeons clucking in long abandoned fireplaces and holes where floor timbers once were inserted in tower walls. Castles are grand places to let one’s imagination run free.

Trains in Britain must somehow be synchronized to atomic clocks. They’re immensely punctual. Yesterday a conductor said the target for arrival accuracy is 30 seconds. Taking a train from Canterbury was a non-event excepting for the wondrous views of rape seed fields in full bloom. A most jovial and affable conductor sat next to me and offered fine conversation, a wonderful way to pleasantly compress travel time. The journey seemed but seconds in duration. Seamless continuous welded rail makes for the smoothest possible ride in quiet carriages. I find myself lamenting living in a country where the rail system was torn out and replaced by clogged interstates. There’s no grander way to travel than in a fine train.

The ship terminals in Dover are relics from the Victorian era, fine spans of decorative iron and pleasing brick walls with nice detailing. I often feel like I’m in a Jules Verne novel when in these fine old brick structures from the 19th century. Aspects of these terminal buildings remind me of the funky ones on the hill at the Royal Naval Observatory, with their cool clocks, telescopes, and ornamentation.

As we sailed past the White Cliffs of Dover I thought of all the British and American soldiers leaving those cliffs for the perilous channel crossing during the Second World War. I wonder how many tears of gratitude soaked into those white chalks from young soldiers able to come home. For those never returning, their families no doubt did their weeping and grief work in a thousand small hamlets and villages across the land. I think there’s merit in contemplating the challenges certain iconic locations represent. The English Channel was certainly one of the prominent strategic theaters of operation in that tragic episode in humanity’s incivility.

As I write this, we have traversed the English Channel and are now headed into the North Sea. The waters have been calm for six hours and there’s now the barest hint of swell at present; more a pleasant sensibility promoting good sleep at sea. Intense aerobic exercise on an upper deck was followed by a grand four-course dinner at sunset, served on about twenty plates and bowls of Rosenthal china. I’m feeling rather well kept again.

I’ve met a dozen people already in a few hours and even have a promise of a lift to a fine castle upon our return to Dover. This is a very large well conserved castle in an imposing setting on a promontory. I’ve seen it from two miles out to sea several times in the past but never was able to visit. It’s a fine carrot to look forward to, as if I need motivational carrots besides glaciers and fjords in one of the most beautiful regions on earth.

There are a hundred things I could easily write down in my gratitude list for this day. Gratitude is described as the Queen of Emotions. I’m again feeling rather royal.