The next morning I was up early and ready to go. Unfortunately my lodgings for the night did not do early breakfasts, but I reckoned I would get something in the town. My route back into the town centre took me across some downs, where a light mist looked like it would soon burn off and give clear skies for the day.
I would have to go back through the town to get out on the trail towards Dover. It was quiet in Canterbury, it being a Sunday morning, but there was an early morning supermarket open, and I was able to get a makeshift breakfast on my way. I also found time to drop by the statue of the other famous person associated with Canterbury, Geoffrey Chaucer.
Then it was on through the town, once again passing the Cathedral, and going on out past the east gate, not through it. My route took me on out of town, through residential areas and out into the countryside. By now, the sun had risen fully and dispersed the light mist. I met plenty of people out walking their dogs. In every case we greeted each other with a cheery “Good Morning” as we passed. One gentleman stopped to talk to me. Was I on the pilgrimage route, or was I just doing a local hike, he asked. I told him that I was on the pilgrimage route, aiming to get to Dover that day. He told me that he regularly meets pilgrims walking the route. They are mostly British, he told me, but quite a few Italians as well, especially at this time of the year. It told him that that would make sense, since it would have them in Italy in October, when the heat of summer would have passed. Thinking about it later, however, I realised that starting from Canterbury in September would mean going over the Great St. Bernard Pass in autumn, which might not be advisable.
I went on and soon came to Patrixbourne, with its quintessentially English churchyard. Then the route turned south-east again going out onto the open downs. By now, the sun was well up, and the day had warmed significantly. I went through Womenswold and Woolage Village before the route turned south to come to Shepherdswell. The official route skirts the eastern side of the village, but Google Maps told me there was a shop in the village itself. It was a small shop, but it did sell cans of cold beer, and I needed to slake my thirst. Drinking cans of beer in the street is not my normal behaviour, but I was willing to make an exception. While I was there, another customer, one of considerable avoirdupois, came out of the shop to get into his car. He asked where I was going, commented on the warmth of the day, and was gone.
Google Maps had also told me that there was a pub at the exit from the village, and I went there next, arriving not long before noon. The front door of the pub was closed, but as I stood trying to figure out how to get in, a lady called to me from across the road. She told me that the pub would not open until two o’clock, but that there was a farm shop just a little down the road that sold teas, coffees and refreshments. It was not marked on Google Maps, and it was a little off the route, but I was thirsty, and in need of a short rest. The shop did not let me down, offering not only a great cup of tea and biscuits, but also a pleasant chat with the proprietor. He had only been in business for two months, he told me. I told him that he needs more and better signage, and soon the hikers and walkers will be crowding to his door.
Luckily for me, having come off the route to reach the farm shop, the back gate of the property brought me right back onto the route, and I was soon out on the downs again. I went through meadows of wildflowers. There was an art installation in another part of the way, a kind of modern folly. The nearby Belvedere Tower once had a cupola on top, and some architects had created a wooden version, entitled Monumenta Romana as an artwork. But in general, I was just walking through farmland all the way. It was afternoon, the warmest part of the day, and while the going was easy in terms of not being too hilly, the heat made it difficult. But eventually, I reached the high ground just north of Dover.
There are some towns that I come to on my walks where I can see the town before I enter it. That is not the case with Dover. At one point I was in the high ground, out in the countryside, with the town still not visible. Then, after a rapid descent under the canopy of trees, suddenly, I was in the town itself. The instructions for the ferry had said to check in ninety minutes before departure, so I did not waste any time, but made my way as fast as muscles that have carried a heavy backpack for more than 30km would allow me. I made my way to the foot passenger terminal and presented my ticket to the man at the desk. I was not long before the ninety minute deadline. After checking my ticket and my passport, the man asked me to take a seat.
“The bus will be here in about ten minutes,” he said.
“A bus?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “It will take you to passport control and security before bringing you onto the ferry”
“I was wondering why I needed to be here ninety minutes ahead of departure.”
“You can take a seat while you are waiting,” he advised.
“I hope we board soon. I could use a drink.”
“So could I.”
“You may well get yours before I get mine.” I said smiling and went to sit down.
The bus did indeed take the foot passengers through security and passport control, and then there was a short wait before getting on board. Once on board, the ship was soon away, out into the channel, and passing those famous white cliffs away to the east of the harbour.
I enjoyed a good meal and slaked my thirst on board before the time came to dock in Calais. In particular, I needed liquid, lots of liquid. Once docked in Calais, the car passengers and commercial drivers disembarked first, and I was fretting as I waited for another bus that was to take the foot passengers off the ship. I calculated that from the terminal, it would take me 55 minutes of walking to get to my accommodation. I wrestled with the idea of getting a taxi, but that seemed against the principles of the journey. However, all was resolved once we were on the bus. The driver told us, we could get off at the ferry terminal, or the bus would bring us to the train station. I calculated again, the train station was a mere 20 minutes from my accommodation.
There was a couple on the bus who asked me about my hiking. When I explained the Via Francigena, the woman said that she had always thought she would love to walk the Camino de Santiago. I told her that I had done it, and we talked about it. I told her, though, that as long as she was saying she would love to do it, it would never happen, it is when a person says that they are going to do it that the magic starts to happen.
Once dropped off at the station, it was an easy walk to my lodgings for the night. Calais gets a bad press as being untidy, perhaps even dirty, full of unruly immigrants and so on. But all I saw was normal people out on a Sunday evening. I reached my accommodation, and checked in. The man at the check-in remarked on my first name, saying he had never seen that name before. He told me that he had worked as a passport control officer at the ferry terminal, and he had seen a lot of names, but that he had never seen my name. I explained that it was Gaelic, and not only unusual, but my spelling of it is even more unusual. We chatted a bit before I left him and went to my room. I was amused by the cinematographic themes used to decorate the corridor as I went to my room.
After a shower, I went to bed, and I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Walkingman 