Dover Beach

Spent yesterday in Kent.

As we wandered the narrow beach below the white cliffs, I commented on the sound of the receding waves, and something tugged hard at my memory. Only then did I realize where I was: Arnold's Dover Beach. That sound, "the grating roar of pebbles which the waves draw back," reminded me of heavy rain pattering on the conservatory roof back home, or of a crowd's polite applause.

Later we walked along the cliff tops from Dover to the South Foreland lighthouse. The sea was calm for us, as for Arnold, but it was the middle of the day, and we could see the hills of the French coast above the fog. At times we counted as many as 15 ships in the straits below, the world's busiest shipping zone.

After tea in a little shop overlooking the straights, we drove to Dover Castle. Henry II's keep is magnificent: walls 20 feet thick, soaring interior archways, and a dramatic view from the roof. Superbly positioned on the heights above the town, the castle somehow escaped Cromwell's destructive hand. And despite Kent’s distinction as “hellfire corner” during the Battle of Britain, the Luftwaffe never bombed the castle. Hitler hoped to plant his swastika there.

We visited the wartime tunnels, a vast network of passages beneath the castle, used as a command centre during World War II. It was from here that “Operation Dynamo,” the evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force from Dunkirk, was planned and directed. After the German invasion of France in 1941, a make-shift fleet of fishing boats, barges, and pleasure craft, guarded by the RAF, helped the Royal Navy bring 335,000 stranded soldiers across the straits to safety.

We drove to Canterbury later on, to have dinner and see the Cathedral. We found a lovely Italian restaurant, where we feasted on pizza, spaghetti, and garlic bread with rosemary. Then up to the Cathedral for a special service entitled “Music and Readings for Holy Week.” We entered the cathedral precincts by the west gate, which took us down many ancient outdoor passageways, rendered eerie in the fast-gathering twilight, before leading us into the nave. The choir sang Psalm 59 and two Latin works, which echoed hauntingly in the dimly-lit Cathedral. At the close of the service, we joined in singing “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.”

Didn’t make it to Mozart at Christ Church, but that's ok. The Requiem is being performed at the Sheldonian in December, and I’m booking my flight home around it.