As the crow flies

'There'll be bluebirds over, the white cliffs of Dover.' sang Vera Lynn. Today black crows rule the roost. The path from Dover to Folkestone is a place of contrast. White cliffs and black crows, uphill and downhill sections, soft mud and hard rock under foot, boats to your left and lorries to your right.

Dover lies at the end of the M20 and M2 motorways. The final destination for those taking the sea route to France, and the first port of call for those arriving in the UK from the continent. It is often in the news for all the wrong reasons; migrants arriving on overcrowded rafts, traffic chaos, ferry strikes. However it is also known for the famous White Cliffs and stunning castle overlooking the town.

I used to live in Dover and bought my car while resident there. That was six years ago. Now in London and looking to sell my Seat I returned to the place I purchased it from and handed over the keys in exchange for half the original value. My dad's words rang in my ears, "You'll never be rich if you own a car".

Although now working from home the majority of the time I spend one day a week in the office. The company is based in Folkestone, just six miles from Dover as the crow flies. I could have taken the train, but the trails were calling and I decided to retrace the commute I used to enjoy all those years ago.

Running through Dover doesn't lift the spirits, unless you are looking for them in one of the many off licenses. Charity shops, betting shops, frozen food stores and funeral parlours line the main road as it declines towards the sea.

Fortunately, I know a hidden route called the Barton Path Riverside Walk. It winds along the banks of the River Dour behind St Peter and St Pauls Church where pied wagtails fly away and come back again. A mother with her small child were emptying a bag of stale bread into the gently flowing waters. Two mallards, the colourful male and earth brown female stood on a submerged traffic cone and gobbled up the soggy meal.

I emerged beside The Red Lion pub where I had spent many a summer's afternoon with my then 18 month old daughter watering the plants with a plastic watering can that the landlady would generously refill endlessly.

Continuing past Morrisons supermarket and through the gates beside the Town Hall, I am reminded of Dover's losses during the war. A memorial stands here, ringed by weathered poppy wreaths and middle age men drinking cheap lager and smoking roll ups. The Roman Painted House, an archaeological gem over 1800 years old, is visible just off the roundabout. Ahead I can see the top three floors of a Saga cruise ship in dock.

The roiling sea is hidden from me by the new marina development. I turn right and head westward, the sea on my left and the sun behind me. The wind strikes me head on. Articulated lorries add their own blast of hot air as they charge along the dual carriageway towards customs. No queues today. A row of bait and tackle shops display their wares in the hope of baiting an angler or two. Greasy spoon cafes compete to raise the cholesterol levels of both locals and tourists alike.

Once past the petrol station the gradient steepens and it's hands on knees time. Just a few hundred metres left of the roar of traffic and smell of exhaust fumes before I escape to the hills and trails. I pass Archcliffe Fort, constructed on a headland overlooking the port. Since 1370 it has provided a watchtower to warn of invasion from the likes of the Spanish Armada and Napoleon. It is now home to the Emmaus Community who support the homeless, of which there are many in the area.

Through the underpass beneath the rushing traffic and I am finally out of Dover. Below me the rail line curves along beside the shore. Waves crash and throw spume towards the rails before the track disappears into the black tunnel entrance carved beneath the white chalk of Shakespeare's cliff that  towers over me. It takes the name of the bard as it is thought to have inspired a line from King Lear Act 4 Scene 1 'There is a cliff whose high and bending head looks fearfully in the confined deep...'

A narrow track rises steeply. It is being reclaimed by thorny blackberry vines that scratch at my knees and elbows. Red and black berries hang heavily, unpicked and tempting. Buddleia lean out over the path and create a tunnel which I have to duck to pass through. The white, pink and purple flowers like balls of candyfloss. I dodge the scattered snails, some trampled by feet, others cracked open by beaks, a few still hoping to make it safely across.

My pace gradually reduces and eventually I accept the inevitable and slow to a walk. Ultra running technique - walk the hills. At the summit I look back over my shoulder and see Dover Castle above the terraced housing and ferries entering and leaving through choppy waters. Ahead Folkestone, with the infamous ship shaped Burstin Hotel looming over the harbour is visible in the distance. Before me the hills rise and fall mirroring the shape of the waves.

A murder of crows materializes from below the cliff edge, shooting into the sky like stealth bombers. They fill the air with raucous screams that are carried off on the same stiff breeze which lifts them before they drop like stones back below the crumbling edge.

The descent prompts me back to a steady jog. My feet land one in front of the other seeking to avoid tripping on the edges of the track worn inches deep by ramblers and runners alike. A new wire fence has been erected since my last visit. Sprawling sea bindweed knots itself around the fence posts. The cliffs are receding like my hair twenty years ago. Soon the path will be gone. For now it is enough to keep people from getting too close and following the birds down the sheer 350 feet drop to the broken piles of chalk that litter the beach.

Round stone towers are lined up like rooks in a game of chess. These are ventilation shafts for the railway tunnel below. Another walk up Abbot's Cliff, thankfully it is dry, on wet days this becomes a mud slide.

At the top golden samphire lights the way before me like a landing strip. I am running past Samphire Hoe which is at the bottom of the cliff face, separated by the railway line which has now re-emerged. It was built with the excavated material taken from the sea bed when constructing the channel tunnel and is now a nature reserve. It is also the location of Saxon, Viking, Norman, running challenges. Most weekends you can find dozens of runners looping the Hoe, some managing 100 miles before they stop.

The path rises again, although not steeply enough to force me to walk. Through bushes of blackthorn and gorse. This is trail running; stony, uneven ground, aching quads, breathlessness, sweat dripping into my eyes, my brain focussing a meter in front to relay to my feet where they can land safely, a loss of balance as the angle of my footstrike and a gust of sidewind combine, a smile. 

I pass spears of crow garlic, their purple tongues stark against the long yellow grasses that dance in the wind. Heath groundsel and common heather add their palette of violet, lemon yellow and white at intervals as if dropped from a height.

Low lying, brutalist pillboxes serve as further reminders that this was the front line of conflict 70 years ago. I pass the giant concrete sound mirror built in 1928 to detect enemy aircraft approaching. It was abandoned shortly afterwards as radar technology superseded it. Still, impressive that it enabled the detection of aircraft from 8-15 miles away.

Pastel pink storksbill and milky white meadowsweet line the way as I descend a steep path along the edge of the cliff before heading up to the cliff top café on the edge of Capel-Le-Ferne. Behind the café a series of rough steps descend 500 feet into another world. A microclimate containing thousands of Hart's tongue ferns that love the damp, shady gorge. This is The Warren, a kid's paradise to explore and enjoy and a place of incredible natural diversity. 

A metal bridge crosses the railway line and leads to the sea. Sea kale emerges from cracks in the concrete man made platform that used to hold the Folkestone Warren Holt railway station. Stinking iris spill their orange seeds along the platform edge and buckthorn and rosehips compete for space.

As the end of the coastline approaches there is a small sandy beach. A collection of tents have been put up just above the tide line. They could be free campers, but more likely are homeless people from Folkestone. A shelter a few hundred yards above the beach used to be a temporary camp but it has now been fenced off. Moving the problem rather than dealing with the need.

This is a fossil hunters paradise, but today I don't have the time or energy to scramble over the slippery rocks to find ammonites, crinoids and bivalves that surface here. Over a small rise and I can see the fishing boats in Folkestone Harbour, the Harbour Arm surrounding the entrance with it's rainbow coloured signage spelling out the name of the town.

I descend the steps to the boardwalk and then follow the coastline past the Burstin hotel and new flats being built to the consternation of many residents. Eventually I reach Mermaid Beach. The tide is beginning to recede and sand has appeared at the water's edge. I trudge through the pebbles feeling my feet sink while my legs fight to balance on the shifting surface. I peel my clothes off and plunge into the cold water. As the shock fades I lay on my back and float. Staring upwards the crows are gone and seagulls have taken their place, wheeling and gliding above me.