That's Kent-ertainment

'There'll be bluebirds over, the white cliffs of Dover.' sang Vera Lynn. Today black crows rule the roost. The trail from Folkestone via Dover to Deal is a place of contrasts. White cliffs and black crows, up hill and down dale, wet mud and crumbling chalk, green fields to the left and blue sea to the right.

Kent is positioned at the bottom right corner of the United Kingdom and resembles a small foot dipping its big toe (Margate) in the English Channel. It is often referred to as the Garden of England. Dotted with Oast Houses and vineyards it was on the front line during World War Two. When it features on the national news it is usually for all the wrong reasons; migrants arriving on overcrowded rafts, traffic chaos, ferry strikes. However, it is also known for its castles, beaches and famous White Cliffs. It is also a great place to run.

I planned to use a free morning to run along the Kent coastline from Folkestone to Deal, a distance of roughly 18 miles. I was staying just above the harbour and was greeted by morning sunlight reflecting off the still water while fishing boats danced gently on the turquoise surface. A small pink house was anchored among them, a relic of a past art festival – the Folkestone Triennial. High on the cliff above another piece, a yellow horn the size of a fully grown man enables people to listen to the sounds captured in the funnel or to send messages across the water towards the French coast 22 miles away.

My route took me along Sunny Sands beach and past the Folkestone Mermaid – a statue of a local woman looking out to sea based on the famous statue in Copenhagen. I climbed up to the oversized horn and kept ascending, now through briars and along narrow muddy tracks above the railway line bringing visitors from Ramsgate.

From the top of the cliff I could see the Grand Burstin hotel in the foreground. The recently refreshed, gleaming white paintwork covering the edifice designed and constructed to resemble a cruise ship still divides opinion among the population.

Behind it, the steeple of St Eanswythe church, named after a 7^th Century princess who is reputed to have miraculously redirected a stream of water uphill to the priory and nunnery she founded. The coastline curved away in the distance through Sandgate, Hythe and on to the sinister hulk of Dungeness power station wrapped in sea harr in the far distance.

I turned around and headed eastward through the grounds of the Battle of Britain memorial and Capel-Le-Ferne where I was greeted by a six foot tall wicker rabbit. The crows cawed, rattled and clicked from the trees where the dark shadows of their nests rested in the bare branches.

A hare raising sight

Once through the village it was pure trails all the way to Dover. Narrow muddy paths, claggy in the shadows of wind swept trees and sharp thorned bushes, hard baked on the exposed ridges. My feet danced over the tufts of long grass and molehills, rocks and contours, the path descending and rising again. Just a few inches separating me from the 100 feet drop onto the piles of fallen chalk created by the erosion of the British coastline.

I passed 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.

There were spears of crow garlic beside me, their purple tongues stark against the long yellow grasses that dance in the wind. Heath groundsel and common heather added their random palette of violet, lemon yellow and white at intervals as if flicked from Jackson Pollock’s brush.

Low lying, brutalist pillboxes served as further reminders that this was the front line of conflict 70 years ago. I stopped to climb down into one of the concrete bunkers, now containing straw, a battered wooden cart and empty beer cans.

The path rose again, although not steeply enough to force me to walk. Through bushes of blackthorn and gorse. Yellow flowers like bright nail varnish on crooked dark fingers. The heat was causing me to sweat and my pack pulled on my shoulders as I felt a gentle breeze stroke the back of my neck and knees. I took a sip of water from my flask and ate a chocolate bar before it melted.

I descended a steep slope and considered defacing the sign which reads Round Hill. I would delete the ‘o’ and ‘d’ in homage to my morning activity. A round stone tower like a chess rook signified I was above a tunnel, this being a ventilation shaft for the railway below.

Samphire Hoe was now visible below, a wide green beach built with the excavated material taken from the sea bed when constructing the channel tunnel. It is now a nature reserve named after the Samphire that grows there. I ascended Shakespeare’s Cliff which 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...'

And there was Dover, the castle on the hilltop, the busy port with a column of lorries entering and a procession of ships leaving. A murder of crows materialized from below the cliff edge, shooting into the sky like stealth bombers. They filled the air with raucous screams that were carried off on the same stiff breeze which lifted them before they dropped like stones back below the crumbling edge.

I descended the narrow track, dodging the dog mess welcoming me back to town living, buffeted by the high sided traffic roaring past. A butterfly pitched and plunged through the turbulent air from the roadside, across my path and headed seaward no doubt dazed and disorientated. I passed 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.

The sea was now hidden from me by the new marina development. To get to the beach I ran through the marina and turned left onto the promenade which was full of panting, red faced people in brightly coloured costumes. Parkrun was taking place. I joined the route along the seafront and then bade them goodbye.

After crossing the main road I climbed the steep steps of Dame Vera Lynn Way to the White Cliffs of Dover. The busy port bustled below. The French coast was visible in the distance beyond the glare of the reflected sun on the narrow strip of water. The sound of skylarks trilling above accompanied me on my way. It was mostly a steady downhill over chalk grassland until a rise up to the South Foreland Lighthouse and then down, down, down into St Margaret’s Bay.

Time for a hip stretch and toilet stop and then it was up, up, up to the Dover Patrol Monument, a 23m high granite obelisk. This is one of a trio made in commemoration of the Royal Navy’s Dover Patrol, the other two being located in Calais and New York.

Another smooth and long descent, this time with my arms outstretched like the wings of the black crows swooping down to forage and dig the earth with their large, dark beaks. I whooped with joy as I flew down towards Walmer Golf Course and past the massive homes with outstanding sea views.

The final stretch was flat and paved as I ran along the historic seafront, past 16^th century Walmer Castle, past a plaque marking the spot where Julius Caesar took his first step onto British soil in 55BC, past the lifeboat station, past 16^th century Deal Castle and up to Deal Pier. The end of my journey.