The White Cliffs of Dover and Vera Lynne’s Hope

A few weeks ago (I can hardly believe I have been here for four weeks already!) I took the city bus to Dover, about 14 miles south of Canterbury. The cliffs are protected by the National Trust, think National Park, and are free unless you arrive by car (not a bad idea). The sky cleared enough that I could see France some 22 miles across the Channel. It is no wonder these have inspired so many artists. At the cliffs, I was fortunate to become absorbed for a few hours in the majesty of a hovering kestrel and the knowledge that I was merely enjoying a place that marked epochs without regard for my presence.

From the cliffs just north of Dover and its port to Calasis, I walked down a well-worn path into town, which like most ports cities in England, was terribly bombed during the Second World War, and then back up other hills to Dover Castle. Most invasions—those successful, Normans, Saxons, and those unsuccessful, Napoleon, Germany—have targeted Dover, so the castle and its tunnel fortifications hold an active history of conflict that easily magnifies the sobriety of our Gettysburg or Arlington.

 

 

In addition to the castle, whose keep was built 1181, the site contains thousands of meters of tunnels, including an underground WWII hospital. These tunnels ushered the 300,000 British and French soldiers that were rescued during the Dunkirk Evacuation in June 1940, many of whom would later go on to retake Normandy four years later. While there was no photography allowed in the tunnels, the tour recreated a scenario using flickering lights, sounds, and odors, in which we followed a wounded pilot into surgery. I was the youngest in my tour group by about 30 years, and the only American. When finished, our guide asked what we thought of the experience: an elderly British gentleman said the air was neither stagnate nor damp enough. A second, even older, added that it would have smelled of rotting flesh. With that, we exited quietly to the sound of Vera Lynn’s “There’ll be Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover.”

 

I then made my way back down into town and unto what turned out to be a most hopeful end to an unexpected history lesson: a city bus full of teenagers making their way home from school.

 

And, while it didn't rain, it was a perfect day.