Dover to Hougham
Embark on a picturesque journey from Dover to Hougham, traversing the scenic landscapes that have captivated travellers for centuries. This path, rich in natural beauty and historical significance, leads from the bustling port of Dover to the tranquil village of Hougham. Along the way, witness the vibrant wildflowers adorning the cliffs, the rustic charm of old villas, and the serene beauty of the Warren. This route not only offers breathtaking views of the English Channel but also reveals a tapestry of stories, from the daily routines of coastguards to the peaceful allure of rural Kent. Discover the hidden gems and untold tales of this historic trail.
Descending the slope on the Folkestone side at the first appeared the path leading to the channel tunnel works, but we contented ourselves by merrily craning our necks to get a peep at the few wooden buildings that bear strong resemblance to those at the mouth of a coal pit. The path from here to its junction with the old Folkestone Road is fairly level and is one mass of wild flowers.
Passing the Coastguard Station some hundreds of yards from the cliff another zig zag cropped up, used by the preventative men to reach their cutter housed on the beach below. This cutter being employed at the time of our visit for nothing more dangerous than a fishing party. From this point we travelled rapidly and soon reached a large villa built on the very edge of the cliff, all the seaward windows being fitted with double sashes. The thought at once suggested itself who can live here? and reason replied, nothing small, cowardly or luxurious, nothing after the pattern of a Rotten-row “Masher” or a Pall-mall lounger could exist here facing day and night the tempestuous Channel.
No one would voluntary make his dwelling here without being a passionate lover of all that is wild and picturesque stormy and peaceful, a true lover of all that is grand and noble in nature. Just beyond this residence we found the path that leads down to the “Warren” to visit which was the principle object that had brought us so far by the land and by the sea. This famous resort to visitors both from Folkestone and Dover is simply a large expanse of under cliff-thickly covered with thorn, alder and brambles, through which countless footpaths formed by generations of explorers run in all directions. Viewed from the Dover side and from above with the background formed by Folkestone rising tier after tier with Shorncliffe Camp beyond, in the foreground Folkestone Pier, and even that right away in the hazy distance Dungeness, the railway cutting through the centre and ever and anon a train dashing across the picture the tout ensemble is grand in the extreme. Clothing the slopes of the cliff in indescribable profusion were plants and flowers.
Who shall call cliffs barren after a visit to this spot? Wild clematis, trailing bindweed, prickly blue bugles, the horned yellow poppy, sea kale, wild thyme, white scurvy grass, sea cabbage with its yellow heads of blossom, the tiny white flowers of the all-seed and numberless others of which we neither knew nor had ever heard the names. Arriving at the foot of the cliff we found ourselves in the labyrinth of underwood before mentioned among which are said to grow the finest blackberries in all Kent. After many a bootless scramble we struck a track that led to the shore where rock pools especially abound of all depths and sizes for a wide platform of cracked and honeycombed rock is covered at high water. Occasionally fish are left about impatiently in the glass clear water to the intense delight of children who make the cliffs ring again with their shouts of glee -seaweed-green, purple, rose pink, red, brown, black and white-grows in and around these pools.
Red anemones opening as if they were really flowers in the sunshine and closing up into blobs of jelly in the shade. Little black and green crabs lurk under every boulder and sometimes the red edible crab may be hooked out from crannies in the rocks. Strolling here for some time with our hearts made as gay as the sunlight dancing on the sea by the beauty all round we were at length reminded that home had to be reached again, and so retracing our steps we eventually reached the path by which we had descended and accomplished the return journey to the upland at a much slower pace and with a greater outlay of labour. On arriving at the summit we kept along the cliff to the westward till we arrived at Caple Lodge, so long the residence of an old Doverite the late Rev. W. B. Briggs.
Following the land adjoining the finger post stating that it led to Caple and West Hougham we presumably passed through the first mentioned hamlet and thence through a succession of lovely Kentish lanes beautiful as only such lanes can be towards the end of “the leafy month of June” to Hougham. Now Hougham is not a pretty spot it being to bare of trees to have any pretentious to the picturesque so hurriedly pushing on we again left the main road and turned into the fields to our left and along a cart track that leads to the beautiful Valley of Poulton.
Very few people except the regular inhabitants know anything of the beauties here found and if more did know of it, it would be too quite for the taste of the multitude. No doubt this view of the question entirely coincides with that of the tenants. We unhesitatingly assert that nowhere within two miles of any town can there be found such quiet pastoral beauty as here abounds. Descending the valley into which we emerged close to the farm house and the first sight of a large meadow adjoining, laid down for hay, caused such exclamation of delight from one of the members of our party in advance that we all hurried on to the ascertain the cause. A pot of old fashioned gold pupil oxeyes – now of course known as marguerites-is very beautiful but imagine if you can acres of them in most wonderful profusion and you will see what we saw. Disdaining bailiffs, bailiffs, dogs or summons for trespass one athlete at great expanse of wind and garment forced through the quickest and possessed himself of handfuls after handful which he threw over to the equally guilty receivers awaiting them.
Not deeming it wise to remain very long at this stage of the journey and once out of sight of the scene of our depredations we breathed more frequently, freely and began again to admire the beauties of nature so lavishly ranged before us. The hedges were hung with the sullen purple, yellow antlered blossoms of woody night-shade, tall smooth mottled stems of the hemlock choked the ditches, ragged robin, the cuckoo flower and the white petals of the stitchwert boarded the road. Through the grass the purple spotted leaves of lords and ladies pierce their way. Sky blue speedwell blossoms peered out at us. White and pink and purple clover studded the banks with yellow banded bees buzzing now to this blossom and now to that. The green wheat barley are spotted with scarlet and black poppies and the fields are fringed with tiny yellow pansies, purple, yellow, and red vetches, white streaked santfoin and the scarlet pimpernel.
Peeping into the woods we see the hazel boughs laden with abundant promises of “four’s” and “sixers” as we used to call them “in the days when we went gipsying a long time ago” Scentless violets, blue and purple are still in blossom and wild columbine, butterfly orchids, lilly of the valley, wild hyacinths, glossy leafed periwinkle, the fox glove with its spikes of spotted bells and here and there out side the copse patches of orange golden furze. At this time the shades of evening began to fall and passing through the yard of Coombe Farm the geese white and grey were cackling good night to us and the bell of the sombre looking pile of buildings devoted to housing “Its only a pauper whom nobody owns” noisily and most unmusical clanged “the curfew” as we arrived at the London Road, and here gentle reader we bid you also farewell.