I was rather late to bed last night, and just
after I’d dozed off, work phoned at 1am. The poor girl who was on duty was so
apologetic that she’d had to phone me – she knew she shouldn’t, and she knew
I’d not been there for three weeks, but there was no one else she could call.
Having been woken, it took me a little while
to doze off again. And I was sleeping very peacefully when I was woken at 6am
by what sounded like the entire county exploding. For those of my loyal readers
across the world who also heard the explosion and wondered what it was, there
is no need to worry – it was just “My Boy TM ” coming home
quietly.
He’d been to France with a gaggle of his
mates and, as always after a skinful, he comes home to me because he doesn’t
want to disturb his girlfriend. How thoughtful (!)
Apropos of nothing, I weighed myself just
after brekkie. Since I last weighed myself (a
month ago) I’ve lost over a stone and a half without really trying. That’s
impressive. So I thought I might make the most of this by embarking on a diet
and fitness regime. I’ve signed up with myfitnesspal.com, the idea being that science has shown that
people lose twice as much weight if they actually write down what they eat and
what exercise they do.
The problem I’ve had with diets in the past
is that I have absolutely no idea what the calorific content of any food is.
But this website tells me, and tots it all up for me. Did you know that my two
slices of peanut butter on toast and a cup of coffee contained 317 calories.
That was one seventh of the day’s worth.
Having counted calories we then popped round
to Chippy’s for a sausage sandwich (302
calories), and I slept through the rugby whilst we waited for our lift.
Paul soon arrived, and we set off to Dover’s Western Heights to review some old
haunts.
We arrived to find that two thirds of our
number were already there, but “Daddy’s Little Angel TM ” was
delayed having a tiddle. So whilst some of our number did sightseeing, together
with Paul and Chip, I clambered into St Martin’s deep shelter. We had a good
scramble about in the dark, and soon the stragglers had arrived, and all ten of
us were underground in the dark. At the deepest part of the tunnel (several hundred yards in and down) we
found we could go no further unless we got on our bellies and scrubbled. So I
got on my belly and scrubbled. Unfortunately it turned out that you couldn’t
actually scrubble very far, but you don’t know that until you try.
We came back up to reality, and our plan was
to try to get into the Grand Shaft. It was open, but unfortunately the area was
swarming with hundreds of cub scouts. The Grand Shaft had been opened for them,
and we were told to shove off by a po-faced old twat (in scout leader uniform) who clearly did not care about the public
perception he created of the Scout Association.
We then had a plan about how best to proceed,
and we found another tunnel and an anti-aircraft pill box. I then led the way
round to the Drop Redoubt via various footpaths and tracks. And there’s no
denying that I might have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. But we
eventually found our way out of the brambles and back to civilisation.
Through the rabbit hole, and avoiding all the
cubs swarming everywhere we met some people from the Western Heights
Preservation Society who told us that they were having an open day in a few
weeks’ time. We might just go back mob-handed and have a look-see. If any of my
loyal readers are up for it, there are details to be found
here.
We’d (arguably)
chosen the wrong day to go to the Western Heights – cub scouts were swarming
everywhere. So once we’d met up with Pete, we thought we’d go where there
wouldn’t be any cubs.
Old Smokey is behind two “Keep Out” signs. Once past the second of
these signs we made our way to the tiny little hole in the wall which allows
the brave, foolhardy and plain daft access to the inside of the North Gate.
Most of our number scrabbled through a very small hole to get inside. The last
time we were there we found a rusting spiral staircase leading up. The last time
we were there we’d looked at that staircase in fear and trepidation. This time
we just climbed it. It has to be said that it wasn’t worth the climb. At the
top was a very dull area and a bricked-up door. So I climbed down, and was
amazed.
The last time we’d been in this bit we’d
looked at the upper gallery, and wondered how on Earth we’d ever climb up
there. I looked up to see three faces peering down at me from that gallery;
including the face of the most recent fruit of my loin.
Deciding that faint heart ne’er scrabbled up
the insides of very dangerous Napoleonic forts, I started to scrabble. As did
everyone else. There was a dodgy five minutes when over-zealous scrabbling on
Paul’s part ripped out the arse of his trousers, but in a serious triumph of
idiot enthusiasm over common sense, eight of us climbed up something which only
three months ago I had confidently decided was un-climbable.
Once in the upper gallery of the North Gate
we made our way to some windows, and waved at the three sensible members of our
party who’d remained in (relative)
safety. And assuring ourselves that they were safe (sitting outside in the sunshine) we blundered off in pitch darkness
with no idea where we were or where we were going. At one point Stevey
recognised a vertical shaft as one he’d fallen into (as a teenager) and broken his ankle.
Time was pushing on, so we decided to move
on. Getting up to the upper gallery had been tricky. Getting down would be
easy. Getting down safely, not so. But we scrabbled, scrambled, climbed, and
clung desperately to wooden beams. Eventually we were all out, and we made our
way to the detached bastion – “Old Smokey”.
This time all of us managed the climb in. We
scrambled about quite successfully. “Old
Smokey” has the advantage of having a lot of windows, and so not all of it
is in pitch darkness. So this time we could see what we were doing. We wandered
around, we found some used condoms (and
they say romance is dead), we climbed to the top, and made our way onto the
top, where we sat and enjoyed the view. Wonderful!
We then realised we were hungry – it was
after four o’clock. So we made our way back to the cars and went on to the
Eight Bells in Dover for a spot of Sunday lunch (503 calories) and a crafty pint (220 calories). We’d timed lunch just right – we’d had a smashing
day, and we came out of the pub to find that whilst we’d been eating, the
heavens had opened.
We had a great day – as always there are photos of the event on-line. And as I
mentioned, we’ll be going back in a few
weeks’ time,
admittedly in a much more controlled manner…
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