Personal Account: Dover

Wanting to experience something of the sublime in England, I ventured to Dover’s famed white cliffs, in search of awe, wonder and dread. While the romantic writers were inspired by mountainous peaks and deep chasms, observed whilst trekking through mountainous alpine territories, these are not in abundance in South England. The iconic rock face proved just as fulfilling however, as the historic symbol of England provided its own spectacular response. While the bridleways are well worn and populated by tourists, dog walkers and local residents, rather than the craggy, narrow footpaths from the Romantic paintings, walking just off the beaten track, into the long grass near the edges of the rocks, allows a sample of magnitude and awe, in equal measure to the corresponding apprehension and vertigo. Moving carefully towards the steep decline, on one weathered outcrop, I looked to the east, gazing along the miles of ancient rock, white from the chalky earth, with brash streaks of black from flint, almost abstract in appearance, with the long, deep brows beaten out of the stone by years of stiff breezes, rain, and the ocean. Moving carefully towards the steep decline, on one weathered outcrop, I looked to the east, gazing along the miles of ancient rock, white from the chalky earth, with brash streaks of black from flint, almost abstract in appearance, with the long, deep brows beaten out of the stone by years of stiff breezes, rain, and the ocean. The sheer beauty of the scenery ultimately holds you; on reaching what seemed to be the summit, rich, green fields become visible, stretching out towards a forest in the difference, with frail fog whisking across, the sunlight casting kaleidoscopic patterns as it moves behind clouds. The rolling countryside is then sharply cut into by the ominous deep streak of white, which leads down to the pulsating deep blue. It is breathtaking. Later, further to the West at Abbots Cliff, the weather has become much worth, the wind is far stronger and constant, bring dense fog with it, dimming what is left of the afternoon light, which quickly descends into near darkness. The lights from Folkestone, a mile away, barely punctuate the thick haze, with visibility minimal. The cliff edge is only apparent when a metre or so away, the only indication of the drop being the glint of light bouncing off distant waves. While the elements are in full force, it is possible to admire the reckless authority nature holds over the area, it feels like you are only permitted to witness this scene because the forces are allowing it, with a change in wind direction capable of sending you tumbling from your vulnerable position. This experience proves more threatening, however leaves wonder at how much control nature has over you, leaving you totally aware of your limitations, vulnerability, and your complete lack of importance in the face of true epicness.