Room 405, The County Hotel, Dover, Kent

Offline

After a tragically enforced absence of almost a week, I am back, back back! Well, back online anyway. This blog entry would have appeared  earlier in the week had I not understood the exact nature of my home’s internal telephone wiring. After an indignant semi-rant directed solely at some poor sod in Bangalore, I was transferred to someone closer to home and after an indignant semi-rant directed at some poor sod with an incredibly strong scottish accent, it slowly dawned on me that I was an idiot. 12 minutes later, my internet was back and almost 4 times faster than it had been for most of the past 8 years. Anyway, here I am.

Old Boys Weekend – Part One: Friday

I won’t bore you with the exact nature and details of my school’s traditions again, except to say that Old Boys Weekend is our annual reunion and is always held on Rememberance Weekend. My school was and still is a military boarding school and there has always been a Sunday parade, very similar to the one held at The Cenotaph in London on the same morning. I go to the one in Dover and the Queen goes to the one in London. It’s an arrangement that has suited us both for many years.

The weekend begins with a longish drive to Bicester in Oxfordshire, where my best school chum Sean lives and from where he then drives us the rest of the way to Dover. It’s a long old day and is what used to be known as “a frig of a long way”. In reality, thanks to wide, largely empty roads it isn’t and Plymouth to Dover could now probably be done in about 6 hours. This is a far cry from when I was a young nipper and being driven back to Dover after the school holidays, 20 years ago. This journey seemed to involve us getting up at dawn and at least 5 stops. There were mixed emotions as we finally neared journey’s end and the school clocktower appeared on the horizon, none of us  in any hurry to get to school but all of us wanting to get out of the bloody car.

A Frig Of A Long Way, Plymouth is A, Sean's house B and Dover C

This year’s trip was different as I was not alone. Chris Mapp (Class of 96) lives in Tavistock and only 30 or so miles away from me. As is typical in these situations, we have seen neither hide nor hair of each other since last Old Boys Weekend. He was excellent company and so absorbing was our conversation that I drove slightly more slowly and took almost an extra hour to get to Sean’s. Chris left the school about 10 years after me and so we didn’t actually attend at the same time. Nevertheless, I found events at the school after I left to be as fascinating as those what took place while we were there. We stopped for breakfast at a Costa Coffee on the M4. I’d love to tell you where but I honestly can’t remember. It was an unremarkable, characterless shack, staffed by people who obviously could have done with us not bothering them. So typical is this of such places, it only bothers me now in hindsight. At the time, like most of you, I just put up with it. They talk to each other while serving you, mumble grumpily in you general direction and then expect you to understand the fact that you order in one place and pick your coffee up in another. This is so clearly for their benefit that I wonder why we put up with it. A general tone of “give us your money and bugger off out of the way” seems to pervade the place. Quite why a latte has to cost so much is a discussion that I fear would take up too much or you generously given internet time.

This was also the first year with Sat Nav, a fact that almost made up for my slow driving. Under it’s guidance, we stayed on the M4 longer and looking at the route now, I wonder at the cross-country ramble I engaged in for the past 8 years. It’s a shame really, I shall miss those landmarks, particularly those I repeatedly passed (in both directions) on the same trip in the early years. Sean’s new house was easily found and I experienced something genuinely weird when I got out of the car. It was a strange feeling of Deja Vu. Ridiculous really, as I had never been here before. True, I have driven up the road many a time (Sean didn’t move far) but I hadn’t actually stopped here and looked around. I soon realised that I was experiencing Google Streetview Deja Vu. Yes, it’s true. When Sean gave me his new address, I checked it out and wandered around in Streetview. I recognised the houses opposite and had even wandered around the general area trying to get a good look at Sean’s new place. As I said…..weird.

After a quick visit to the loo, we were soon back on the M4 and on our way to Dover. I am (almost) ashamed to admit that Sean did the driving whilst Chris and I buggered about on Facebook. I could disguise that fact with flowery verbage but we spent two hours behaving like teenagers on a school trip. If you have the time, check out our Facebook newsfeeds for 12th November and all is there to see. During the few brief periods when I couldn’t think of anything funny to write on there, I watched my GPS trace fly along the map on my phone. Don’t think bad of me, I am not a good passenger. I was amused beyond the level appropriate to one of my somber age by the names of roads in the middle of nowhere. As I watched the little blue arrow on the phone fly down the M4, roads would scroll into view with the most individual names (I wish I could remember them now) despite the fact that this small, empty road stretched to the horizon in both directions.

At around 5ish, we hit Dover. It’s hard to be honest about Dover in 2010 without seeming harsh. I’ll try but I probably won’t succeed. In it’s defence, almost 3 solid days of pouring rain added a tinge of Bladerunner to the whole mood. We have stayed at The County Hotel for the last 5 or 6 years, opting for a cut-price rate for bed and breakfast, a bar open for guests into the early hours and general feeling of familiarity. Whether we stay there again is difficult to say. As you can see from the photo at the start of this blog, the rooms aren’t bad. The noise, however, is terrible. Every year, I walk into the room and think the same thing. “The bloody maid has left to balcony door open again” and every year i open the curtains to find she hasn’t.

Traffic Outside The Hotel. Imagine noise.

The traffic is deafening and thanks to the proximity of the port, is almost 24 hour long. I tried to record it on my phone but the mic was overwhelmed.

I actually recorded 4 audio diaries over the weekend. There are almost 50 minutes of me droning into a tiny microphone, sounding like Leonard Cohen after some particularly distressing news. I had a mad idea of making them available as mp3 files on line but I fear I come across as a little grumpy and a lot introspective. Entertaining it isn’t and listening back to it an hour ago, I realised that taking out all the “ums” and “ahhhs” would reduce it in length to about 12 minutes. I’ll see what I can edit down to anyway.

First order of business on arriving at The Hotel is to head into Dover and buy some food and drink. I picked my dark alley and moved as slowly as my cowardly pride would allow but fast enough to make me feel safe. The Bladerunner effect was further enhanced by a huge TV screen in Market Square. Nobody was watching it but everyone had to listen to the deafening blurb hailing the impending Olympics (622 days to go!). Nobody looked and nobody cared but there it was. What it’s like to live in any of the buildings nearby is anyone’s guess. I am sure it get’s switched off at some point but Sunday mornings must be a joy.

I stocked up on a few essentials and a few non-essentials in M&S, bought an evening paper in WH Smith’s and headed back. It was raining harder now and my woolen coat had started to feel heavy. My umbrella stayed dry in the hotel room (see photo at the top) for reasons that now escape me. It was probably something to do with looking cool. Dover still has that effect on me. Somewhere along the route back to The County, poppy no. 8 fell from my lapel and down a rain clogged drain. I was wet, cold and now dishonouring the war dead. Party on.

I returned to the room, unpacked my vittles and set about the sodden coat with the hair dryer. I briefly considered inserting it into the trouser press like a hellish woolen panini but pondered the damage that could be caused by such an ancient device and thought better of it. Still, the hair dryer fun killed an hour.

In a huge departure from normal, Sean and I headed to The Light Of India. Yes, we had a curry on Friday night instead of on Saturday. The solicitous staff welcomed us into their empty restaurant  and I was soon tucking into the traditional Meat Thali. I say traditional, but once a year hardly makes me a regular. Sean pointed this out to the waiting/manager when he came over and asked us if we were enjoying our food. “Oh yes”,  I said, “I always have this”. He managed to display confusion at not recognising me, happiness at my fondness for his food and disappointment at the truth all in the space of about 30 seconds. Worth the tip alone.

We were just starting to eat when Alex Clowser (Class of 85) sent me a text from his luxuriously appointed room at the Premier Lodge, just along the seafront. 10 minutes later, he jloined us in The Light of India and his coat was scarcely off when he was bullied (there is no other word for it) into also having a Meat Thali. It was interesting sales technique that involved pointing at all the food on my table and implying that injury would be done to his person if he did not have the same. All this was done with tremendous good humour and the sort of fixed smile only found plastered the faces of curry house waiters and managers the world over.

Bloated and, to be honest, ready for bed, I recieved a text from Chris asking where we where. 10 minutes later we were in the basement bar of Blakes of Dover, a place previously unknown to us. Ben Hanson, his girlfriend Katie, Chris and a older, friendly looking bloke were already there and about 4 drinks ahead of us. The older bloke said hello and feigned offence that I had no idea who he was. It was Stuart Dimmock (Class of 80), someone who had popped up on Facebook and whose Facebook photo was actually a poppy. I think I can be forgiven for not recognising him. The fact that he left the year before I started at the school didn’t help either. Still, Dukies we all are and all that…

We never did quite catch up on the drinking front but at about 10 O’clock, one of the older folks in the corner, who we had presumed were just regulars, suddenely held aloft a mobile phone and shouted “who wants to speak to Pete Sampson?”. Pete Sampson, school master of many years and housemaster to me and Sean for 4 years was on the other end of the phone, in a state of alcholic relaxation and only a short distance away in The White Lion pub. As one we headed in his direction and as just me, I headed back to The Hotel. I had reached my limit and after 248 miles and 15 hours awake, it was time to sleep. On reflection, it’s a shame. I assumed I would get to see Pete at the Old Boys V Dover RFC rugby match on Saturday afternoon and it didn’t seem to matter. As it happened, the England rugby match kept him away on Saturday. Considering the kindness he has shown me in recent years, I wish I had gone.

After a drunken and rambling 24 minute audio diary,  I showered and climbed into bed. Despite wafer-thin pillows, the unsettling experience of sheets and blankets, deafening traffic and a thumping head, I drifted off to sleep.

Day Two: Saturday…

Soon.

Popularity: 41% [?]