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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: History / Historical
- Published: 04/28/2024
A Penny from Folkestone.
Born 1948, M, from Kent - garden of England, United KingdomA penny from Folkestone.
The Kentish seaside town of Folkestone, once resplendent as a smart and joyful holiday destination, and founded as such when Queen Victoria was on the throne, ruling an empire across the world, is certainly worth a visit. I know this town, its beaches and quirky places very well, from the cliff tops with their grand hotels, to the Napoleonic period Martello towers, built to give warning of, and to repel, an attack by the French.
When I was young, Folkestone had a large fishing fleet, some boats still propelled under sail, and a thriving fish market, where daily, freshly caught seafoods of all types were displayed and sold. There are still a few fishing boats, such as the ‘Peter & Paul’ which serve the remaining small outlets on the hard, and the harbour, sliced in two by the Victorian railway bridge, which once carried the trains destined for France and beyond, has many privately owned small craft, a joy to their owners, and a picturesque sight for summer visitors.
Along with fishing, Folkestone has always been a smuggling port, often used to run brandy and lace from the continent in the eighteenth century, and nowadays, god knows what is brought in from time to time, along with recent sad and tragic human cargoes.
The town itself once flourished, as the railway brought in folk from London on day trips, and the gentry to the cliff top hotels, and typically, the several beaches were awash with children playing on the sand and the colourful lines of bathing machines used to provide modesty to those brave enough to enter the chilly Channel sea.
On a clear day, and from the higher parts of Folkestone, France can be seen, its white cliffs with a clear yellow line beneath, jutting above the sea. At only twenty one miles away, at night the lights of cars are sometimes apparent as they cruise the French coastal roads.
In recent years the town has developed slowly, now having an arts quarter as well as modern shops, restaurants and of course, the inevitable ice cream and coffee cafés. However, there is a darker side to the brightness of Folkestone’s lights and bustle, as from here, in two world wars, many thousands of men and boys set off for war, and usually it was the first time that they had ever left British soil - an adventure from which many were never to return.
At this time the railway made its way down the hill and across the harbour bridge to meet or join the daily steam ferry boats, which carried the carriages across to France, and a railway station, still there today, was the terminus for passengers and military alike.
The trains entered the Harbour Spur, a long and strongly built harbour wall which terminated at its seaward end at a short lighthouse and with bright leading lights at the harbour entrance.
In peaceful times, the steamers would arrive and depart on and from the landward side, offloading their joyous crowds of passengers, expectant noisy children with shrimp nets, buckets and spades, their parents with heavy leather luggage, and seeking a ‘tuppenny’ porter to help them over to the town.
The train ferry would appear about three times every day, the carriages from France, exchanged for those destined for the ‘Foreign’ lands, of France, Belgium, Holland and Germany. But, of course, this all changed suddenly in nineteen fourteen, as war with Germany became the new name of the game.
No longer the balloons, tents and ice creams on the beach - these were quickly replaced with wire, its vicious barbs intended to repel, not welcome, those from abroad intending to walk the sunny sands of Folkestone in their heavy issue boots and to invade this peaceful town.
Upon the cliffs, big guns looked out upon the sea, and groups of observers were posted along the Channel coast, from the island of Sheppy, onwards from the beginning of the North Sea, around Kent, towards the west.
The Military moved into Folkestone, and they have never left!
On the Harbour Spur, many thousands of soldiers were dispatched on the ferries, and small fast naval craft accompanied them across the short passage to France as protection.
These men were saying goodbye to England, to loved ones and a dying way of life. It would never be the same again. And for luck, they would kiss the stone of the Harbour Spur goodbye, hoping to return unharmed and to a better life, their last sight of Britain being the imposing White Cliffs of Dover. The Spur had canteens, medical spaces and rest areas - they can still be seen today - so do visit Folkestone if you find yourself in Kent, and, although no longer used for trains, both the station and the line up the hill, which took so many to their honourable death, are firmly still in place.
But now we come to our penny, a simple and virtually worthless coin, unless one has the knowledge and imagination to imbue it with a little life.
For years I have detected for metal on Folkestone’s fine beaches, and have found much in the way of coins, jewellery, trinkets and most certainly, lots of rubbish. However the penny was discovered without the use of technology of any kind and was revealed upon a whim.
The tide at Folkestone recedes beyond the harbour entrance, and at certain times dries out the harbour, to a sea of drying mud and sand. At these times it is quite possible, with care, to cross the harbour basin from the beach at Sunny Sands, to the Harbour Spur, which, once approached, closely looms about thirty feet above the mud.
I was interested in the remaining ironwork of the old railway jetty, and made my way tentatively across as soon as low tide had settled, and the mud and sand were drying in the summer sun.
Alongside me a young couple were pulling kayaks out to the entrance, to find some placid water to enjoy.
My camera at the ready, I stood below the remains of the gantry and took a few shots, but there was not much of historic interest to see. I noticed a heavy chain hanging ‘artistically’ down the weeded harbour wall and decided that this would make a great shot, the rusty iron contrasted by the glistening shine of the damp and limp weed.
To get the angle right, I sat upon a jumble of rocks, now the habitat of several crabs - and by the way, crabbing is great fun for kids at Folkestone, needing only a string, bucket and a small slice of bacon to entice them - and I took my picture. Gazing at the resulting pic on the camera screen, my attention was taken by a small wet and shiny disk, lodged on edge within a crevice on the biggest rock. It took a while to prise it loose, and rubbing it carefully, with a finger tip of mud to use as an abrasive, I could clearly see the head of a King. Turning it over I noted the date beneath Britannia’s throne, 1914.
My heart skipped a beat as I saw scratched into the surface of the coin - Lionel, with luck.
I imagine that this had been tossed or dropped into the sea for luck, by some departing Tommy as he stepped aboard the ferry to France. I sincerely hope that Lionel survived, and that The Folkestone Penny indeed brought him luck throughout that terrible war, and also after he returned from duty to a very different England.
There is an old tradition, maybe with its origins in Roman times, in Britain, and, I suspect, elsewhere, of tossing a coin into the water before crossing a bridge, to ensure luck on one’s travels.
I find many coins in these watery places, as well as at country stile’s and around the gates of footpaths, and judging from the dates on these modern coins this tradition carries on today. So next time you toss a coin for luck, imagine the person who might find it, and possibly, just like The Folkestone Penny, well over a hundred years, and several generations, later, somebody will be holding you in their memory.
Copyright - Ken DaSilva-Hill 2024
No reproduction in any media
without authors consent.
A Penny from Folkestone.(Ken DaSilva-Hill)
A penny from Folkestone.
The Kentish seaside town of Folkestone, once resplendent as a smart and joyful holiday destination, and founded as such when Queen Victoria was on the throne, ruling an empire across the world, is certainly worth a visit. I know this town, its beaches and quirky places very well, from the cliff tops with their grand hotels, to the Napoleonic period Martello towers, built to give warning of, and to repel, an attack by the French.
When I was young, Folkestone had a large fishing fleet, some boats still propelled under sail, and a thriving fish market, where daily, freshly caught seafoods of all types were displayed and sold. There are still a few fishing boats, such as the ‘Peter & Paul’ which serve the remaining small outlets on the hard, and the harbour, sliced in two by the Victorian railway bridge, which once carried the trains destined for France and beyond, has many privately owned small craft, a joy to their owners, and a picturesque sight for summer visitors.
Along with fishing, Folkestone has always been a smuggling port, often used to run brandy and lace from the continent in the eighteenth century, and nowadays, god knows what is brought in from time to time, along with recent sad and tragic human cargoes.
The town itself once flourished, as the railway brought in folk from London on day trips, and the gentry to the cliff top hotels, and typically, the several beaches were awash with children playing on the sand and the colourful lines of bathing machines used to provide modesty to those brave enough to enter the chilly Channel sea.
On a clear day, and from the higher parts of Folkestone, France can be seen, its white cliffs with a clear yellow line beneath, jutting above the sea. At only twenty one miles away, at night the lights of cars are sometimes apparent as they cruise the French coastal roads.
In recent years the town has developed slowly, now having an arts quarter as well as modern shops, restaurants and of course, the inevitable ice cream and coffee cafés. However, there is a darker side to the brightness of Folkestone’s lights and bustle, as from here, in two world wars, many thousands of men and boys set off for war, and usually it was the first time that they had ever left British soil - an adventure from which many were never to return.
At this time the railway made its way down the hill and across the harbour bridge to meet or join the daily steam ferry boats, which carried the carriages across to France, and a railway station, still there today, was the terminus for passengers and military alike.
The trains entered the Harbour Spur, a long and strongly built harbour wall which terminated at its seaward end at a short lighthouse and with bright leading lights at the harbour entrance.
In peaceful times, the steamers would arrive and depart on and from the landward side, offloading their joyous crowds of passengers, expectant noisy children with shrimp nets, buckets and spades, their parents with heavy leather luggage, and seeking a ‘tuppenny’ porter to help them over to the town.
The train ferry would appear about three times every day, the carriages from France, exchanged for those destined for the ‘Foreign’ lands, of France, Belgium, Holland and Germany. But, of course, this all changed suddenly in nineteen fourteen, as war with Germany became the new name of the game.
No longer the balloons, tents and ice creams on the beach - these were quickly replaced with wire, its vicious barbs intended to repel, not welcome, those from abroad intending to walk the sunny sands of Folkestone in their heavy issue boots and to invade this peaceful town.
Upon the cliffs, big guns looked out upon the sea, and groups of observers were posted along the Channel coast, from the island of Sheppy, onwards from the beginning of the North Sea, around Kent, towards the west.
The Military moved into Folkestone, and they have never left!
On the Harbour Spur, many thousands of soldiers were dispatched on the ferries, and small fast naval craft accompanied them across the short passage to France as protection.
These men were saying goodbye to England, to loved ones and a dying way of life. It would never be the same again. And for luck, they would kiss the stone of the Harbour Spur goodbye, hoping to return unharmed and to a better life, their last sight of Britain being the imposing White Cliffs of Dover. The Spur had canteens, medical spaces and rest areas - they can still be seen today - so do visit Folkestone if you find yourself in Kent, and, although no longer used for trains, both the station and the line up the hill, which took so many to their honourable death, are firmly still in place.
But now we come to our penny, a simple and virtually worthless coin, unless one has the knowledge and imagination to imbue it with a little life.
For years I have detected for metal on Folkestone’s fine beaches, and have found much in the way of coins, jewellery, trinkets and most certainly, lots of rubbish. However the penny was discovered without the use of technology of any kind and was revealed upon a whim.
The tide at Folkestone recedes beyond the harbour entrance, and at certain times dries out the harbour, to a sea of drying mud and sand. At these times it is quite possible, with care, to cross the harbour basin from the beach at Sunny Sands, to the Harbour Spur, which, once approached, closely looms about thirty feet above the mud.
I was interested in the remaining ironwork of the old railway jetty, and made my way tentatively across as soon as low tide had settled, and the mud and sand were drying in the summer sun.
Alongside me a young couple were pulling kayaks out to the entrance, to find some placid water to enjoy.
My camera at the ready, I stood below the remains of the gantry and took a few shots, but there was not much of historic interest to see. I noticed a heavy chain hanging ‘artistically’ down the weeded harbour wall and decided that this would make a great shot, the rusty iron contrasted by the glistening shine of the damp and limp weed.
To get the angle right, I sat upon a jumble of rocks, now the habitat of several crabs - and by the way, crabbing is great fun for kids at Folkestone, needing only a string, bucket and a small slice of bacon to entice them - and I took my picture. Gazing at the resulting pic on the camera screen, my attention was taken by a small wet and shiny disk, lodged on edge within a crevice on the biggest rock. It took a while to prise it loose, and rubbing it carefully, with a finger tip of mud to use as an abrasive, I could clearly see the head of a King. Turning it over I noted the date beneath Britannia’s throne, 1914.
My heart skipped a beat as I saw scratched into the surface of the coin - Lionel, with luck.
I imagine that this had been tossed or dropped into the sea for luck, by some departing Tommy as he stepped aboard the ferry to France. I sincerely hope that Lionel survived, and that The Folkestone Penny indeed brought him luck throughout that terrible war, and also after he returned from duty to a very different England.
There is an old tradition, maybe with its origins in Roman times, in Britain, and, I suspect, elsewhere, of tossing a coin into the water before crossing a bridge, to ensure luck on one’s travels.
I find many coins in these watery places, as well as at country stile’s and around the gates of footpaths, and judging from the dates on these modern coins this tradition carries on today. So next time you toss a coin for luck, imagine the person who might find it, and possibly, just like The Folkestone Penny, well over a hundred years, and several generations, later, somebody will be holding you in their memory.
Copyright - Ken DaSilva-Hill 2024
No reproduction in any media
without authors consent.
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- 3
Lillian Kazmierczak
05/25/2024Ken, this was a great bit of history wrapped in human intrest. I've no doubtbthat penny could tell many stories! What a treasure! As always, I enjoyed your desscription of the harbor and railway. You keep these memories alive for so many. Best regards. A splendid short story star of the day!
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/26/2024Hi Again Lillian. Just a thought as I know you enjoy literature. Have you ever read ‘Chrysal, or the Adventures of a Guinea’ by Charles Johnstone, pub 1760. A great read, you might enjoy it. Ken
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Cheryl Ryan
05/25/2024It's fun to read about the interesting and historical events surrounding the penny from 1914. Thank you for sharing!
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/25/2024Hi Cheryl, thank you for your comment. It is nice to share my birthplace with others, there is so much to see and do in Kent, do drop in some time! Best regards, Ken
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Shirley Smothers
05/25/2024An interesting history lesson. Just a small worthless coin put packed with life. Realyy enjoyed reading this. Congratulations on Short Story Star of the Day.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/25/2024Thank you Shirley, for your nice comment, I am happy that you enjoyed the story, best regards, Ken.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Valerie Allen
05/25/2024Informative and well written. Enjoyed this interesting bit of history and exploring new places. Your ability to bring to light the human price of war without overwhelming the reader was excellent. Thank you.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/25/2024Hi Valerie, thank you for your lovely comment. Should you find yourself in Kent, do travel around the coast, there are beautiful beaches, fascinating towns and villages and beautiful scenery, as well as 5000 years of history. I am glad you enjoyed the tale, the coin is now framed and displayed on the wall in our ‘Seaside’ bathroom. Best regards, Ken
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Joel Kiula
05/24/2024Happy to learn something new on your story. Every story gives us new outlook in life, thank you.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
JD
05/24/2024That was an interesting bit of history as well as a travelogue. Lovely penny and story about finding it. Thanks for sharing, Ken. Happy short story star of the day.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/25/2024Thank you JD, I am glad that you like it. Should you ever venture to Kent, let me know, I can show you the most amazing places away from the usual tourist stuff. I was born here and have been exploring the county ever since! Best regards to all at Storystar, Ken.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Ken DaSilva-Hill
05/15/2024Hi Gerald, thanks for your comment. Folkestone is an interesting place, a landing spot for the Romans, from the 17th century to the present day a hot spot for smugglers, the gault clay (Folkestone beds ) are rich in fossils, we have many in our home, and the beaches are splendid for both swimming and metal detecting. The town is only eighteen minutes from our home, and is delightful, full of artists, galleries and quirky shops. A few years ago a local artist buried about twenty thousand ponds worth of gold on one of the beaches as an artwork for folk to discover - it is still turning up! Folkestone is worth a search on the internet, there are some splendid old photos! Best regards, Ken
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