In the central photo, the port of Dover and the marina it hosts inside.
Above, Dover Castle overlooking the harbour. In its catacombs during the 2nd World War an entire management mechanism was set up for the disengagement-rescue of more than 300,000 British soldiers from the opposite shores of Dunkirk who were threatened with annihilation by the Nazi forces.
Below, Famagusta as she enters Dover harbour, on one of her many visits, the harbor lighthouse and marina with floating jetties.
The Cullins Yard pub was the hangout and meeting point for our pals from the town's Naval Club. It was not a simple Pub. They also brewed their own beer, which we loaded into "barrels" in the lockers of our sailboat.
In the last photo the building where the local Sailing Club was housed.
PORT OF DOVER
Post-Thatcher-Dover and the pals from the Sailing Club
The Port of Dover is the umbilical cord of the "United Kingdom" that connects it to the European continent. Ships of all kinds and improvised inflatables of African émigrés struggle daily to cross the English Channel at this point. A Channel which, many times in the past, swallowed up whole Spanish armadas in its anger, when these in the name of Catholicism dared to set sail to conquer the faithless Protestant Kingdom of England.
And yet, despite its strategic location, the city of Dover, which every traveler would expect to look like a Little London, which will welcome and enchant him by presenting him with magnificent buildings of British architecture and engineering art, unfortunately does not provide this image. Post-Thatcher Dover frustrates the passer-by. The lorries, rattling out of the Dover-Calais line's ferries, hurry onto the walled-off and litter-strewn A20, a thoroughfare that takes them into the city's western hills and thence to the M20 to London. No traveler turns his head to the right towards the city. "Won't the delivery guys buy a single sandwich?" "But where can they find it, my John?" There is no parking space anywhere, neither to the right nor to the left of the road and all the signs point exclusively to the EXIT from the city... Did you see any Police Station? Is there an immigrant canteen? But doesn't this place even have MacDonalds?” “Quick, from here to the right. Leave immediately! The trucks don't stop here. Go, Go!” "John, where are we going to eat?" What city is this? And to our water?”
This is how you get off the ships. Private cars and trucks of all kinds squeeze into demarcated parallel single-vehicle lanes and drive to the first roundabout to exit the city. No signs advertising the city and its attractions anywhere. Nothing that invites the passing traveler to stop here for a while, eat in some outdoor square and take some souvenir photos.
This here port and the town that surrounds it fell into a severe depression during the years of fierce Thatcherism. Wherever there was a small shipyard, the "Iron Lady" closed it and wherever there were crafts with financial problems, she excluded them from new loans and locked them up. Thousands of workers lost their jobs. Unemployment soared. A lot of people started to live on small welfare benefits from the state. Their houses were demolished, the roads in the city from the limited maintenance were filled with potholes and many small shops lowered their shutters. As in almost all of the United Kingdom, outside the big cities, the local population began to live on the brink of starvation.
It is therefore not surprising that these locals were not in the mood to see well-dressed tourists taking pictures of them or to hear them commenting and laughing at their poorly maintained houses. So, therefore, the Mayor also built new roads in the port, fenced off, to lead the travelers even outside of his Municipality. The unfortunate man didn't even have money to paint the facades of the houses that stand in the first line on the way out of the city. But with such a rich port and its city to suffer? Yes! Good for Mrs. Thatcher, whom some Tories still praise today. The ports stopped helping the local communities financially during her rule and the Port of Dover Company no longer cares about the city nor does it share a percentage of its profits with its citizens. It's also good that it also employs a small percentage of local workers.
During the "restless sailing quadrennial" 2011-2015 when the Famagusta cruise ship docked at Dover port, the situation in the city was more or less as I have already described it: a picture of the decadence of a once-wealthy colonialist. House walls peeling from time, moldy facades of government buildings, dirty streets, squares with the remains of passers-by and seagulls that made up the discarded remnants of Fish and Chips packages.
Nevertheless, for the sailors and Panades of the surrounding countries, Dover has always meant the welcoming and safe harbor at the mouth of the English Channel. It meant respite and respite, to be enjoyed by all manner of Sea People. What these Sterians were doing in the back streets was another story.
“Famagusta, Famagusta, Famagusta calls Port Dover. Over.” “This is Dover Harbor. Here Port of Dover. We hear you. Over.” “Here Famagusta. We are requesting a berth permit for the Marina. Over.” “This is Dover Harbor. You are welcome. You can enter freely. Over.”
With our sailboat's running lights lighting up the moonlit night with green highlights on the right and red on the left, we left the bow of the western jetty behind us. With the engine humming at 700 rpm, we pulled away enchanted by the quiet night towards the Marina. And while we were sailing slowly towards the floating piers and with absolute silence from the crew, who were on the lookout for the flanking manoeuvres, a voice was heard from the side of the jetty. “Welcome Famagusta. Your friends are waiting for you. See you in the Club!”
But Zeus! He was the night watchman of the Marina, the well-known "Wee John", a short red-haired Scotsman, who stayed here in the South and was (in secret) every noon with our very own Bernard Houston in the Naval Club of the Royal Cinque Ports Yacht Club.
And where we were greeting each other a second voice was suddenly heard, and this time a ship, from the blanket of Famagusta, where Andreas stood to see the point where we had to tie up: "Georgios, on our right is the area of the Marina that they have saved the place.” “Andreas, look for a dicartar. Next to him we must tie." “There, on the right, Georgios. I see the position. It's from the outside. Free to sideload.” “Get all the balloons to the right of the boat. Get ready to be sidelined!”
In a few minutes Famagusta had tied. I turned off the engine and, taking off my coat, went down to the kitchen and took a Johnnie from the shelf for the Welcome... "Crew, this time the captain will serve you. And that's because you deserve it! We arrived from A Coruna in Spain here in Dover within 100 hours! I want to hear our yacha out loud. Come, everyone together. So to hear..."
“Urahhh! Urrahhh! Urahhh!”
"Andreas, so that we can now also hear from you the "Announcement of the Shroud and Welcome"...
“FAMAGUSTA ANTE PORTAS” ...Captain!
