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Talk given to the Folkestone is a Library: The Power of Reading Together” event at the Quarterhouse in Folkestone on Thursday 7th May 2026.

Thank you, Sophie and the team for inviting me to talk this evening. I am thrilled to be associated with this exciting project.

I had contemplated showing a series of slides, but after 30 years of delivering Powerpoint and similar presentations, I thought I would stick to just talking to my subject this evening.

After all, if the King can talk for 37 minutes without visual aids, I’m sure I can manage 10.

………………………………….

I moved to Folkestone (not quite from London) almost 10 years ago and have watched its reputation as a major arts destination grow exponentially.

But I have always felt that literature was the poor relation in the local creative scene, despite the outstanding work done by Poets’ Corner, Write by the Sea and many other groups and individuals.

I started the walks in 2017, focusing initially on The Leas, Creative Quarter and the Harbour and Seafront.

In the following years I added tours of the East Cliff, West End, Bayle, Sandgate and even the Town Centre (as part of the Levelling Up initiative) as well as those themed on Art, Literature and the town’s rock and roll heritage.

I should take this opportunity to put in a plug for the next free rock and roll tour this coming Saturday as part of the Music in May programme. Join me at 10.30am in Noel’s Yard aka Market Square for 2 hours exploring the blue plaques, Wall of Fame and reliving concerts and other events related to those.

………………………………..

But back to the literary tours.

Prior to researching Folkestone’s literary history, I was certainly conscious of H.G. Wells’ close connection to the area, and being from Rochester, of Dickens’s affinity with the town (far greater I might add then Broadstairs with whom he is more often linked), but little else.

I subsequently learnt that not only has Folkestone been the birthplace of a host of writers, but for the past 183 years since the coming of the railway, it has welcomed many others en route to and from the Continent, some of whom have left their observations on the town.

On the tours you will encounter both.

………………………………

I didn’t realise, for instance, that one of my favourite writers, a Nobel Prize winner no less as well as the only one ever to play first class cricket, actually spent 2 weeks here in 1961. I suspect many of you know to whom I’m referring – but if you don’t, I’m not going to tell you now – you’ll need to come on a tour!

………………………………

So, what do the tours entail?

We meet at the Step Short Arch and weave our way through the town via Albion Villas, the parish church, the Bayle, Old High Street, Harbour and Harbour Station and along the seafront to the Zig Zag Path where we return to the Leas.

If nobody is looking, we might also sneak a peek at the Road of Remembrance! And if you have the stamina, we can walk through to Sandgate, where Wells lived for almost a decade, before returning to the starting point.

Along the route, we make regular stops where I read relevant extracts from writers associated with that particular location. The latest author count is 12, though I am always looking for additional material.

The reopening of the library, at least at its temporary home, in Sandgate Road on 26th of this month, will be a great help in that process.

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The tours take around three hours (more like four hours if we extend it via Sandgate), with a short break or two included, and cost just £10 per person.

Whilst I will be running many other tours over the summer, I have set aside a series of dates, initially in May and June, which are listed in a pack of handouts you can collect later this evening.

I have also negotiated a free tour for Creative Folkestone members on 12th June.

………………………………….

I’ll leave you with 3 short quotes that I cover on the tours to provide you with some flavour of what they entail.

The first is from Charles Dickens and describes the impact of the tides on Folkestone Harbour, and I think you’ll agree, he could have written it today.

I should first explain that Dickens christened Folkestone Pavilionstone in honour of the Royal Pavilion Hotel, which stood on the site now occupied by the Grand Burstin.

I wonder if, a hundred years or now, a famous writer will christen Folkestone “Burstinstone” in their work!

Dickens wrote: “We are a tidal harbour at Pavilionstone. At low water, we are a heap of mud, with an empty channel in it where a couple of men in big boots always shovel and scoop: with what exact object, I am unable to say.

At that time, all the stranded fishing-boats turn over on their sides, as if they were dead marine monsters; the colliers and other shipping stick disconsolate to the mud; the steamers look as if their white chimneys would never smoke more, and their red paddles never turn again, the green sea-slime and weed upon the rough stones at the entrance, seem records of obsolete high tides never more to flow; the flagstaff-halyards droop; the very little wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare of the sun.

But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilionstone Harbour begins to revive. It feels the breeze of the rising water before the water comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the little shallow waves creep in, barely overlapping one another, the vanes at the mastheads wake, and become agitated. As the tide rises, the fishing-boats get into good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists a bright red flag, the steamboat smokes, cranes creak, horses and carriages dangle in the air, stray passengers and luggage appear.”

And it goes on.

…………………………………….

The second comes from Kipps. the novel by H.G. Wells which references many locations in Folkestone and beyond. This particular piece describes Kipps’ exciting Sunday exploits:

“On Sundays he was obliged to go to church once, and commonly he went twice, for there was nothing else to do. He sat in the free seats at the back; he was too shy to sing, and not always clever enough to keep his place in the Prayer-book, and he rarely listened to the sermon.

In the intervals between services he walked about Folkestone with an air of looking for something. Folkestone was not so interesting on Sundays as on week-days, because the shops were shut; but on the other hand, there was a sort of confusing brilliance along the front of The Leas in the afternoon…….

He would sometimes walk up and down The Leas between twenty and thirty times after supper, desiring much the courage to speak to some other person in the multitude similarly employed. Almost invariably he ended his Sunday footsore”.

…………………………………….

The final extract is from the late Robert Morley, actor and raconteur, who is likely to be more familiar to those in the room, like myself, of a certain age.

Morley spent much of his childhood in Folkestone due to ill health where he was constantly wheeled around in his sailor suit in a bath chair.

He claimed that “if there’s one thing young people lack today….it is Folkestone standards. It may well be what’s wrong with the country. No child brought up as I was in Folkestone and Kensington Gardens ever felt the need of a psychiatrist”.

……………………………………

Thank you.


One of the most familiar figures in Folkestone town centre, with a shock of white hair sprouting out of his hat, and a bag of papers on his arm, is an octogenarian Irishman who reluctantly moved here in 1963 and never left.

The first time I met this man was shortly after I moved to the town in late 2016. I had decided to offer walking tours and was anxious to consult as many people as possible, not only to assess the interest in the project but also to tap into the experience of those who had previously done this.

The name that kept coming up as the best person to speak to was Eamonn Rooney, whom I was already aware of through buying some of his books on the history of the town.

But there was one snag – he was not the easiest person to track down as he was not on social media. But I managed to find him in his favourite coffee shop where he went every morning. He was sat in a corner of the restaurant with mug, pen, paper and books spread across the table.

And now, almost a decade later, I sat down with him again, in that very same cafe, on the eve of his 82nd birthday, to chat with him about his long association with Folkestone.

Born in Newry in 1944, spanning the counties of Armagh and Down, Eamonn was an average but lazy student. It was the influence of Mr O’Neill, his English teacher, and Mr McCourt, his Art teacher, that encouraged him to take his studies more seriously, though he was later told he “would never amount to anything” by the nuns who ran the school he attended in Belfast.

It was his parents who brought the name of Folkestone to his attention. So, in the spring of 1963, he took a trip, only intending to stay for a short while.

On arriving at Folkestone Central he was struck by the flower displays on roundabouts (after all, it was “Floral Folkestone”). He was impressed with The Leas (a “pleasant surprise”) and Kingsnorth Gardens (still a “hidden gem”).

His first encounter with a Folkestone “celebrity” occurred in the photocopy shop opposite Grace Hill Library. He started talking to American actress, singer (she starred in the long-running rock musical “Hair”), and mother of Mick Jagger’s son, Karis, Marsha Hunt, who was sending a fax (remember those?) to the USA. She said that she would never be able to remember his name, so christened him the “History Man”, and thereafter referred to him as that whenever they met, usually at the supermarket or Metropole jazz club.

On the recommendation of his brother who had just been demobbed from Shorncliffe, he took a summer job, but it was as a bus conductor that he first established himself in the town, and for which he is still fondly remembered. His route for 8 years primarily covered Cheriton, Morehall and the bus station and, as a result, the rest of the town remained largely an unknown quantity for him.

Time to buy a street map!

He had been told that Folkestone was primarily a Victorian town, so had “written off” the Bayle and the Old High Street as places of interest. But one day he met the watermills and windmills expert, C.P.Davies, whom he regards reverentially to this day as the preeminent local historian, who told him that there was “a lot of history” in Folkestone with a (buried) Roman Villa, significant Anglo-Saxon heritage, not to mention an extensive military history.

That was the moment when the “History Man” discovered his holy grail, starting a decades long love affair with the Heritage Room on the first floor of the Grace Hill Library. Eamonn was devastated when Davies retired shortly afterwards.

He also fondly remembers Amanda Oates of Shepway District Council who was responsible for organising events at the Lower Leas park Amphitheatre. Since she left, the facility has been sadly neglected.

The history research was all well and good, but he still had to earn a living. After being rejected by several Park Farm factories he was offered a job at FWM Plastics, followed by Silver Spring and Portex, for whom he worked for 15 years. It was during this time there that his writing career began with articles in the company’s Blue Line magazine and then the Portex and Folkestone camera clubs. And in 1985 he founded the local history society with Charles Whitney (chair), Alan Taylor and Peter Bamford.

In the early nineties, he took a three day a week job at the much lamented Martello No.3 visitor centre with an evening security role in the Leas Cliff Hall, followed by a winter job at the seafront car park. Between 1989 and 1996 he not only performed the role of town greeter but also delivered tours on behalf of the New Folkestone Society.

But it was in 1995 that the role for which most people remember him presented itself. Shepway Council had a vacancy at the Leas Lift, a position for which Eamonn’s undoubted customer facing skills made him ideally suited. When the council relinquished the lift in 2009, he was approached by the Folkestone Estate to take responsibility through a management agreement (CIC). With Terry Begent agreeing to handle all the business affairs, they formed a “dream team” until the lift closed in 2017, and it is a matter of great sadness to Eamonn that it remains closed (though, we hope, not for much longer).

Eamonn has more stories from his time as a tour guide than I have space for. One I particularly like is when he showed an American party into the British Lion pub, and as they were leaving, was asked “hey, buddy, aren’t we going to have what you Brits call a swift half before we go”? After the obligatory few drinks, Eamonn began to thank the group for joining the tour when the same guest enquired “hey, aren’t you going to finish the tour?”. Which, of course, like any self-respecting guide, he did.  

Eamonn finds it remarkable that the young teenager who left Northern Ireland with no immediate prospects should meet an array of prominent individuals in his adopted town over the next sixty years. In addition to Marsha Hunt, these included Lord Radnor himself at his Wiltshire castle, Eastenders actress, Michelle Collins, whom he met at a BBC Wales interview, and Prince Harry at the opening of the Step Short Arch on the centenary of the outbreak if the Great War on 4th August 2014.

Eamonn has utilised his research to publish many books and pamphlets on Folkestone’s history, both on his own and in collaboration with others, notably Alan Taylor and Terry Begent. Asked which he was most proud of, he cited the history of the Belgian refugees at the outbreak of the Great War and the illustrations and text he provided for   

John Rice’s Folkestone: A Photographic Record.

And the next? Probably Stuart Folkestone.

Whatever it might be, I for one will be buying it.

Happy Birthday Eamonn, may you have any more!


Does the bay still sparkle in the noon ripe sun,

And the fog still surround the golden gate?

Is Fisherman’s Wharf still geared up for fun

And tie-dye clothes the preserve of the Haight?

Do cable cars still crest the hills so free;

And Alcatraz lighthouse blink through the clouds?

Do Muni cars still reek of pot and pee,

And bison in the park still shun the crowds?

Do men still strut the Castro in the nude,

And will the umpire still shout“let’s play ball”?

Will Blue Arrows at Fleet Week still be viewed;

And sea lions still have tourists in their thrall?

So long since I have seen these with my eyes,

But still I believe the phoenix will soon rise.


How can they do that day after day.

Put themselves at risk in our defence,

Surrounded at work by death and decay,

Our gratitude their only recompense?

How can they do that day after day,

Spit in the face of those who only care,

By their thoughtless actions make others pay,

And extend the duration of this scare?

We see the best and worst of us expressed,

The selfless and the selfish show their hand

While many heed the call to do what’s right,

Some congregate, not caring that it’s banned.

But sacrifice and love must soon prevail’

For all our futures sake we dare not fail.


A biting breeze and thin drizzle

Denote December’s inevitable

If uninvited return;

Twilight descends

In the ancient churchyard.

Never has the phrase

“Quiet as the grave”

Seemed more apt.

As I pause to tie my bootlaces

By the Town Cross, venue for

Mayor making for centuries,

My body shudders as

A young woman brushes past,

The hem of her blue dress

Grazing the grass border

And her white headpiece

Fluttering in the wind.

She carries provisions –

Bread, leeks and a

Small flagon of beer –

For the poor of the parish

In a round wicker basket,

Forswearing another

Potentially lucrative tryst

With a Northumbrian nobleman,

Orchestrated by a despairing father.

Her head bowed, she whispers

“Good evening, sir, God be with you”.

Before I can frame

An intelligible response,

She disappears behind the west window. 

Composing myself as best I can,

I shamble past unremembered tombs,

Narrowly avoiding a collision

With a rat scuttling across my path

To the comparative sanctuary

Of the lopsided lychgate

Leading into Church Street.


This is a writer’s town.

Where, in quiet corners of coffee shops,

Caressing cake and cappuccino,

On new varnished cliff top benches, 

In tiny studio apartments,

And above galleries and gift shops,

Diligently, they polish their craft

In solitude and patient struggle.

Where, down the steep, unforgiving hill,

Past higgledy-piggledy buildings

That shelter the secrets of centuries,

Old men, like modern day gunslingers,

Shuffle with shabby, sagging satchels

Stuffed with story scraps and post-it notes,

Lassoed around their wrinkled necks.

Where restless waves wash over shingle,

Shifting the site of a billion pebbles,

And where small, redundant, fishing boats,

Their hulls rotting and history forgotten, 

Are nudged and tickled by the turning tide

And then left for dead as the sea sweeps back.

Where, on a mile long thoroughfare

Of lawn and flowers and grand hotels,

Echoes of genteel, whispered discourse

Float across the unremitting breeze,

And the plaintive cry of a seagull chick

Resonates across the ragged rooftops.

Where the solemn chimes of an ancient church

Dedicated to an Anglo-Saxon girl,

Ring out at dusk under Shelley’s pale moon,

And where cracked, crippling, steep steps

Unsettle the anxious wandering scribe

Searching seaward for that elusive line.

This is a writer’s town.ffee shops,

Caressing cake and cappuccino,

On new varnished cliff top benches, 

In tiny studio apartments,

And above galleries and gift shops,

Diligently, they polish their craft

In solitude and patient struggle.

Where, down the steep, unforgiving hill,

Past higgledy-piggledy buildings

That shelter the secrets of centuries,

Old men, like modern day gunslingers,

Shuffle with shabby, sagging satchels

Stuffed with story scraps and post-it notes,

Lassoed around their wrinkled necks.

Where restless waves wash over shingle,

Shifting the site of a billion pebbles,

And where small, redundant, fishing boats,

Their hulls rotting and history forgotten, 

Are nudged and tickled by the turning tide

And then left for dead as the sea sweeps back.

Where, on a mile long thoroughfare

Of lawn and flowers and grand hotels,

Echoes of genteel, whispered discourse

Float across the unremitting breeze,

And the plaintive cry of a seagull chick

Resonates across the ragged rooftops.

Where the solemn chimes of an ancient church

Dedicated to an Anglo-Saxon girl,

Ring out at dusk under Shelley’s pale moon,

And where cracked, crippling, steep steps

Unsettle the anxious wandering scribe

Searching seaward for that elusive line.

This is a writer’s town.


Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been, my darling young one?

I stumbled and I fell into a dozen large potholes
I slipped and I slid on a hillock of dog poo

I tripped and I got cut on steps to the harbour
I’ve been by the seashore where waves were a-lashin’

I’ve been stood by a tower whose paint was a-peelin’

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?

I saw piles of old clothes in empty shop doorways

I saw neglected buildings with sharp, shattered windows

I saw roadworks and barriers on every street corner

I saw half-eaten hamburgers tossed in the gutter

I saw discarded needles in the narrow, dirty alley

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?

I heard the sound of the seagulls circling the chip shops

I heard the whistling of wind around beachfront apartments

I heard teenagers speak with scanty vocabulary

I heard adults speak with swear words a-plenty

I heard a helicopter hovering above a small park

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

Oh, what did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
And who did you meet, my darling young one?

I met visitors staring at signs near the station

I met lines of sad people queuing up for free food

I met rough sleepers drunk in a garden of flowers

I met men passing white packets to children

I met women who asked if I wanted company

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.


Three hours in a stuffy airport lounge

Is all the time I’ve spent with you,

An irritating blip on an autumn trip

To Atlanta’s tempestuous stew

On the day an English princess

Was laid to rest in shocked world’s view.

Home to Dylan and Lakota brave,

Iron mines, snow and natural ice,

Tonight, my tears flow long for you

Who have for your pride paid the price

By standing strong against the hate

Spreading love ‘gainst loaded dice.

If this madness should ever cease

I will, with you, come share that peace.  


I have stood beside the crossroads

And massaged the liberty bell;

I have skied down lakeside mountains

And ridden rollercoaster hell;

I have peered into deep canyons  

And seen eagles in desert skies;

I have sat aboard the L train

And tried on cowboy boots for size;

I have walked across great bridges

And crawled up long, steepling streets;

I have held gators in my hand

And witnessed giant sporting feats.

No more will I do these again

While hate and cruelty maintain.


The café door creaks open and a cheerless couple,

Thirty-five years together today, shuffle to an empty table.

Their order of two large one shot lattes,                                                        

And a slice of carrot cake with two teaspoons.

Is taken by the bright young female server.

Their coffees, which would earn a Neapolitan barista

Instant dismissal with their passable similarity to

The water in which the cups will later be washed,

Are delivered with another winning smile.

Husband and wife instantly reach for their smartphones

And settle into a prolonged and gloomy silence.

Not a word passes their lips, save for the occasional

Whisper to share the contents of an email

Or comment on a social media thread,

A sigh or nod the barely perceptible response.

They remain as wedded to their screens

As their thirteen year old grandchildren,

Whose own behaviour at the breakfast table

Incurs their disapproval and chastisement.

They leave the café as quietly as they arrived,

Avoiding the jaunty “thank you, see you soon”

From beside the espresso machine.

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