(England)…When we saw the danger warnings and little red shields peppered across the shooting range of Shorne Marshes, my friend Alex Carlisle and I, and sometimes Paul Obey and Clive Gilby, would know it was time to gather our belongings and get ready to disembark. Emerging from a tunnel, the train swept along the Thames & Medway Canal, which came right up to the train track’s side, and we stepped out at the tiny Kent station of Higham, which was not in Higham at all, rather in Lower Higham, a hamlet in that it did not possess a church. The station was an Edwardian, one-story building that dragged along the platform, with a ticket office that was never open and no railways employer that I ever saw.
I felt some connection with the railways, albeit a very tenuous one. I have had three grandfathers, and of the two that I met, one worked for the railways all his working life. My mother would tell me of how he worked half a day on Christmas Day, every year. Throughout my life there have never been trains on Christmas Day, though I rather feel that I would have loved to have taken one and wander around Higham on any December twenty-fifth, especially to the end of Church Street, where there was a church, all on its own, a mile from Lower Higham. The frost would have been crisp on the stalks of grass, and there would have been few other people around. Perhaps a woman wearing a headscarf would poke a head over a hedge, or a man would be seen tapping a walking stick against a low wall and walking a dog. Even watching an idling car, it exhaust-pipe fumes crystallising in the air, would take on a quiet beauty and otherworldly fascination.
When Granddad Barton died, his wife, my Nan Barton, took us on summer holidays on the train with heavily discounted tickets that came through my granddad’s working associations and her continued membership of the Old Southeronians of the British Transport Pensioners’ Federation. My uncle Mike Polglaze, the husband of my Dad’s eldest sister, ran for a while the Bluebell Railway steam train that went from Sheffield Park to Kingscote via Horsted Keynes along the Kent-East Sussex border. My father grew up in Sussex, while the rest of my family are from Kent, true Kentishmen and women, born to the west of the River Medway that divides our county and us from the Men of Kent born to its east. Polglaze is a Cornish name, but then Uncle Mike married into our family. In his attic, he had a scaled model train, with steam trains, tunnels, lakes, switches, stations, hillocks, deer, passengers, station employees and short-trousered schoolchildren holding little notebooks to record train numbers.
The River Medway flows into and out of the Weir Wood Reservoir, one of its earliest tributaries touching Kingscote station, before taking on steam and flowing all the way to the beginnings of the English Channel along the Thames Estuary just beyond the bishopric of Rochester. The Medway’s flow is responsible for the flooding and drying of the Isle of Grain, also known as the Hoo Peninsula, on which at its beginnings lie Higham and the neighbouring village of Cliffe. On the same parcel of land is Allhallows-on-Sea, where my Aunt Glad and Uncle Frank lived after moving from Northwest London; during World War II they operated a bacon-and-eggs café in Harrow and were blown across the road by a German bomb. The family legend states that Aunt Glad was still holding the frying pan when she recovered her senses on the other side of the road.
Residents nickname this Thamesside spot Allhallows-on-Mud, for that is what one generally sees. It’s also the inspiration for the name of this blog. Opposite Higham Station was a thin, disused quarry. Trees had secured footholds on its far side, and these were the haunts of Little owls, which would pop up out of holes at twilight before flying no more than ten yards to a viewing perch. If any of us had some money, we would stop off at a corner shop where we had to shout in order for the owner to appear.
A little more than twenty-five miles from the centre of London, Higham was a hamlet of ghosts. Church Road was the long lane that led from station to church and the start of Higham Marshes. Half way down was an apple orchard, the fruit of which often spilt into the road and our haversacks. Once we climbed in, only to run when we heard the farmer’s yell, something I thought only happened in old films. Turtle doves cooed from electricity wires as we scarpered to the end of the road, where St. Mary’s Church appeared at the bottom of a very slight slope. A Kentish flint wall surrounded it. It was never open, and a little later it was announced abandoned. Just before the church, the road forked in two, with both branches quickly ending. The fork to the right led to a footpath that skirted the ruins of a Benedictine priory founded in 1148. Its first prioress was Mary, daughter of King Stephen, the grandson of William the Conqueror. Stephen is buried just down the road in Faversham. Also down the road and much, much closer is a small settlement called Lillechurch that was the priory’s first site. Parts of it are said to remain in the walls of houses there.
We were all inwardly pleased to learn of the scandal that befell Higham Priory. In the early 16th century, when it was dissolved, it was found that two of its nuns had had children with the hamlet’s vicar, Bardefelde. Income came in from various sources including an annual three-day fayre, the permission for which came from Henry III, but at its end, financial irregularities were seen to have been commonplace. To appease the locals, alms of twelve pence a year were given over to the poor of Higham, while the other remaining funds seemed to have been invested into priories in Cambridge and Dartford, where I was born. That John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester and the man responsible for the dissolvement of Higham Priory, had a sister who was a nun in Dartford might neither be here nor there. Later, Henry VIII executed Fisher, who refused to acknowledge the king as the head of the new English church.
On the other side of Higham is Gad’s Hill Place, the home Charles Dickens bought when fame came his way, a place mentioned by Shakespeare in Henry IV. Taking the left fork, we would cross a branch of the rail line that took us to Higham, walk beneath two lines of pylons and emerge out on the marshes. The landscape is so flat that the large Thames tankers, coming down from the nearby jetties of Tilbury and West Thurrock on the other side of the river in Essex, passing in sight of the memorial to the Powhatan Indian princess Pocahontas, who died in and is supposedly buried in Gravesend, the name given to the place where at last ran out the bodies, dead from the great bubonic plagues of the medieval era, in need of burial space.
After passing by the rookeries that made the trees appear pockmarked and dying, the flat grasses would begin of Lapwing and Common curlew nests. Thin dykes spliced the land at right angles, and Barrow Hill, rising to a mighty five feet above sea level, stood to the right, rutted by sheep that during our years there one year were no longer there.Puncturing our slow walk to the levees on the Thames were Whimbrel, Grey heron, Stonechat and Winchat. On the other side, only a few feet of rounded stones dividing the walkway on top of the levee from the river, at least at high tide, were Purple sandpiper, Ringed plover, Redshank and Greenshank, as well as, on the other side of the river, Coalhouse Fort, built in 1874 to protect the estuary from French invasion. Farther on, we used to search for fossils in the chalk around the Martello tower of Cliffe Fort, one of many rectangular structures built in the century earlier to guard as against other Europeans, this time the Dutch, who were more successful in terrorising the riverside inhabitants.
Alex would always find the best fossils. Martello towers were named after the Corsican village of Mortella (somehow the vowels got twisted) on San Fiorenzo Bay, whose towers, originally constructed by the Genoese, so impressed the British besiegers, who in 1794 with two warships of the latest design fought long and hard to subdue a spot guarded by only 33 men. When it was taken, a study was made of this new defence and orders followed by Acts of Parliament soon materialised. Today, San Fiorenzo goes by the name of Saint-Florent, almost directly due south of Genoa and on the other side of the Cap Corse peninsula from Bastia, the second town of Corsica.

(England)...I have always wanted to visit Lindisfarne, also known as Holy Island, in Northumberland (the modern-day name of ancient Northumbria), and last month I got that wish. I was armed with a volume of the Venerable Bede's The Ecclesiastical History of the English People, which in my copy also contained The Lives of St. Cuthbert and the Abbots of Jarrow and Wearmouth, both books having been written in the 8th Century and remaining in print. Bede, who mainly was based in Jarrow, no doubt came to Lindisfarne on numerous occasions, as it is not so far—even all the way back then—to travel to.
The earliest saints who came to set up a religious community in Lindisfarne came from the Scottish island of Iona, which also was called Hii, or so I learnt from the Bede's writings. That all said, Northumberland still feels somewhat distant and detached from the rest of England. It is not Scotland, certainly (although they do pay the bagpipes there, albeit instruments with no mouthpieces, as are seen north of the border), but also it does not necessarily feel English.
Maybe it is the beginning, or end, of the Viking realm, and certainly the monks and abbots of Bede's time knew all about the dangers of the men whose name translates into "those who wait in the bay," or in Scandinavian languages, the vik, as in, for example Reykjavik. Lindisfarne is not always an island, the ebbing tide revealing a causeway that until it was tarmacked not so many years ago must have been treacherous and muddy. Posters abound in the island's one village warning hapless visitors of the dangers of trying to beat the tide, which sweeps in fast.
The advice is, get out when the coast guard says, or if not, stay the night. (Even the official website, www.lindisfarne.org.uk, posts a warning.) There are two main tourist sites here, the castle at one end of the island, and the priory, a 20-minute walk to the other side. The castle sits on a rocky bluff, an imposing edifice, but even though it looks like a medieval or Dark Ages monument, it dates only to the 16th Century, probably no more than a feudal house, even if it still might have had one eye on the Scots, who often attacked, but no more than the English attacked them.
The English and Scots also used to raid their own people's livestock. Tales abound here of the Border Reivers, animal rustlers, who felt no concern at murder. One rumour has it that the men of this region on waking would first check their necks to see that they had not been slit in the night. The castle was gussied up by famed architect Sir Edwin Landseer Lutyens in the early years of the 20th Century, his companion Gertrude Jekyll being responsible for the walled garden 300 metres across the sheep-cropped grass, which was designed so that it could best be admired from the battlements. (There is a very attractive web site on her and the garden at  www.compulink.co.uk/~museumgh/jekyll.htm.)
 Inside is a rabbit-warren's array of rooms. I walked out to the end of the island, along the coast path and back to the village along an internal road lined with sheep. At no point did I get a better view of the castle than is possible from the track that is the shortest distance betwixt castle and priory and skirts the sea. In the village there are some quaint shops, a weather vane inside someone's window (that's a first for me) and a small, inviting public house called the Crown & Anchor, where I drank a pint. The priory obviously is the oldest building here, and wonderful views of the castle can be enjoyed, looking out over a small bay and the edge of the North Sea. The hulls of old boats had been in several places turned over and converted into sheds for fishing equipment.
To the left are the Farne Islands, small, inhospitable lumps of rock, a home only to thousands of sea birds and, at one time, St. Cuthbert. (The Ecclesiastical History is a fantastic work, even though the saints and monks clearly had an obsession with the correct calculation of the date of Easter; quite likely the significance of this is lost on me; perhaps they feared wars could be started over this? Perhaps they were. A king of some people or other, who was called Penda, seems to have been a particular thorn to those desiring peace.) A statue of St. Cuthbert and another saint, St. Aidan, watch over the ruins of the priory today. Further down the coast, to the south, is the different but equally impressive castle of Bamburgh. Like all Norman castles, it is a bold statement firmly announcing that the people thereabouts were defeated.
Right on the North Sea coast, the castle is memorable seen from the water's edge, its turrets reflecting in the wet sands from over the top of ranks of sand dunes. The castle guide was eccentric and explained at long length a painting that depicted the Grand Old Duke of York, even though my fellow visitors were all American and had never heard of the popular English nursery rhyme of "when he was up, he was up, and when he was down, he was down, and when he was only half way up, he was neither up nor down," etc., etc.
The castle enjoys the fame of being the first castle in the United Kingdom (well, any of the countries that later on would constitute the United Kingdom) to succumb to gun fire, rather than catapults, ladders, burning tar, etc. I walked around its edges, espying birds I had not seen for a while, such as Wheatear, Redwing and Reed bunting, and watched a game of football that was taking place in the fortress's colossal shadow, one mini-"war" amid the ghosts of several real ones.

(England)...Some of the remotest places in England lie very close to the huge sprawl of London. The marshes that skirt the north and southeast of the shire of Kent — known as the Garden of England — are windswept, cold and lonely but offer much in return to those who walk and fish them. Derek Jarman, the film director, who died in 1994, used to own and live at wonderful Prospect Cottage, which faces the grey and often hostile English Channel at Dungeness. His pebble garden consists of statues and art made from the debris he found on nearby beaches. This small community lines the shore and consists of small homes, an old lighthouse and a nuclear-power plant whose warm outflow attracts sea birds. Dungeness often feels like it is the end of the world. Shingle beaches and vast stretches of inland shingle make it possible for lonely, wonderful walks. I was born in this county and particularly like its marshes, both around Cliffe (the subject of the photograph above) and Romney. I visited Jarman’s house in 1991, and just when I walked past, he came up to the window.
Kent is historically divided. Those born to the east of the River Medway, which near or less divides the shire, are known as Men of Kent, whilst those to the west, such as I, are referred to as Kentishmen. This wonderful tradition actually goes farther back in history — in Anglo-Saxon times the population was divided between those of the East and West centings. Kent has, on occasion, stood out on a limb. The nearest shire to the European mainland, it has received its share of invaders, most notably the warrior kings Hengist and Horsa and has been in its time a separate kingdom, as was the Isle of Skye in Scotland.
Dungeness is part of the great marsh at Romney, famous for its sheep and smugglers and the curious, landlocked Isle of Oxney. The church of Stone-in-Oxney contains a very rare example of a Mithraen altar. The marsh is as desolate place as one could look for. Irrigation ditches crisscross flat fields, fences and villages appear weathered, boats left ashore on the shingle creek and lonely Martello towers, which defended the population from French and Dutch invaders, peer through the mist as ghostly sentinels.
I would recommend the excellent and sometimes sinister Disney film The Scarecrow of Romney Marsh for future insights into this enchanting area. Every year, the Kentish town of Rochester, which is near to Cliffe, holds a Dickens Festival to commemorate the writer, who after becoming internationally famous bought a house, Gads Hill Place, up the road in Higham.
The townsfolk dress up in Victorian garb, cricket matches take place on the green behind the vicarage, exhibitions of ancient English craftwork and traditional dancing are held and rumours fly around that one pub — somewhere in town — is selling beer at 19th-century prices. Morris dancing, often ridiculed, takes place. The word Morris comes from the Greek Moira, the Goddess of Fate, supposedly, the dance being an interpretation of a Greek celebration. Two millennia of changes and adaptations have made Morris Dancing quintessentially English, and numerous troupés — or “sides”, as they are more correctly known — gather in Rochester during the Sweeps Festival in May to do battle.
Intricate dance steps are choreographed, the air echoes with the smashing of tree bough against tree bough and vast quantities of ale are consumed. Women can only join in by being an accompanying musician. The dances have a decidedly pagan spirit running through them, most notably in the opening ritual to greet Jack in the Green, a recent metamorphosis of a woodland spirits that have been celebrated since the days when all this energy was exerted to honour the ancient festival of Beltane. Rochester is also well known for its castle and cathedral. The former, dating back to the 11th century and the reign of William the Conqueror, is, at 40 metres, the highest Norman keep in the land.
Built by Bishop Gundulf, the castle was laid siege to for two months in 1215 following an uprising against King John. Kent has been an independent kingdom, peopled by the Celtic Cantii, where both the names Kent and Canterbury both stem. The cathedral, the second oldest in the country, dates back farther, to 604. Gundulf is often depicted in Morris dances — normally in a very bad light. Taking this time-progression back another step, the city of Rochester (cities in the United Kingdom can only be called such if they possess a cathedral or royal seal) was established during the Roman occupation as an important stopping place on the way to London (Londinium or, before that, Londinos).