Dover

Balham, 20.30 hundred O'clock hours pm: All packed up after disassembling D's bike and shoving the panniers in the boot, we strapped on and headed, courtesy of N's shitnav through the maze of roads of South East London to find the way out. The somewhat exasperated Voice of Shitnav, flummoxed us all by directing us to Cat-ford as opposed to Cat-food.

Dover was once the busiest ferry port anywhere. And, you could get a ferry to anywhere. I recall the couple of occasions I crossed to Buenos Aires. You could even get a ferry inland to places like Stevenage. Back in its heyday, Dover was abuzz with people going on a ferry, getting off a ferry, working on a ferry and, of course, ferry spotters. Grand, regency hotels stood proud on the seafront, facing the short hop across the channel; steam trains pulled up right on the pier that rustled with the taffeta of the latest fashions from Paris. But, as the last century limped home from a series of nasty wars and economic crises, so did Dover: the opening of Channel Tunnel in the 90's had killed off much of the ferry trade. This hadn't stopped amateur architects having a go at reshaping Dover for a bright future using the latest invention of really crap building materials. One of their monstrosities was The County Hotel, resplendent in its pebble-dashed prefabricated, raincloud grey concrete. Nowadays, Dover is best seen in the middle of the night especially if there has been a power cut.
But, ferries, what's left of them, are a great way to travel so, get on down there and snap up a deal!