"More of a dirty greenish colour" a Dover Travel Page by TheLongTone

There was a great fuss recently when some travel guide decscribed Dover as 'little more than a glorified loading ramp for the ferries.' A nice turn of phrase, I think, and not that much of a exaggeration. If I was a tourist here I think I'd be out of there inside fortyeight hours, and I like taking my time, giving places a chance. But Dover has always been a place to get out of. It's why it's there.

Dover occupies the valley of the river Dour (which gives it it's name) where it meets the sea, and is contained by the flanking chalk hills: the spine running inland bearing the castle to the East on one side and the Western Heights on the other. The port, now divided into two sections separated by the inner harbour and town beach, sprawls the whole length. The town is organised around the London road running inland: Market Square at the bottom, becoming the unexciting high street . The upper part of this is now pedestrianised but it eventually becomes the London Road. This road is now replaced as the principal commercial route to the ferries by the motorway, which allows approach to Dover either by skirting round to the east of the castle or from the direction of Folkestone,

Recent history has not been kind to Dover. It suffered badly during the 39-45 war from bombardment by German artillery: their work was completed by insensitive town planning in the post-war years. The sea frontage to the Grand harbour tells the whole story: one third gracious regency terrace: the remainder shabby and ugly low-rise flats, punctuated by a rectangular brown box built, I believe, for the DHSS. All entirely isolated from the town by a six-lane dual carriageway for the incessant stream of artics that Dover is all about.