Dover trip

The moment I stepped off the train in Dover, the salty sea air wrapped around me, crisp and refreshing. Seagulls cried overhead, and in the distance, I could see the hills rising gently toward the famous cliffs. Walking through the quiet streets, I felt the town’s history in the old stone buildings and the towering presence of Dover Castle. But my focus was on the cliffs. I took the path leading upward, the wind growing stronger as I climbed. The higher I went, the more the landscape opened up—rolling green fields on one side, the endless blue of the English Channel on the other. When I finally reached the top, the view was breathtaking. The sheer white cliffs dropped dramatically to the water below, their stark beauty more striking in person than in any photo. I stood there for a while, watching ferries make their way across to France, a faint outline on the horizon. The wind howled, but it felt invigorating rather than cold. Sitting down on the grass, I pulled out a thermos of tea and just breathed. There was something timeless about this place—so much history, so many people who had stood here before me, looking out at the same sea. For a moment, I felt completely still, completely present. Dover wasn’t just a destination; it was a feeling. A sense of vastness, of standing on the edge of something greater. I knew I’d carry that with me long after I left.