In the November of 1938 John Trevelyan visited Folkestone in Kent to say farewell to his school friend Oswald Berring who had suffered a stroke.

Berring actually died on the day of Trevelyan’s arrival and this hit the sensitive poet hard and he stayed in the county until early December when his beloved Margot came to fetch him.

Trevelyan was not known to have written anything during this period such was his grief but Berring’s daughter Jennifer was given a notebook by the poet with a few observations of the county.

With the onset of war this notebook was forgotten and only rediscovered in 2014.

 

A train part full passes Martin’s Mill but nobody alights for St Margaret’s Bay as the day is cool. In a few minutes we will be in Dover with its magnificent castle which protects this coastal town and in my view the rest of the country.

As we descend towards the curious railway station we pass a graveyard asleep in the deep shadows of the day.

A low hung bonfire gives the immediate area a false mist that insults this the clearest of autumn days.

The station nearly new stands out from the older houses that surround it.

It is too far from the town even taking the port station into account.

It is a brisk walk of about fifteen minutes until you arrive at the sea-front.

I always try to take time out to read Arnold’s poem when I am here.

Berring died yesterday about an hour after my arrival. As I sat by his bed I thought of the first day we had met at school both aged eight.

He a small ginger boy with freckles and was a total failure at sport.

I suppose I thought him immortal as he came through the war with no more than a scratch unlike many others and as I look across English Channel I feel the pulse of war quickening.

He always said that only part one was over and now I believe him to correct.

A small group of men passed me a few minutes ago Kent to the core and although they paid me no attention. I felt that they were most English of men.

Yeomen to the core with their rough accents and rough manner.

I almost joined them in the inn.

But I am not of their class and it would have been only for my own amusement.

I have written to Margot noting that I will be returning to her in a few days but I feel that I am drawn to this county and may remain here for some time.

Maybe it is because of Berring’s death but I am not sure.

The funeral is on Thursday and  his family and friends will attend.

It will be a severing of their association with him.

The railway line clings to the coast and the sea is constantly visible.

The train will stop at both of Folkestone’s railway stations and will cross the handsome viaduct and as it does I will hurl a small bouquet of roses into Kent air.

They will land randomly in the back garden of one of the dwelling below and might cause a little mystery to the finder.

An unhappy love affair broken off at its prime.

A young lady in floods of tears is comforted at the railway station.

The subject of her affection gets drunk in a public house and is asked to leave before last orders.

But I know the truth.

These English flowers were released by me.

In memory of my friend.

A true Man of Kent.

 

JT (November 1938)