Does a holiday start when you step out from your house? Or does it start, when you step off the plane, or ferry; or in our case, the other side of La Manche?
So, at the end of day, before Day 1; or it could possibly be Day 1, depending on your stance to the above, finds us pitched up at the now very familiar. The Blackhorse Farm Campsite at Densole. A few furlongs, or so, north of Folkestone, and a short gallop down to the water jump.
Previously, the run up to D-Day, as ever, felt as if time itself was squeezing and condensing every minute down into tiny bite size seconds. Chewing, then knowingly spitting them out with earnest disregard. As a consequence, our focused efforts were rewarded with the earliest get-away ever. A bunch of keys, some indoor plants and feed-fishing requests left with our fab, over the road friends, Sue & Dave; then we were off.
With a host of minutes left to fill on the drive to Densole, we make a meaningful detour. Put our NT memberships to good use. Take a first visit to Chartwell House and Gardens. Host to one or two ‘Landscape Artist of the Year’ competitions.
We can see why. Even by today’s standards the more than modest house is very livable; amply aided by eight hectares of sculpted gardens and twenty-three of parkland. No doubt at times offering a secluded balm for Sir and Lady Churchill.
