Early morning pollution.

 Let's start the day with some good old fashioned pollution.
Where are these people flying to at this time of the morning?

 Yes, I am back on my bicycle now that it has been repaired after the collision with the fox.
(See my post of 31 January 2021)

Passport Portraits of Yesteryear no. 50

Continuing the series of passport portraits in my collection.
Peruse and wonder.

The Great War has started, the British Expeditionary Force in Belgium is being forced back into France by the assault and the Kentish Channel ports are flooded with refugees.
    Folkestone is awash with Belgians who have fled before the foe and sought safety in Britain, but how do we distinguish real refugees from the possible spies which might have been infiltrated into the throngs of desperate humanity?
    The answer is to engage Belgian police staff to attend the pier at Folkestone and interview any suspects as they disembark. Ernest Godefroy is a forty year old Belgian detective whose job it now is to meet the ship from Ostend every day and make himself available to the Immigration and Security staff  working there. He has taken lodgings in Harvey Street, only a few minutes walk from the port.

Sunset on my bells.

 

The End of the Line

 

 

 

This is as far as the train can take you on the Kent & East Sussex Railway – to Tenterden railway station surrounded by fields of buttercups.

 

 

 

 

 

But you can continue along the trackbed on foot if you so desire.

 

And at the site of the former level crossing you will come across this line of pretty 18th century cottages.

Brown corduroy.

 

  

 

 

 Brown corduroy trousers.

 

 

 

 

 

        Brown corduroy field.

Don't you love a high pressure over Iceland?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here comes the sun...

 

 

...burning off the morning mist

...and making a dung heap steam in the frosty field.

 (My cycle ride is somehow incomplete without a dungheap.)

The Nailbourne is high.

 

 

One of the two fords where the Nailbourne crosses Old Palace Road.

 

 

 

The Nailbourne at Littlebourne Mill.

 

 

The Nailbourne is high.   So is this pile of dung.