Whitfield and the Ferries
The History of Whitfield, Kent The village of Whitfield has grown so that it is now physically connected to urban Dover, Kent, yet it has kept its own identity and sense of place. The central core of modern Whitfield was, however, not the original heart of the village; the original settlement was sited at Church Whitfield to the east. Pineham, located to the east of Church Whitfield is a small rural hamlet that is often considered part of the Whitfield community. It contains a small handful of farms and houses..
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Leaving Albion Place wasn't simply another house move. It felt as though we were finally beginning to build the sort of home Sheila and I had always hoped for. With the modest profit from the sale, we bought a newly built semi-detached house at 42 Allison Crescent in Whitfield, just outside Dover. Compared with our little house in Canterbury, it felt bright, modern and full of promise.
Life in the Caravan
While our new house was being completed, we lived in a caravan parked in the paddock of The Plough Inn. It was far from luxurious, but it gave us a wonderful sense of independence.
How the four of us fitted into that little caravan still remains a mystery to me. Perhaps it was because I was only there for part of each week. Working on the cross-Channel ferries meant that I was often away overnight, sometimes finishing the day's crossings in France before returning the following day.
Looking back, I often wonder how Sheila managed. Left on her own with two young children in such cramped conditions, she never once complained or suggested it was all becoming too much. She simply got on with it, making the very best of whatever circumstances we found ourselves in.
I don't remember us arguing about our situation; we both accepted that it was only temporary and that better days lay ahead.
One vivid memory from that time is Sheila's knitting machine. I can still picture her wrestling with it, muttering quietly under her breath whenever the stitches caught or the wool became tangled. In many ways, that knitting machine seemed to mirror our lives at the time—often becoming tangled, yet always patiently sorted out and put back together again.
Once settled in Whitfield, I found work with Townsend Car Ferries, initially as a steward aboard Free Enterprise I.
The work was steady and, importantly, paid better than the Post Office or the construction sites I had drifted between.
For the first time in a long while, life began to find a comfortable rhythm. The work on the ferries was steady and reliable, but every so often the English Channel reminded us that it demanded respect.
One crossing remains firmly fixed in my memory.
We departed Dover on schedule, but almost immediately encountered one of the worst storms I had experienced on the Channel. Gale-force winds whipped up enormous seas, and the ship pitched and rolled heavily throughout the crossing. What normally took little more than an hour stretched into over three hours as we battled our way towards France.
Many of the passengers were desperately seasick, and even some of the crew found the conditions exhausting.
After eventually reaching France, the passengers and vehicles disembarked, and we loaded the ship once again for the return journey. None of us were looking forward to going back out into the Channel, but the schedule had to continue.
The return crossing was every bit as bad. The storm showed no sign of easing, and once again it took several hours before we finally reached the shelter of Dover.
Even then, our ordeal wasn't over.
The Harbour Master was reluctant to allow us into the harbor because of the dangerous conditions. Instead, we were instructed to remain in the relative shelter of the bay until the weather moderated.
So there we waited, riding out the storm for several more hours before we were finally given permission to enter the harbor.
It was a long, exhausting day that reminded every one of us that, no matter how modern the ship, nature always had the final say.
In 1963, we welcomed our second daughter, Kathryn. We had just returned home from Mass at our local Catholic Church when Sheila quietly told me that the baby was on her way. We called the midwife, who arrived shortly afterwards, and before long Kathryn was born safely at home. It was another wonderful moment in our lives and another reminder of how fortunate we were to be building our family together.
The house at Allison Crescent, modest though it was, soon filled with the sounds of young children.
Paul was thriving, and for the first time, we felt truly rooted. Not long after, we sold Allison Crescent and moved to 46 Mayfield Road — a more permanent base where our family continued to grow. In 1965,
Phillip was born. His arrival was not without drama. The midwife was less than sympathetic, and I remember the fear as Phillip was born with the cord around his neck. Thankfully, both Sheila and Phillip came through safely, though the memory stayed with me long afterwards.
By then, I had been promoted to Second Steward, a role that brought both pride and a sense of security. The work was demanding but honest, and it allowed me to provide for my family with greater certainty than ever before. Paul had started school, Julia & Kathryn were great friends, and baby Phillip lay content in his cot. Somewhere between early mornings, night feeds, school uniforms and earning a living, I realised I was no longer simply living my own life. I was helping shape the lives of four young people who depended on me.
Fatherhood had arrived so gradually that I hardly noticed it happening. Yet looking back, those ordinary family years became some of the richest and happiest of my life.