Leaving Portus Itius in France, from a lagoon which stretched to St Omer behind a fringe of islands including Calais and Boulogne, the Roman fleet was swept northwards by the tide and prevailing winds.
When the tide turned, they rowed towards Pegwell Bay and Ebbsfleet. They built their Triumphal Arch next to Thanet, now silted up, but a true island even in Medieval times.
Past, Present and Future are woven tightly together, yet I effortlessly slip between the warp and weft of this strange fabric.
A Roman Triumphal Arch—faced in Michelangelo’s favourite white marble from Carrara—shone so brightly as to be seen from France.
The ominous Cooling Towers of Richborough Power Station were an aide to all shipping around Böcklin’s Isle of the Dead, where thousands of blackened, Bronze Age bones are buried ankle-deep upon the white, chalk cliffs.