This poem is a homage to Folkestone lorry park by Ziggy Duly who lives in Sandgate but used to live opposite the lorry park when she worked as a lorry driver.
Actor Alun Armstrong is one of the UK’s most successful actors whose stage, TV and film roles span more than 50 years, including starring in the film Get Garter where he made his screen debut. He spent nine years with the Royal Shakespeare Company and, on TV, he’s perhaps best known for the characters he’s played in Dickens’ adaptations as well as the character Brian Lane in New Tricks.
EXPLAINER: The turn of the 20th century saw the end of all Channel crossings between Folkestone and France. The lorry park became the beating heart of the once thriving ferry port – expanding and contracting as storage and warehouses came and went, alongside the truck drivers, seeking sanctuary from the ever-increasing stresses of the road.
Just over 14 years ago, part of the lorry parking area was taken over by a skateboarding park for local youth as well as a youth centre known as The Shed. The Shed also doubled up as a much-needed refuge for unaccompanied minors who came via lorries and ferries, seeking sanctuary from war-torn countries like Syria, Eritrea, Afghanistan and Sudan. There they could learn English as well as other life skills needed for a life in the UK, a service provided by teachers and volunteers at Kent Refugee Action Network (KRAN).
The Shed and skateboarding park has now been cleared to make way for the housing development.
The unaccompanied refugees still arrive in Folkestone but many of them now make the treacherous journey across the Channel in dinghies via people trafficking gangs and KRAN continues to help the unaccompanied children at a new centre in the town.
The full text of the poem can be found further down this page, under the audiogram.
The Lorry Park, Folkestone
By Ziggy Duly
Read by Alun Armstrong
It’s a job that I’m proud of, you may think it’s strange
A long-distance trucker, no limit to range.
Thirty-three countries in twenty-two years
Friends made on borders as we waited to clear
customs, a chance for a chat in a far-flung place
With all the paperwork, it was never a race…
Our world has changed, most borders have gone
It’s now just at truck stops, the few that are left
Our chance to catch up with mates from back then.
It’s different now for us ‘knights’ of the roads.
But that ferry from Calais still brings hazards untold.
The world seems against us, we still carry on.
Unpaid police, we’re fined if we fail.
Nowhere to stop, will they send us to jail
if we bring in clandestines who’ve hidden away?
Young people, they call them, and that’s what they are.
Alone and bewildered, they come from afar
in search of a new life, unfettered by war.
They walk from Syria, Iraq and Iran
Afghanistan, Africa and Pakistan.
They cross seas in small dinghies and too many drown
Their lives are nocturnal as they try and slip through
One day they will make it. With me? Or with you?
Four years in Bosnia, never such a fright,
did I feel in Calais. Pursued in the night
by thousands of shadows streaming out of the dark,
intent on surrounding me. Was I trapped in that place,
just short of the Docks? I needed to flee.
Does nobody care what happens to me?
Mustn’t stop. Can’t stop. My foot hits the gas,
540 horsepower leaves ticker tape trailing.
Barricades splinter as the truck picks up pace.
Will someone die in this terrible race to the Docks,
the ferry crossing, our one-time safe place?
Surely, this isn’t how life is meant to be?
Just by doing our jobs we are forced to flee.
Just tell me how you think it should be?
Who should be safe? Is it them? Is it me?
It’s 4 in the morning. Will I be safe?
Will I get to the lorry park on the other side?
Will they be with me? Will they catch a ride? Will I go to prison?
I’m terrified now. Must get to the lorry park, no matter how.
I made it! I heave a great sigh of relief.
It’s 6 in the morning and time for a sleep.
The trauma of Calais fades away with the day.
Sleep sound in the lorry park, brief respite. No more grief.
Awakening later they are there once again.
The parking has shrunk. We are there side by side.
We are the ones with nowhere to hide.
Them in containers being treated for trauma.
Us to continue. Their journey over.
Is it worth it, we say, when ten trucks a day
get caught with clandestines when the driver must pay two thousand a head.
Is that right? Is that fair?
Who would not flee the horror of war
given the chance of a safer life?
You would. I would. Of that I’m sure.
But, we, too need our peace to escape from that fright.
A place to recover. Not smart. Not fancy.
Just the basics we need and to get a good night.
Now the lorry park’s gone to make way for houses.
Our one-time safe haven has had its day.
It’s laybys for us, or maybe hard shoulders.
Even less space to hide away.
RIP Folkestone Lorry Park. Flattened April 2017.
We had good times there.
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