Falling chimney pots
We were up 'really' early yesterday morning. We're talking 6.30am kids up, washed, dressed and fed... ... that's pretty good going in my books for a Sunday morning.
Rubbing the sleepy dust from out of our eyes we wearily dragged our tired weekend bodies up over the hill and across the fields to look out over the coastline at Pegwell bay.
We were not alone. The crowds were gathering - all heading in the same direction and we knew that it was not just this little space on the cliffside that was occupied.
From where we stood we could see people walking out across the flats, as far as the low tide would possibly take them. Like little matchstick people on the horizon - it was like looking at a picture by Lowry.
With small boats congregating, jet skis and their occupants huddled and helicopters hovering overhead, people stood still across all the surrounding area, as far as the eye could see. We were all waiting for just one thing.
Our towers to fall.
At 9am the giddy chatter of fellow spectators fell into an almost hush - we all waited for a sign.
From where we were gathered we saw the back one topple first and then the 'boom' of the explosion hit us. Then quite quickly in succession the second, then third and the very last one to fall was the tallest chimney pot that had stood for so long towering over those three smaller fat ones. They just kind of crumpled.
We held our breaths as the dust gathered in the air.
You may of seen on the news last night that our little corner of South East Kent will have a very different view to it and I have to be honest - I will miss them.
Some say they were an eyesore - a blot on the horizon, but for me (taking the practical out of the equation) they were my land mark, a kind of beacon I guess. And no matter how far out I ventured across this county, if I could see those towers then I knew I was almost home.