Folkestone is a town that hides. It prefers to be left alone. That’s why we got on the wrong train and arrived an hour late. That’s also why we missed our stop and ended up at the next station, which, unknowingly, was closer to the town square. Unaware of this, we walked back toward the station where we were supposed to get off, only to retrace our steps again. As we walked, we thought to ourselves, “There really isn’t much here—just cement roads and some very pretty houses.”

We took a turn and found where everything had been hiding. Down a steep cobbled street lined with small shops and restaurants, we walked toward the water. People were tucked away in cafés, where walls were made of books, and almond and maple syrup cake filled their stomachs. With our stomachs now calling for lunch we tried to find a specific restaurant, but when Google Maps said we had arrived, we were standing in front of a completely different place. Folkestone, it seemed, even hides its restaurants well.

It wasn’t very crowded—until we reached the beach, where a market awaited by the shore. It was quiet, but vast, as though it was trying to conceal its size.

Near the back, I found a girl hiding from her parents, who were nowhere to be seen (I found them eventually). Another family was tucked away in a corner, trying to conceal their son’s boredom. It felt like everyone was hiding something—parents, children, and even the market itself. Not a single colorful boat moved the entire time we watched. It seemed even the sailors were playing along in the town’s game of hide-and-seek.

If you enjoy seeking, try to find your way to Folkestone, where the town and its people prefer to remain hidden.