Eamonn Rooney (1944–2026): The Man Who Knew Folkestone’s History Like No Other

Folkestone has lost one of its great keepers of memory. With the passing of Eamonn Rooney (pictured), the town says goodbye to a man whose knowledge of its history was second to none, and whose generosity in sharing that knowledge made him part of the place he loved.

There are people who live in a town and people who come to understand its soul. Eamonn belonged to the latter. To him, Folkestone wasn’t simply the streets we walk, the buildings we pass or the view across the Channel. It was the generations who had lived here before us, the stories hidden in stone and brick, the forgotten names, the photographs, the records and the small details that might otherwise vanish. He spent much of his life making sure they didn’t.

And yet, remarkably, Folkestone might never have known him at all.

Born in Newry, Northern Ireland, in 1944, Eamonn arrived in the spring of 1963, expecting to stay for just a fortnight. His brother had been stationed at Shorncliffe Camp and subsequently settled locally, and his father had encouraged him to visit. Eamonn admitted he hadn’t been particularly keen on the idea, but he came nonetheless. What greeted him was Floral Folkestone, with its flower-filled roundabouts, the beauty of The Leas and the tranquillity of Kingsnorth Gardens. He found work on the local buses, expecting to be laid off at the end of the season. Instead, the job continued, the weeks became months, and a reluctant visitor gradually became a Folkestonian.

For eight years he worked as a bus conductor, travelling through Cheriton, Morehall and the town centre, meeting people and becoming familiar with the streets that would eventually occupy so much of his life. He later worked in local industry, including Portex, but an altogether different interest was beginning to take hold.

It started with old photographs. Eamonn wanted to date Victorian images of Folkestone, which meant finding out when particular buildings had appeared, changed or disappeared. One discovery inevitably prompted another question. An encounter with local historian C. P. Davies introduced him to an older Folkestone than the fashionable Victorian and Edwardian resort he’d initially encountered. There were Roman remains, an Anglo-Saxon past, medieval streets and centuries of maritime, military and religious history. The more he discovered, the more he wanted to know.

The Heritage Room at Grace Hill Library became something of a second home. Here, surrounded by maps, newspapers, parish records and photographs, he developed the patient habits of a serious historian: checking, questioning, comparing and following apparently insignificant clues until they revealed something extraordinary. History, to Eamonn, wasn’t merely a collection of entertaining stories. It deserved accuracy, care and, above all, respect for the lives of those who’d gone before.

By 1985, his enthusiasm had helped bring about something lasting. Alongside Charles Whitney, Alan Taylor and fellow enthusiasts, he helped establish the Folkestone & District Local History Society, becoming its first treasurer. The inaugural meeting took place on 14 October 1985, at Dover College Junior School in Shorncliffe Road. What began as a shared passion grew into an enduring organisation dedicated to preserving and explaining the town’s past. It was exactly the sort of endeavour Eamonn believed in: people coming together, sharing their discoveries and ensuring that knowledge didn’t disappear when its custodians were no longer around.

His own contribution to Folkestone’s written history was considerable. He worked on photographic histories, researched the town’s public houses with Martin Easdown, explored its religious heritage and lost buildings, and contributed to numerous historical publications. In 2024, working with Terry Begent, he co-authored Secret Folkestone, a further exploration of the people, places and stories that had shaped the town.

Yet perhaps one of his most meaningful achievements was his research into the Belgian refugees who arrived through Folkestone during the First World War.

Eamonn recognised that, amid the familiar accounts of soldiers leaving for the Western Front, another extraordinary human story deserved greater attention. He painstakingly traced the experiences of refugees fleeing conflict, the families who sheltered them, the volunteers who provided food and clothing, and the efforts made to reunite children with loved ones. His book, Folkestone and the Belgian Refugees During World War 1, helped preserve a remarkable chapter in the town’s history. Folkestone Museum has recommended it as a source for teaching children about those arrivals.

What made his research particularly valuable was his determination to tell the whole story. Alongside acts of extraordinary kindness, he recorded instances of prejudice, exploitation and hardship. He understood that history wasn’t always comfortable, and that remembering the past properly meant acknowledging its failings as well as celebrating its finest moments. His work was a reminder that Folkestone’s history was never simply about buildings or dates. It was about people, their struggles, their generosity and their place in the wider world.

Sometimes his discoveries were quite literally hidden in the walls around us. In 1995, Eamonn identified part of a late-medieval priory wall within the British Lion on the Bayle. Just imagine the satisfaction of recognising something centuries old, surviving unnoticed in a building familiar to generations of Folkestonians. It was the kind of discovery that delighted him, and the kind that made others look again at places they’d passed countless times without a second thought.

But he was never content to leave history sitting on a library shelf. Eamonn gave talks, led guided walks and shared his knowledge wherever there was an interested listener. In 1992, he narrated a film about Folkestone’s history, leaving behind something particularly precious: not simply another historical record, but his own voice helping tell the town’s story.

And then, of course, there was the Leas Lift.

For many people, Eamonn and that remarkable old cliff railway were almost inseparable. He began working there in the 1990s and later helped keep it going when the council withdrew. Together with Terry Begent and others, he devoted years to preserving a landmark that meant far more to Folkestone than simply transporting people between the seafront and The Leas.

The lift carried memories. Childhood outings, summer holidays, generations of families and countless visitors had passed through its doors. Eamonn understood that those memories were every bit as important as the machinery that made it work. Its historic website once described him as someone many considered its saviour, recognition of the extraordinary commitment he’d given to its survival.

He enjoyed the people as much as the place. Visitors arrived from across the world, and an unfamiliar accent might lead to a conversation about their homeland, their language or what had brought them to Folkestone. He was fascinated by the sheer variety of people passing through, once recalling his delight at discovering that a language he couldn’t identify was Icelandic. For a man who’d made one English seaside town the subject of a lifetime’s study, his curiosity about the wider world never diminished.

The lift’s closure in 2017 saddened him deeply. As plans for its restoration have progressed, it’s worth remembering those who kept faith with it when its future was far from certain. Eamonn was one of them. He understood that preserving a town’s character sometimes required more than affection or good intentions. It required people prepared to give their time, energy and determination to the task.

In 2019, Folkestone Town Council recognised his dedication to preserving the town’s heritage with a Town Mayor’s Community Award. It was richly deserved, though formal recognition could never adequately measure what Eamonn had contributed. His real achievements were found in the countless questions he’d answered, the memories he’d helped recover, the researchers he’d encouraged and the people who came away from a conversation with him knowing something wonderful about a place they thought they already understood.

Earlier this year, fellow local historian Tony Quarrington described finding Eamonn in his favourite café, surrounded by papers and books, a mug on the table and his pen to hand. It’s a lovely image, and somehow an entirely fitting one. Even in his eighties, there was still another question to answer, another document to examine, another story waiting to be told.

That, perhaps, was one of his greatest qualities. However much he knew, he never seemed to believe he’d finished learning. His knowledge could begin with a street name, an old photograph, a church wall or a question asked over a cup of tea, and before long an entire chapter of Folkestone’s past would unfold.

There was something generous about that. Knowledge can be guarded jealously, treated as a possession that confers importance upon its owner. Eamonn understood it differently. History belonged to everyone, and his pleasure came from helping other people discover it for themselves.

His passing leaves a real absence in Folkestone. There will be questions about the town’s past for which someone will instinctively think, “Ask Eamonn,” and then remember, with sadness, that they no longer can. Yet much of what he knew survives in the books he wrote, the research he undertook, the recordings he made and, perhaps most importantly, the knowledge he passed on to others. Future generations will continue to benefit from work undertaken by a man who simply loved his adopted town and wanted its stories remembered.

To those who knew him personally, our warmest condolences. To everyone whose understanding of Folkestone is richer because of his work, there is much to be grateful for. He will be sorely missed, not only for his extraordinary knowledge but for the kindness, enthusiasm and generosity with which he shared it.

Eamonn once reflected on the remarkable hold Folkestone seemed to have over people. Some left, he observed, only to find themselves drawn back again. He understood that better than most, having arrived reluctantly from Newry for what was supposed to be a fortnight’s visit.

More than sixty years later, looking back on the life he’d made here, he found a few wonderfully simple words to express what Folkestone meant to him.

“It’s a wonderful place. I’m glad I came. I’m glad I stayed.”

And how fortunate Folkestone was that he did.

Thank you, Eamonn, for giving our town a lifetime, for preserving its memories and for reminding us that every street, every building and every generation has a story worth telling.

You will be sorely missed, and warmly remembered.

The Shepway Vox Team

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