A Bimble round Ramsgate

Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness led to Kent; the garden of England, gateway to the UK and most splendid in Autumn. Through rose tinted glasses I still believed in the mythology of merry olde England which provides a romantic vision of charmant 'Cinque Ports',  a mighty cathedral city of Canterbury, bucolic harvests of hops and fruit and Chaucer's tales.  My own ageing photographs of russet apples and golden pumpkins raise a glow in the mind's eye. As November draws near and another season passes, I yearn for some of them apples and head to the far east. 

Ramsgate is betwixt and between.  On the cusp? The next big thing?  Faded grandeur or bright future ? It finds itself coping with the vicissitudes of modern life on the extreme frontier of this sceptred isle.  Facing our European comrades/ adversaries it copes with the slings and arrows with unheralded aplomb.

The paradox of a positive reverie and the reality was immediately evident in the Royal Harbour.  Rumours of a renaissance abound as London life in smart boxes loses its allure in times of epidemic. Ozone and sunshine seem a better option particularly if you can take a treasure chest courtesy of a chink of capital real estate. Downsizers were funking up the town and re-evaluating its fading splendour.

The impressive waterfront attraction of a huge Wetherspoon is less a statement of intent than a reminder of the paradox. Gentrification needs a purpose and an audience or it is just a series of white elephants.

The attempt to rebrand extended to my fish and chips and I was suckered as the intriguingly named and engagingly priced 'Saithe' turned out to be Pollack. A fine fish if eaten fresh from the sea but mushy as peas and grey after a few hours in the chippy bucket. In Cod we trust, all others are as dust. 

Ramsgate's fine strip of beach that once hosted Merrieland is now blighted by new waterfront apartments dominating a prime position.

Cheap construction will ensure this get rich quick scheme will fade to match similar discoloured carbuncles that litter this coastline. The seagulls are already making their protests clear.

The new development pales in comparison with the grand crescent of mansions in East Cliff above. An Edwardian lift can take the nouveau riche up to see the Regency splendour they could have bought for half their money. 

 The waterfront reminded me of classic British seaside towns like Scarborough when town planners had vision built to last.

The harbour is magnificent in its prized position on the East coast hosting one of the few marinas available; a haven from the dangers of the Goodwin Sands, graveyard of many a sailor.

These fabled shallows host intrepid cricketers during summer months, pitching up until tides stop play. These are the shores that Joseph Conrad compared to other foreboding estuaries that emanated a heart of darkness and a primal fear. 

'The sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness.'

As Marlow leaves the estuarine Thames and rests at anchor, on the cruising yawl, Nellie, he remarks that differences in geography are purely psychological and the the darkness of colonial rule is the real harbinger of doom. Colonial Europeans plundering Africa are compared to those who colonised the south eastern coast of Britain for centuries. I wonder what Conrad would make of Brexit. 

 'They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force-- nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind--as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness.' 

The Goodwin sandbanks remind the unwary of our island's historical and geographical links to the mainland of Europe. The paradoxes of Ramsgate are repeated around seaside towns in the UK as many signs of 'nearly there' kept popping up which hopefully will not remain 'could have beens'.  Activity in the harbour erupted when a siren went off and lifeboat crew launched into action, a reminder of Ramsgate's vantage on the front-line. 

Border Force ships stood guard as still waters encouraged boats and kayaks full of the desperate dreams of the promised land.  Sales of blow up vessels had been banned in Decathlon in Calais but this human tragedy was a political time bomb. Macron could be sunk when they discover French authorities turning a bind eye to the human traffic in the face of British intransigence. The boats are leaving French shores so the onus is on the French and Belgians to stop the crossings before they take the hazardous journey. It will end in tears for the French as they are a disaster away from worldwide scrutiny. The British will say it is their brave lifeboat crews who are saving lives and the narrative will drive the focus on reducing migration and asylum, and increasing isolation from Europe. 

The RNLI were launching as I guiltily sipped a latte observing the human drama. It seemed unfair to expect local working people to drop everything to respond. Expecting charity and volunteers to deal with an international crisis suggests a real lack of ideas or will to confront the brutal reality of this deadly transit. The figure of 999 crossings in a day suggests political promises falling short on all sides of the Channel. 

There seem to be a lot of culprits from French incalcitrance,  ruthless people smugglers, Putin employing human migration as a political tool to cow Europe but it is Ramsgate that bears the daily struggle to save lives at sea.  The harbour is now primed for this activity as saving and processing thousands of undocumented arrivals has become a new industry in the Cinque Ports. 

Local knowledge was to be found in a boutique hotel above the harbour and favoured haunt of a young Queen Victoria. The Albion sits squat against the winds of change and provides a symbol of the possibilities of regeneration. Restored to former glory the drawing rooms wing backed chairs and bay windows provide a vantage point for prospective optimists. 

A delicate balance is the new norm in coastal towns across the UK as the effect of the housing boom follows its inevitable course.  New tribes of aspirational migrants and wealthy city escapees rub up against the legacy of sink estates and the increasing needs of an ageing population.  'There are a lot of us coming down here,' suggested a thriving influx of young Londoners with ideas, energy and skills willing to take the plunge. Resistance is always found, 'they are taking our jobs and nice big houses!' 

Like other seaside towns they forgot to close down, Ramsgate finds itself unnervingly in the '10% most deprived' category.  Socio-economic issues are not immediately apparent amidst the Royal Harbour and 450 listed buildings, parks and shipwrecks.  The town centre symbolises this dilemma as the town could either rot and fade or welcome the entrepreneurial spirit of independent pioneers of a nation of shopkeepers gallantly resurrecting a doomed model against formidable odds and business rates. There is always someone else to blame but Ramsgate has the space and needs this new energy to capitalise on its remarkable advantages.

Ramsgate is a captive of its geography and as the first landfall from Europe it was heavily bombed in both wars.  The legacy of war is evident in the martial air of enduring military tourism. A Spitfire museum is located at Manston airport which was once touted as a solution to the Heathrow conundrum. It has been a  money pit for prospective gold diggers and money launderers as various Ponzi schemes cash in on its fortuitous location,  a long runway and proximity to London. The tunnels are an incredible testament to the practicality and will of a community under siege. They allowed thousands of people to find refuge from the persistent raids. Luftwaffe would often drop their cargo on their return to the continent. 

Three miles of tunnel were originally built in 1863 linking rail routes, through the chalk to the harbour. Victorian engineering feats seem unimaginable and it is a wonder that an underground railway exists at all, once running to Broadstairs in one direction and the main Ramsgate station in the other.  The physical obstacles such as chalk hills and a steep gradient would defy most and necessity cannot be cited as the mother of invention when a perfectly good route found terminus from London in the centre of town. Closed in 1926 it found its true worth as a vital sanctuary from the carnage above as German bombers blitzed the area.

Deep shelter tunnels provided an alternative existence and no doubt saved many lives. The tunnels hosted a tourist railway until 1965, reminding holiday makers of the golden age of Victorian construction. The same  engineers would follow their whims and invest in sheer bloody minded British endeavours around the world. No doubt the patronage of Queen Victoria, who would convalesce in the Albion Hotel overlooking the harbour, and the designation of a Royal Harbour drove this ambitious folly. After decades of neglect a significant section was re-opened in 2014 and revealed this awe inspiring subterranean wonder.   

Ramsgate's size and potential is clear but there remains a sense that this has not been realised or that the sturdy Cinque Port is still slightly forgotten on the extreme eastern shore. It rests until desperately needed in times of crisis, as the community waits to respond in time honoured fashion; captives of the wild frontier. An injection of a post Brexit or post Covid something may provide the necessary catalyst to let the good times roll. Maybe the newly minted London fringe can inject the spark it needs. 

A Bimble round Herne Bay

Pilgrims on the trail to Canterbury can move inland across the Kent marshes but sticking to this stretch of coast offers a fascinating walker's pilgrimage along the Oyster Coast. A noticeably balmy climate lures autumnal bathers eponymously named 'bluetits' as the Thames estuary opens out toward Europe. 

Sat amongst the colourful and ubiquitous beach huts I tracked the marine traffic online as monster container ships navigated the distant wind farms dotting the horizon.  Bulk cargo ships, like Dream Power on its way from Hay Point in the Australian Coral Sea, cruised under the flags of Liberia, Panama and the Marshall Islands.  Ports rang with the promise of adventures beyond the steel gray horizon; Zeebrugge, Dieppe, Hook of Holland, Le Havre. A modern take on Masefield's Cargoes 'Quinquereme of Nineveh from distant Ophia', these vessels offer a passage to explore the wide blue unknown.

Wistful reveries draw the eye to an odd blot on the horizon in the shallows of Herne Bay.  The remnant of the end of the pier lingers unfathomably offshore. The existing pier reaches out as defiantly as the local high street, trying to resist signs of the inevitable march of decline. Community spirit never fails to signal the British spirit of overcoming obstacles to their indomitable entrepreneurship. Optimistic enterprises stubbornly inhabit kiosks on the pier defying the vagaries of the weather and the inconstancy of tourism. 

Bakeries and breweries are always on the bimbler's list as they signify the passion and creativity of local independent industry keeping the home fires burning. The term 'artisan' has become a bit worn and rusty with connotations of hipsterdom and is unfair mockery of underrated skill and serious graft. The proof is in the pudding as only something made with care and attention could taste this good. A cinnamon bun and a focaccia had me dreaming of my own bakery for the rest of the walk, named 'The Daily Loaf'. By Whitstable I had decided on decor and a menu.

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This spirit of defiance finds it symbol in Amy Johnson who flew her Gipsy Moth aircraft called 'Jason' on a solo flight from the UK to Australia in 1930. For a decade Johnson captivated the press with her record breaking exploits to Moscow New York South Africa and beyond.   Defying patriarchal convention and living life in the jet stream she became an inspiration for women, in particular, whose roles were to change forever in the forthcoming war.  On a cold and stormy January day in 1941 Johnson was relocating an RAF aircraft from Glasgow to Oxford when she got blown off course and found herself over the frigid, grey waters of Herne Bay. Whether it was friendly fire or abject conditions that brought her plane down is contentious but the inhospitable English Channel in winter became her final destination.

I decided to salute Amy in time honoured fashion with a pint of Kentish best.

Fortified, I pushed on to the holy grail of Whitstable which had actualised as a destination. I heeded the call of boutique charity shops, delis and oyster shacks and headed along a coast protected from the vagaries of erosion and rising seas by a concrete wall and more aesthetic wooden groynes.

 Hundreds of extremely well appointed beach huts in excellent repair vy with hut envy. The game was to choose which one to inhabit.  Betty Blue would have field day painting these beauties, each with a considered, unique shade or with a seaside postcard chic mural of Kentish graffiti.

Interlopers to the house party in the form of camping pods were less appealing, set on concrete bases in orderly form, like a campsite for military enthusiasts. Small campsites seem to be disappearing in favour of  homogenous erections and the great static caravan takeover.  I'm yet to see celebrities on holiday in one  despite all the walking and barging on TV.  Clarkson in a static in Skeggy maybe.   It would be difficult to wander the coast with a backpack unless you were happy to rough it on the beach or in the dunes for a few nights. Increasingly site owners feel it is not worth catering to the cheaper end of the camping market when folk will fork out £70 quid a night for a shed.

I quite fancy a night in one of these sheds though listening to the shoreline shingle. 

A highlight of the day is always the sunset in the West which means a good half hour finding the elusive perfect shot. One day !

 

A Bimble round Whitstable

The Whitstabubble is the jewel in the crown of the Kent coast. The lure of the legendary oyster beds has turned a working port into a leisure destination and a bimbler's paradise A new art gallery, vinyl record shops, a historic cinema and theatre; bustling charity shops replete with local dames preparing for panto season. Welcoming pubs, resplendent and restored to former glory with Shepherd Neame beers and craft ale to the fore. The pubs used to be rough and ready a couple of decades ago and a pub crawl was full of life with a bohemian edge. I remember singing an Elvis classic 'In the Ghetto' and ending the night on the sea-front in the timeless 'Neptune' pub. A brisk walk to Seasalter for lunch in 'The Sportsman' blew off the cobwebs where they had just started doing strange things with samphire and sourdough.  

I had heard a lot about the transformation and it was heartening to see a town in such good fettle. It retained a community feel defying the second home boom.  What comes from Whitstable often stays in Whitstable. With such great connections to London and the continent you can enjoy the village, walk along the beach and be in smoke city by lunchtime. The ozone is addictive and once off the thoroughfare you feel ensconced in the the hugger mugger of the tightly packed terraced streets. The town embraces you and then pops you out on the shingle shore in a pub garden looking toward the Isle of Thanet.  Oyster shells dot the beach and the port has been sympathetically gentrified to suit fishermen and visitors alike. 

Whitstable oysters  is a protected food name, a bit like Stilton and Cheddar cheese and were first harvested by the Romans.  We now take lead from French attempts to protect and celebrate indigenous foodie traditions with provenance. To qualify a Pacific Oyster has to be 2 to 3 years old and plucked from Whitstable Bay, collected in nets and purified in seawater on the dockside. I checked out the abundance of appetising restaurants with their fishy names; Crab and Winkle, Samphire, Wee Willie Winkle's. Oyster Bar or Lobster Shack?  I was getting seafood overload and settled for a dockside squeeze of lemon and heaven at the Oyster Shed.  I once taught twins who went on to work at the fabled fish stall in Birmingham market and this is my first stop every time I go into town. As children we took a rowing boat out to the Oyster beds in the Fal Estuary and almost filled the boat by dipping our hands into the shallows and retrieving bivalves.  Although parents appeared horrified at the haul I cannot remember too many being sent back. My other mollusc adventure was of the green lipped variety in Marlborough Sound. Kiwi monster mussels filled the kayak on that occasion as big as your hand.

All was not well in the town and I soon found that Whitstable was revolting ! My trip coincided with the end of half term when the weather was turning and the swimmers gave up on the warm Autumnal waters. Only had local groups like the eponymously named 'bluetits' would venture out as Winter took hold. Or so the water company thought. After the first over-night storm South West Water opened the sluice gates and poured raw sewage into rivers and the sea at over 60 locations simultaneously. You could smell trouble brewing in the air and local opinion was inflamed. The privatised water company also had a monopoly on this service so switching provider was not an easy option for a quick dirty protest.  This practice had been going on for years and only recently had the water company received a damming rebuke and a £90 million fine. The immediacy of the issue brought home how poor regulation and political ideology could impact a community. These coastal hot spots in the South West were traditional tory voting areas so this was a hot potato. As Billy Bragg said recently, ' we are all libertarians until the street fills up with brown water.' Citizen journalists and environmental campaigners aligned to inform local people of the effects of company policy to prioritise profits before investment in infrastructure.  Horrific videos of outflow into beusty spots like Langstone Harbour went viral overnight. After thirty years of vulture capitalism the effects were clear. A company tasked with cleaning up and treating waste water was depositing it straight into the water cycle.  It was a hard task to clean up the story and whatever viewpoint you looked at it from, it stank.

The problem for Whitstable was that the water quality in the bays that supplied their prized catch, good for you, good for the environment,' was suspect and had led to bans. E Coli had forced the closure of the Oyster harvest festival in the summer.  Oysters had to be shipped in from Jersey.  There was grit in the fabled Whitstable oyster and the pearlescent lustre had gone grey. Local people blamed the mass dumping but felt powerless and angry.

The main reason for visiting Whitstable had become its biggest story and the fact that people were now calling them Shitstable oysters was a disaster. I had walked past Swalecliffe earlier, where the water company had regularly dumped sewage into Herne, Tankerton and Whitstable bays for decades. The previous night's mass dump was the catalyst for a Twitter storm which became front page news over the next few days. Citizen journalists had used the power of internet to circumvent main stream media. Several days later to the concern of local MP's this story had not abated but gathered viral speed. 

The whole thing blew up in parliament as a minor bill was defeated by a Tory majority and passed back to the House of Lords. This would have put the onus on the water companies to clean up their act and take steps to prevent raw sewage entering rivers and the sea. Toxic waste was only meant to be dumped in extremis but it had become clear that water companies had been regularly discharging waste as a cheaper option to treatment or upgrading infrastructure.  Privatisation meant that while profits rolled in over thirty years and were divvied up to shareholders and a myriad of offshore tax havens and sovereign wealth funds, the required upgrades to an antiquated system had not kept pace.  As a monopoly customers could not opt out from their local provider which undermined the ideology of privatising to increase competition.  

Ministers and politicians, some with clear vested interests,  claimed that Victorian sewers were to blame but the public asked why investment had not kept pace when hundreds of millions had been been made in profits. The ironic position that weak regulation has led to is that water companies would rather take a considerable fine and public approbation than invest and protect the environment they are entrusted with.

For a short period this scandal gained traction in the media and MP's got the jitters as the twitter sphere cranked into motion. This issue was directly affecting Conservative voting areas and shitting on their own doorsteps was not a vote winner. Brexit concerns had already weakened support in Tory heartlands as reality set in but this issue was right under the noses of the faithful. Welsh water and Scottish water are owned by not for profit statutory companies but when the owners are a myriad basket case of shadowy derivatives it is hard to say who actually is responsible. Weak regulation also makes it unclear whether this issue will ever be cleared up and the eventual bill was worded enigmatically to leave a get out clause in place.

 This shitstorm has abated and we wait to see if we will carry on as before. Campaigners like Surfers against Sewage and environmentalists continue to highlight the state of seas and rivers in documentaries like 'Rivercide'. However, until anyone gives a shit places like Whitstable will clean up the mess or wade in the fall out. The solution is regulation or nationalisation key industries like rail, power and water which are struggling to prove that privatisation is a sound economic model. 

Abandoning this ideology seems anathema to the ruling party despite the logic that some key industries are too important to leave to the vagaries of a global market.  Local protests were evident along the coast particularly amongst swimming groups and the sense of frustration was palpable. For the historic oyster beds of Whitstable the damage is done.