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 !
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