Cockles and mussels
East of London and north of Canterbury, this town is built around
fishing, tourism and tarmacadum. It is famous for oysters, sunsets and real
ale. Where on earth?
Actually, no prizes. The only mystery is why, with a CV like that, it
took us so long to get there. But eventually, we did. We do like our seaside
pleasantries in Family Atkinson and Whitstable proved to be an enormously diverting
pleasure the other weekend.
Diverting. Partly in the sense that I was deflected away from Team
Europe’s foursomes and fourballs struggles; from Team England’s T20 World Cup
shambles; and from Team Davoski’s unsighted racing selections. But more so
because after an inexplicable gap of 15 years – a best estimate – we were
meeting up again with our good friends Jan & Ian. The intervening period
had seen them retire, become grandparents and relocate to this gem of a town in
north Kent. Needless to say we had plenty to talk about.
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| unicorn hat front and centre |
The harbour is a refreshing and very apparent mix of real industry
rubbing shoulders with the inevitable shopping and leisure opportunities. Fish processing, coal and timber transport
cheek-by-jowl with restaurants, craft and gift stalls and an excellent fish
market. This interesting juxtaposition explains why Ian and I were all misty
eyed over a fully working original Thames barge moored at the harbour wall
whilst Daughter No 2 was buying a pink and white woolly unicorn hat from an
adjacent shop.
**Local history warning** The original harbour was built in 1832 as a
railway terminus for the "Crab and Winkle" line (if I didn’t know
better I’d say the North Kent Tourist Board had a hand in that) to Canterbury.
Incredibly, and I have checked, it was the third passenger railway ever built
and the first in the World to transport customers on a regular basis. A sharp
poke in the eye to the Victorian powerhouses of the industrial north, then.
From the harbour we strolled (it was the weekend after all) along the
shingle beach past weatherboard cottages, huts and shacks in various states of
repair and renovation to Louisa’s shop. Louisa is Jan’s daughter with whom
Helen has been very close over the years, although their period of separation
had been even longer. A lovely reunion. It was all getting quite emotional. Luckily,
there was a choice of two decent looking pubs on the corner. Drinking
Whitstable Bay IPA procured from The Quayside, sat on the beach catching up and
looking out to the Isle of Sheppey. Pure joy.
Later, in town we stumbled upon a record shop selling vinyl where I exclaimed
with joy on finding some pristine UFO 7”picture discs. The shopkeeper grinned
at the prospect of forthcoming purchases. “No, no, I’ve already got them. I
just delighted to see them here!” His smile fell and was replaced by a look
that just says ‘sad bastard’. The main shopping street was busy and pretty, but
not too twee. It’s easy to see how the place appeals to visitors from
cosmopolitan London, only an hour or so’s drive away.
Back at Jan & Ian’s, we met Louisa’s husband, Dan and their two
lovely young daughters, promptly adopted by mine and together they spent a full
two hours exploring the attic. The catching up was now at breakneck pace. I was
delighted to learn that Dan and I had some recent grimy experiences in common
to do with a blocked drain, plumbers’ poles and the unique aroma of open sewerage.
Later still, after good food and better conversation, it fell
to Jan and Mrs A to safely see in the early hours: revisiting old haunts, old
jobs and older friends; nostalgia the oxygen of the conversation and red wine
its lubricant.
We headed out to The Old Neptune Inn for a swift pint before lunch the
next day. Ian says this is the only pub in England actually built on the beach.
At least two earlier incarnations of the boozer have been wrecked by the
elements. The warped floor and twisted beams of this one, dating from the last
days of the 19th century, are testament to its travails against
battering north-easterlies. The ‘neppy’ (you’d think I was a local) has live
bands on at the weekend and Ian told me there’s a good music festival on the
beach in Summer that accompanies the beer and oyster festivals.
For lunch, Jan and Ian took us to the Lobster Shack at the other end of
the beach. By now the wind is blowing with serious intent. Several dinghies
have capsized at the mouth of the harbour and the kitesurfers are zipping over
the foam at astonishing speed.
To get to the shack, we have to weave around East Quay and down a road
with an industrial estate on one side and the imposing tarmac works on the
other. This part of Kent was amongst the first in the country to adopt
‘blacktop’ roads. I asked Ian if he was taking us to the factory canteen for a
bacon butty lunch. But just around the corner the road ends at a little square
outside the famous shack. Inside, we found a huge open plan barn of a building
with long refectory tables and large windows out to sea. Louisa, Dan and the
girls joined us. Over fantastic moules marinieres, rock oysters and prawns, Jan
shows me her stunning sunset photos taken from in front of the shack. Oddly,
for a town on the east coast of England, the geography of the bay means a
westerly facing aspect. I’m jealous.
Out in the estuary, it is clear enough to see the wind farm, and to just make out the spidery shapes of the Maunsell Sea Forts, hangovers from World War II where they
provided platforms for anti-aircraft guns. They look more like an outtake from
the final scenes in War of the Worlds. The barge we saw earlier can be hired to
run trips out there. Next time maybe.
All too soon, it's time to head home. Jan & Ian have not changed a
bit. Good people. The intervening years have been reasonably kind to us and we think
we can make provisional plans to meet up again in 2027. It’s in the diary.
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