When Sarah announced a few weeks ago that she was taking a week's holiday in August, a plan evolved which included borrowing her parents' camper van and driving down to Hay-on-Wye via a visit to members of my family in Cardiff. So, naturally, we found ourselves loading the car last Tuesday for the first leg of a journey in completely the opposite direction; to Canterbury and the north Kent coast.
Canterbury is a city that I've long had a desire to visit, drawn by it's theological, historical, artistic and architectural attractions. The coast of Kent around Whitstable was also on my wish list. Above all, the chance to brush up my 'The Trip' inspired Alan Bennett impression on a captive audience of one was too good to miss.
First stop was Worthing, to pick up the van. After a quick demonstration of it's nifty features and creative use of storage space, followed by a quick test-drive and the all-important lunch, we were away. We stopped in Lancing to call in on my father and receive typical words of encouragement, 'You're coming back on Saturday. Hardly worth going, is it?' It was definitely time to get away.
After the initial trepidation at driving a vehicle considerably bulkier than our appropriately middle-aged Honda Jazz had worn off, the feeling of height and breadth became comforting. Cars would hang back on narrow streets, letting the old git in the camper van go for fear of losing a wing mirror.
Once on the M23, the hypnotic rhythm of motorway driving took over. We both have the tendency, which I regard as a blessing, to daydream. This means that there are periods of silence on our journeys together. Luckily, it's the kind of silence with which both parties are comfortable; even happy. Catching glimpses of road signs to places that I only know from, well, road signs lead my mind down fantastic trails leading to parallel lives and possibilities.
After two hours of this combination of reverie, chat and occasional concentration on the road ahead we reached the camp site. The Rough Guide to Camping had waxed lyrical about the virtues of Neal's Place Farm and they were correct to do so. We were greeted by the owner, Ken, an avuncular gentleman with a generous, nay truly luxuriant, sprouting of white nasal hair and that Kentish accent that would lead one to ask 'now where is that accent from' if you met him out of context. Ken escorted us to our pitch in his little red buggy and indicated with an outstretched hand and a wave an area of land upon which it would have been possible to build a small bungalow. Camp sites tend to try to squeeze as many pitches onto their land as possible but Ken is quite happy to accept fewer customers if it means that they leave his establishment happy, having had room to spread out and relax.
Following the plugging in of electricity, the decanting of belongings into various cupboards and a quick cup of tea we discovered what the strange buzzing noise was that had been puzzling us throughout the journey: something had leant on the flush button in the toilet and emptied its, thankfully clean, contents into the waste tank. Luckily, Ken was on hand to offer advice and a small amount of his own personal supply of disinfectant.
Feeling somewhat jaded from the journey, we decided to walk the mile or so into Canterbury in search of a decent meal and somewhere to stock up on provisions. As we descended the steep slope towards Westgate (a little touch of home there) the thought 'what goes down must come up' struck me. However, this thought was quickly dismissed at the sight of an inviting-looking Mexican restaurant called, perhaps to emphasize it's cosmopolitan credentials, Les Amis du Mexique, on the street corner opposite the Westgate itself. We walked in and were greeted by some cool music and a waitress who didn't call us guys. The food was excellent as was the wine, and, feeling refreshed and sated, we wandered off back towards the camp site after a quick call into a woefully understaffed Sainsbury Local. Well, actually there were plenty of staff but the lone assistant behind the tills was obviously suffering from some highly contagious disease. Perhaps something else would explain why the rest of the staff were, to put it frankly, arsing about at the other end of the store, but checkout-guy remained a lonely figure, methodically scanning his way through the ever-extending boa of customers.
Anyway, we meandered back up the increasingly steep hill until eventually, just as I was expecting to bump into a team of Sherpas, the turning for the camp site hove into view. We made it back to the van and set about the surprisingly complex task of assembling the bed. This done, we retired for the night; me with William Boyd's Any Human Heart and Sarah with her book group read, Wolf Hall. The blissful silence was punctuated only by the plaintiff cries of 'who's this Charles Brandon she's on about now?' or some such enquiry as to the Byzantine workings of Mantel's cast of characters.
Finally, it was time to sleep the sleep of very tired people indeed, for in the morning we rode for Whitstable and Herne Bay.
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