A Canterbury tale: Part 2 - Whitstable and Herne Bay

We awoke on Wednesday, after a solid night's sleep, with the sun (and the BBC weather forecast) promising a fair day. It didn't take long to establish the morning routine, one that would serve us well over the next few days, of showers, converting the bed back into sofas and preparing breakfast.

It was then time to unleash the bikes. The Crab and Winkle Way is a 7.5 mile cycle route between Canterbury and Whitstable that follows the path of a disused railway line for most of its length. Our camp site was bang on the route so we saddled up and followed the signs for National Cycle Route 1, of which the Crab and Winkle Way is part. In no time we were cycling through the grounds of Kent University and out into the rolling Kent countryside. The route gives the cyclist a variety of landscapes to view: forest, open fields, rolling hills. We stopped for water at a small watery enclave where a sign told us that the pond formerly supplied one of the winding houses that were needed to pull the early steam engines up some of the inclines on the route. The railway was constructed in 1830 and was the earliest passenger line in England. Reading the sign alerted us to the fact that we may have a few hills to negotiate, although as it turned out the steeper inclines were reserved for the return journey.

When we reached the outskirts of Whitstable, signposts helpfully navigated us through the town to the harbour, with its seafood stalls and tangy sea air. We parked the bikes up at the top of Harbour Street and went for a wander. Whitstable is a pleasant town with a selection of craft shops, an art gallery or two as well as the Tudor Tea Rooms and Elliot's Tea Shop in Harbour Street. In my experience any establishment with Tudor or Ye Olde in its title is to be avoided, so we stopped at Elliot's for the mid-morning coffee/tea break that would become something of a ritual on this trip. Apparently, their cooked breakfasts are famous among the locals but we opted for their voluminous and tasty toasted tea cakes. Sarah then wanted to check out the establishments that we refer to as 'nicey-nicey shops'. This was my cue to go in search of bookshops. I found one that appeared to meet all of my requirements but, alas, when I stepped inside it was more of a scaled down WH Smith: a limited selection of bestsellers vying for space with toys, games and stationery.

I suppose it should be no surprise but the art gallery, featuring local artists, contained many scenes of beach huts, oyster boats and views of the Thames estuary. A more interesting sight was found in a smaller gallery set back from the beach. Here could be found a set of paintings called 'the Stupid Series'. Perhaps a bit harsh but nevertheless an interesting take on the supposedly glamorous rock star death, it contained images of the likes of Jim Morrison, Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin, Sid Vicious and Ian Curtis with paraphrased extracts from their own lyrics framing the artists' faces.

Lunch on the beach set us both thinking about what was on the other side of the water. To the left lay the Isle of Sheppey and to the right of this island we could just make out Southend directly across the estuary. We both grew up in Worthing, where when we sat on the beach we knew that France lay directly to the south. Quite why this matters I can't really explain, but the idea that if we took a boat over the water we would still be in England rather than on the continent of Europe seemed to make a difference to the beach experience.

After a final stroll up and down the sea front with its gaily painted beach huts, and a brief check on the busy high street, we returned to the bikes and rode off to Herne Bay. The Oyster Bay Trail is an almost completely flat 4 mile ride along the coastline, passing yet more beach huts and affording a view of the wind farms in the ever-widening estuary. Riding into Herne Bay, we realised that here was a more traditional kiss-me-quick style seaside resort than Whitstable. The promenade was lined with amusement arcades and posters advertising crazy golf and a Led Zeppelin tribute band. We stopped at the pier, which seemed to offer nothing for the discerning visitor until we stumbled upon a tea shop set up in a beach hut. The shop had taken the vintage theme very much to heart; the assistants wore period costumes and the tea was served in delicate cups out of teapots with knitted tea cosies. Music from the 1940s was piped onto the decks of the pier in the vicinity of the shop. If you closed your eyes you could imagine being in that age when many people relied on food handouts and housing for the poor was in short supply. Can you imagine any peacetime government allowing its citizens to live under such conditions? The pier also contained the incongruous sight of a fibre-glass model of Duchamp's famous urinal work, Fountain. This sculpture was apparently installed in acknowledgement of the month that the artist spent in Herne Bay in 1913 when he visited his sister, who was studying nearby. As we gazed out to sea we became aware of loud 80s disco music getting louder. We turned to see the source of the noise: an obviously attention-starved roller blader circling the Duchamps sculpture like an extra from the frighteningly awful Wired for Sound video. It was time to head back.

We cycled the 11 miles back to the camp site, stopping only for the odd water break, and flopped into the festival chairs that my mother-in-law had thoughtfully left in the van. After showering (the shower block was adequate but basic) it was definitely wine o'clock (another ritual) and then the designated cook for the trip rustled up a delicious supper. Then it was time for the first test in the Scrabble series. Accompanied by the cassette (no CD player in the van) of the soundtrack to Dennis Potter's Pennies From Heaven, we waged lexical warfare. Quite what our Spanish and German neighbours made of the sight of two English people sitting playing scrabble in the gathering gloom to the backdrop of Down Sunnyside Lane and other hits of the era is anyone's guess. As the sun set over the orchard I took a one-nil lead in what would turn out to be a tense and exciting series.

Accepting the natural rhythms of night and day, we retreated to the van relatively early to prepare the sleeping arrangements and read our books. This time we did not have such a clear plan for the day ahead but we knew that it would involve striking out on our bikes again, this time south and west in the direction of Chartham and Chilham.