Being short-sighted has its advantages when you are mildly arachnophobic. When Sarah remarked on Thursday morning that there was 'some kind of thing' on the inside of the van I was still visually unaided and could not make out the spidery monster clinging to the ceiling. The area must have been the scene of nuclear weapon testing at some point; the only explanation for the bloated arachnid grinning mockingly, in my mind anyway, from above. After putting on my glasses and asking Sarah to remove the offending creature (she was nearest to it, honestly) we set about preparing for the day's cycling expedition.
During our visit to Whitstable, a waitress in Elliot's tea room saw that we were cyclists and suggested that we try riding to her home village of Chilham via Chartham. On studying the map it was apparent that both places were easily accessible, via Canterbury, on cycle routes from our camp site. So, after the well-oiled machine that was our morning routine had been completed, we set off down National Cycle Route 1 in the opposite direction to the one that we had taken the previous day. The ride down to the Canterbury end of the Great Stour Way was all downhill and ended in a park with an outdoor gym. Then it was on to the new cycle path along the banks of the Great Stour. This route takes you along the river, passing through sheep-filled meadows and past babbling weirs. The organisers have posted thoughtful and descriptive information boards along the route to keep travellers on this shared walking and cycling route abreast of the variety of wildlife that they might encounter.
After 3 miles of perfectly flat cycling we reached Chartham with it's paper mill sitting alongside the river. We went to check out the 14th-century church, St. Mary's, and found that it was a lovely building. Sadly, and this is an all-too-common occurrence nowadays, the church door was locked. A sign informed us that visitors were allowed to enter the church between 1.30 and 3 o'clock, at which time someone would be on the premises. Moving on, we passed the village green and the building where the village pub obviously once stood before heading out into the country again en route to Chilham.
The flatness of the Great Stour Way had lulled us into complacency and this made the first of the many undulations on the route a bit of a struggle. However, we soon got into the swing of things and followed the signs for National Cycle Route 18, for it was this byway upon which we now travelled, until we came to a sign for Chilham. We descended a steep hill, waited an age at a level crossing for a train that must have only just left Charing Cross to pass, and then emerged at the busy A28 on the outskirts of Chilham.
Bill Bryson has commented that the way you enter a town, village or city colours your view of it. The screaming traffic on the A28 plus the succession of roadside car lots and dowdy garden centres that we passed gave us a somewhat disappointed first view of Chilham. I had read online that there was a very nice tea shop in the village, so the plan was that we would stop there and enjoy the fine view of the village square. We came to a sign advertising a tea room attached to an antique shop. We decided, OK I decided, that a village this size could only support one tea shop and therefore this must be it. As we pushed our bikes round the back of the shop to the tea room we couldn't help noticing that the only view was of a railway embankment (incidentally, one of the things that really sticks in my mind from 'O' level geography is the difference between an embankment and cutting on an OS map - strange). We ordered tea and, in my case, a passable but not Mary Berry-threatening cherry cake and sat at a table near to an elderly couple, the male half of which immediately engaged us in conversation. He treated us to a monologue on the subject of the Orient Express, which occasionally flashed past on the line behind us, and quizzed us about our origins without really seeming to take in the answers. This became, frankly, rather annoying after a while especially as it was prime territory for a burst of my, I like to think, near-perfect Alan Bennett, and it was a relief when he summoned his walking stick, Malcolm - I didn't ask as we only had two more days of the holiday left - and they both waddled off.
One corner of the antiques shop did contain a hidden gem: an antiquarian bookseller. Unfortunately, time didn't really allow me to browse through the cornucopia of books about Kent and Sussex cricket, local history and an array of esoteric subjects. On emerging back onto the A28 we noticed a sign that read 'Village Centre' and followed it, eventually arriving at the foot of a steep hill with picturesque cottages on either side. We passed the village post office and church before arriving at the top of the hill in front of an imposing mansion. It turns out that there has been a castle of some sort at Chilham since 699 but the house that stands there now was built in 1616. Restoration to the current standard was completed in 2004 and now it stages events such as open garden days, equestrian events and a duathlon in the grounds, as well as being home to the Wheeler family.
Turning away from the entrance to the house, I glanced across the square to see Shelly's Tea Rooms squatting in the corner. 'Oh yes, that was what the nice one in the review was called', I remarked to raised eyebrows and head shaking. The local church, St Mary, was built in the 11th century and has superb stained glass windows and memorials to prominent local families. It was open when we visited and it was pleasant to explore it's cool interior after a rather warm cycle ride. We left the church and headed back towards Chartham, ascending and descending the contours on the route until we reached the paper mill at the start of the reassuring flatness of the Great Stour Way. We kept our eyes open for a good spot to eat our picnic and found a pond with coots scooting across the surface and a heron posing on the far bank like a prehistoric statue. Continuing on the journey, full of cheese and pickle sandwiches, we passed a tree trunk that we had noticed being attacked by a man with a hacksaw on the journey out. We had bet that he'd still be at it by nightfall but he obviously possessed the strength of ten men, or perhaps a neighbour with a chainsaw, because a stump was all that was left when we cycled past.
We arrived back at the park and turned right towards Canterbury city centre. The sheer volume of visitors struck us as we hit the High Street and oriented ourselves. By this time tiredness was taking it's toll and we flopped into a restaurant for ginger beer (lashings of it). On the way back to the bikes a group of early-teenage children were walking noisily in front of us. They stopped to talk to a busker and then one of them bashed him on the head with the inflatable guitar that advertised his pitch. As you can imagine, the busker was a trifle miffed at this affront and sent the cackling youths off with a flea in their ears before resuming 'Road to Hell' or some such musical monstrosity, at which point I was tempted by the inflatable guitar myself. The cabaret over, we cycled back up the steepest and longest hill we'd come across on the trip. Three-quarters of the way to the top, my bike chain came off. 'Oh dear', I said, or words to that effect, overcome with an urge to go into full Basil Fawlty mode. Luckily, their were no tree branches available with which to batter my bike, so I reattached the chain and continued back to the camp site for a recovery flop in a chair.
Feeling human again after showers, wine and food, we resumed the battle of the Scrabble board. Despite a late rally from my opponent, I took an unassailable 2-0 lead in the series with only the Friday match to come. The weather forecast looked poor for the following day, so we planned to do the tourist thing and visit Canterbury Cathedral and other indoor attractions that might be available to us. And so to bed.
During our visit to Whitstable, a waitress in Elliot's tea room saw that we were cyclists and suggested that we try riding to her home village of Chilham via Chartham. On studying the map it was apparent that both places were easily accessible, via Canterbury, on cycle routes from our camp site. So, after the well-oiled machine that was our morning routine had been completed, we set off down National Cycle Route 1 in the opposite direction to the one that we had taken the previous day. The ride down to the Canterbury end of the Great Stour Way was all downhill and ended in a park with an outdoor gym. Then it was on to the new cycle path along the banks of the Great Stour. This route takes you along the river, passing through sheep-filled meadows and past babbling weirs. The organisers have posted thoughtful and descriptive information boards along the route to keep travellers on this shared walking and cycling route abreast of the variety of wildlife that they might encounter.
After 3 miles of perfectly flat cycling we reached Chartham with it's paper mill sitting alongside the river. We went to check out the 14th-century church, St. Mary's, and found that it was a lovely building. Sadly, and this is an all-too-common occurrence nowadays, the church door was locked. A sign informed us that visitors were allowed to enter the church between 1.30 and 3 o'clock, at which time someone would be on the premises. Moving on, we passed the village green and the building where the village pub obviously once stood before heading out into the country again en route to Chilham.
The flatness of the Great Stour Way had lulled us into complacency and this made the first of the many undulations on the route a bit of a struggle. However, we soon got into the swing of things and followed the signs for National Cycle Route 18, for it was this byway upon which we now travelled, until we came to a sign for Chilham. We descended a steep hill, waited an age at a level crossing for a train that must have only just left Charing Cross to pass, and then emerged at the busy A28 on the outskirts of Chilham.
Bill Bryson has commented that the way you enter a town, village or city colours your view of it. The screaming traffic on the A28 plus the succession of roadside car lots and dowdy garden centres that we passed gave us a somewhat disappointed first view of Chilham. I had read online that there was a very nice tea shop in the village, so the plan was that we would stop there and enjoy the fine view of the village square. We came to a sign advertising a tea room attached to an antique shop. We decided, OK I decided, that a village this size could only support one tea shop and therefore this must be it. As we pushed our bikes round the back of the shop to the tea room we couldn't help noticing that the only view was of a railway embankment (incidentally, one of the things that really sticks in my mind from 'O' level geography is the difference between an embankment and cutting on an OS map - strange). We ordered tea and, in my case, a passable but not Mary Berry-threatening cherry cake and sat at a table near to an elderly couple, the male half of which immediately engaged us in conversation. He treated us to a monologue on the subject of the Orient Express, which occasionally flashed past on the line behind us, and quizzed us about our origins without really seeming to take in the answers. This became, frankly, rather annoying after a while especially as it was prime territory for a burst of my, I like to think, near-perfect Alan Bennett, and it was a relief when he summoned his walking stick, Malcolm - I didn't ask as we only had two more days of the holiday left - and they both waddled off.
One corner of the antiques shop did contain a hidden gem: an antiquarian bookseller. Unfortunately, time didn't really allow me to browse through the cornucopia of books about Kent and Sussex cricket, local history and an array of esoteric subjects. On emerging back onto the A28 we noticed a sign that read 'Village Centre' and followed it, eventually arriving at the foot of a steep hill with picturesque cottages on either side. We passed the village post office and church before arriving at the top of the hill in front of an imposing mansion. It turns out that there has been a castle of some sort at Chilham since 699 but the house that stands there now was built in 1616. Restoration to the current standard was completed in 2004 and now it stages events such as open garden days, equestrian events and a duathlon in the grounds, as well as being home to the Wheeler family.
Turning away from the entrance to the house, I glanced across the square to see Shelly's Tea Rooms squatting in the corner. 'Oh yes, that was what the nice one in the review was called', I remarked to raised eyebrows and head shaking. The local church, St Mary, was built in the 11th century and has superb stained glass windows and memorials to prominent local families. It was open when we visited and it was pleasant to explore it's cool interior after a rather warm cycle ride. We left the church and headed back towards Chartham, ascending and descending the contours on the route until we reached the paper mill at the start of the reassuring flatness of the Great Stour Way. We kept our eyes open for a good spot to eat our picnic and found a pond with coots scooting across the surface and a heron posing on the far bank like a prehistoric statue. Continuing on the journey, full of cheese and pickle sandwiches, we passed a tree trunk that we had noticed being attacked by a man with a hacksaw on the journey out. We had bet that he'd still be at it by nightfall but he obviously possessed the strength of ten men, or perhaps a neighbour with a chainsaw, because a stump was all that was left when we cycled past.
We arrived back at the park and turned right towards Canterbury city centre. The sheer volume of visitors struck us as we hit the High Street and oriented ourselves. By this time tiredness was taking it's toll and we flopped into a restaurant for ginger beer (lashings of it). On the way back to the bikes a group of early-teenage children were walking noisily in front of us. They stopped to talk to a busker and then one of them bashed him on the head with the inflatable guitar that advertised his pitch. As you can imagine, the busker was a trifle miffed at this affront and sent the cackling youths off with a flea in their ears before resuming 'Road to Hell' or some such musical monstrosity, at which point I was tempted by the inflatable guitar myself. The cabaret over, we cycled back up the steepest and longest hill we'd come across on the trip. Three-quarters of the way to the top, my bike chain came off. 'Oh dear', I said, or words to that effect, overcome with an urge to go into full Basil Fawlty mode. Luckily, their were no tree branches available with which to batter my bike, so I reattached the chain and continued back to the camp site for a recovery flop in a chair.
Feeling human again after showers, wine and food, we resumed the battle of the Scrabble board. Despite a late rally from my opponent, I took an unassailable 2-0 lead in the series with only the Friday match to come. The weather forecast looked poor for the following day, so we planned to do the tourist thing and visit Canterbury Cathedral and other indoor attractions that might be available to us. And so to bed.
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