After everything was packed away, we trundled towards the Whitstable Road, stopping only to shout our thanks to Ken and his wife who reciprocated with cheery waves.
We had decided to travel back via Sissinghurst Castle, taking the fateful decision to avoid motorways and stick to smaller, narrower roads. From the previous day's map study, I calculated a 30 minute journey from Canterbury to Sissinghurst. In the event, it took double that time to get there. As anyone who has been following this series could guess, the first stop after parking up the van was the coffee shop. Feeling in need of a sugar rush, I went for the all-butter flapjack, the description of which I am always tempted to complain about on the basis that it patently contains other ingredients as well as butter. In any case, I kept my counsel in order to avoid embarrassing my wife and we moved on to the main purpose of the visit; the gardens of Sissinghurst Castle.
Poet, author and keen gardener Vita Sackville-West and her politician husband Harold Nicolson acquired Sissinghurst in the 1930s. The house passed into the hands of the National Trust after their deaths and is now a much-visited attraction. The gardens are simply stunning; the White Garden in particular shows what can be done with a clearly envisioned theme and a little imagination. The multi-storey tower, from the top of which the intrepid explorer may view the whole estate, forms a centrepiece to the gardens. Rooms on each level may also be either entered or viewed from the stairwell, offering an insight into how the Nicolsons lived. Further research reveals that by all accounts they lived pretty wildly. Vita had a penchant for lovers of either sex and Harold was no slouch in the infidelity stakes either. Perhaps this is not surprising considering their links to the Bloomsbury Group, a Bacchanalian bunch of revellers by anyone's standards.
We wandered through the verdant grounds for a while, enjoying the clement weather and thinking what a joy it must have been to live in such wonderful surroundings; the sense of achievement that the owners must have felt when seeing their plans come to glorious fruition. The rose garden was the scene of the culmination of my Alan Bennett week: an imagined conversation between Mr B and Carol Klein from Gardeners' World involving custard creams under the agapanthus. This masterpiece of satirical mimicry left my long-suffering mono-audience less impressed than I felt it deserved, but such is the lot of the artist. Eventually, after having our picture taken by an effusively friendly Belgian tourist, our wonderfully synchronised internal body clocks told us that it was time for lunch. We caught the smoky aroma of what seemed to be a hog roast emanating from the smallholding show that was running in the grounds but baulked at paying an extra £5 each on top of the £10.80 admission fee that we had already shelled out. After a quick grumble about this additional attempt to grab our hard-earned, we headed for the restaurant for an agreeable quiche and 'Sissinghurst Leaf', i.e. lettucey stuff.
The clouds were beginning to obscure what had until that point been an uninterrupted sunny sky and we still had a lengthy journey ahead, so we strode back to the van and hit the road, initially in the wrong direction but then on through the village of Sissinghurst. This proved to be the nadir of the holiday: in the process of avoiding an oncoming Mercedes (pause for readers to say 'typical') I misjudged the space on the left-hand side of the vehicle and a wince-inducing scraping sound filled the van. I pulled over and we inspected the car that was parked at the side of the road. At first glance there seemed to be no damage but on further inspection a distinct rearrangement of the paintwork could be seen. Just as we were slipping a note under the windscreen wipers, a man poked his head out of the nearest house and enquired what had happened. It turned out that he was the owner of the vehicle. His wife quickly appeared and extravagantly thanked us for stopping, rather putting me in mind of the Eric Idle character in European Vacation who apologises for Chevy Chase's car knocking him off his bicycle. They invited us inside and I was briefly impressed that someone had built a well-stocked bar in their living room. A few seconds later it dawned on me that I was standing inside a restaurant. It turned out that the couple ran the restaurant and were in the middle of preparing for a 70th birthday party. Our little diversion must have been a huge inconvenience to them but they were nothing but courteous and understanding. After an exchange of details we were on our way, negotiating a route through the Kent and East Sussex countryside whilst giving any parked cars an extremely wide berth.
After a quick stop to visit friends in Haywards Heath we continued to Worthing where we were to return the van to my parents-in-law and transfer everything to our car for the short hop back to Chichester. Thankfully, fish and chips had been thoughtfully provided for us on our arrival in Worthing by Sarah's ever-hospitable parents. At a suitable juncture I broke the news of the prang to Sarah's father. His response was typically equable; he even said that we could borrow the van again at some point in the future.
Although some of the events of the last day were not the ideal way to end a holiday, they could not sour what was an extremely pleasant few days. I was very taken with the whole camper van experience and look forward to the next adventure. Highlights would have to be visiting the cathedral, cycling to Whitstable, the picturesque cycle ride along the Great Stour and the general experience of meeting interesting people and seeing new places. And there the tales end.
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