Margate to Faversham (by bike) 24th June 2019

It is Groundhog Day.  Well it seems like Groundhog Day, since here we are again parking our car near Faversham Station.  Our bikes are on the bike rack and we are all ready to catch a train from Faversham to Margate, to be followed by a gentle cycle back to Faversham along the coast path.

Fortunately there is no repeat of the debacle of our last visit.  This time the bikes are not locked, with the key left at home.

The parking is restricted here, but only until 11am, so we decide to wait 20 minutes, taking our time preparing our bikes and ourselves for a day in the sun.  We keep a watchful eye out for prowling traffic wardens, until on the stroke of 11am we put foot to pedal and whisk off down the road to the station.

Betty pops to the ticket office to buy tickets and to renew her railcard, whilst I volunteer to shift the bikes up to the platform.  British Rail usually provide a lift for bikes and others who are challenged by station steps.  Alas a notice on the lift says “no bikes”, written in default ‘Times New Roman’, using one of those crappy bits of white A4 printer paper that organisations always use when they are hastily posting an edict for us mere mortals to obey. 

I should have ignored it and risked confronting the angry station master, but pride or timidity makes me carry both cycles up the stairs to the platform.  Fortunately I have chosen the correct one and don’t have to carry them both back down again.

Betty returns, but the ticket office is shut, so is unable to renew her rail card.  This means we have to make do with full priced tickets bought from the machine.  Well at least tickets from a machine are not like tea from a machine, a poor facsimile for the real thing, so I don’t really care where they came from.  Mind you it’s a pity the machine couldn’t give us a rail card – that £6 or £7 might have bought us a beer!

The journey by train to Margate is without incident and we are quickly peddling our way along Margate seafront, pausing to admire the view across to the pier and the Turner Contemporary.  The juxtaposition of the clean metallic lines of the new Turner Contemporary, against the general dilapidation of the older buildings of the town is stark.  Margate, in fact Thanet in general, has an interesting ‘other-worldly’ feel to it.  This is an amazingly isolated and forgotten area of the UK, yet is only 75 minutes by train from London.  It won’t be long before it is rediscovered and becomes a cool place to hang out.

Margate’s expanse of flat sands, with the pier and Turner Contemporary in the distance

Betty points out the sea water paddling pool where she bathed as a child on family holidays, in trepidation of the pinching claws of lurking crabs brought in with each high tide. I too recall day trips to Margate with my young family when I lived in Canterbury 20 years earlier.

For the cyclist, this bit of coast is a joy.  It is flat, with easy cycling along the promenades and sea walls that protect it from the ravages of the North Sea.  We do occasionally have to dismount, by order of the local council, but this allows us to use different leg muscles for a couple of hundred yards, before remounting.

This part of the Isle of Thanet has very low chalk cliffs and an extensive wave cut platform composed of the same material.  The sea wall is sandwiched between the two in a long concrete ribbon.  Every now and then the chalk wave-cut platform is interrupted by sandy beaches – something only rarely seen on the south east coast, due to the predominance of pebble storm beaches between here and Brighton.

Chalk wave-cut platform

low chalk cliffs (above) – a concrete ‘prom’ aids cycling

We cycle on past a rather ambiguous sign which advises us that there is no access to the public highway.  This irritatingly turns out to be a dead-end.  We thought we didn’t want the public highway, hence ignoring the sign, but now it seems we do because no-one got round to building one bit of promenade. The ambiguity of signage. Can I suggest “no through way along promenade”?

Re-joining the promenade, we put a mile or two of easy cycling behind us, when suddenly everything looks a bit familiar.  It is always a cause of surprise when one comes to a new place, only for the penny to drop that you have been there before.  We are at Minnis Bay and the past comes tumbling back as I recall running along the promenade here some fifteen years ago. 

Some memories are clearer than others, especially those that involve a degree of pain.  Back in the early naughties I joined the Canterbury Harriers and was co-opted into running a relay leg in one of their competitions against rival running clubs.  Each leg was 5km in length.  I recall the excitement when the relay started.  However, by the time they got to my leg, most people had lost interest and had gone off for an ice-cream.  I ran my heart out, hence the pain, but as I breasted the finish and handed over to the next runner, I am sure not one other person noticed what a prodigious effort I had made.  Of course everyone was back cheering in time for the final runner coming in, although we were not one of the winning teams.  A little disappointed, I returned home and thought no more about it.

To my surprise some months later, one of the team turned up at my front door and gave me a medal.  It seems we had won the series of 6 or so relays that were involved in the competition.  Even though I only took part in the one race, I qualified for a medal.  Recognition at last!  Nonetheless, it is not the winning, but the taking part that counts.

Sea-water paddling pool (crabs ‘n all),

the broad flat sands at Minnis Bay

Minnis Bay has an excellent beach, which is choc-a-block with families on sunny weekends.  When I lived in Canterbury, we would come here with our 5 children and an assortment of inflatable toys.  I still have a video tape somewhere, of a younger version of me frolicking in the waves like a ‘giddy kipper’.  Bless!

Pretty soon the beaches of Minnis Bay are behind us, as is the chalk outlier of the Kentish Downs that makes up The Isle of Thannet.  We are moving into a modern landscape, only created by man in the last few hundred years.  Up until the 16^th Century Thanet was an island separated from the mainland by the Wantsum Channel. 

The Romans built forts at either end of the channel, such was its importance for shipping.  However, the channel eventually silted-up, with Thanet only an island in name.  It was briefly an island again in 1953, during the Great Flood caused by the North Sea storm surge of that year.  With rising sea levels, perhaps Thanet will one day return to being an island again?

This is probably the best part of this leg, away from all the holiday crowds.  The Wantsum coast is certainly isolated.  Here the Kent Wildlife Trust have set up a bird reserve, for the benefit of ground nesting birds, such as little tern.  An area of dunes, covered in marram grass, has been fenced off, to keep out predatory foxes and even domesticated hounds.  Chick rearing is a tricky business for ground nesting birds. 

Ground nesting bird reserve – the Wantsum Coast

Whilst it might be nice to dwell for a while and do a bit of bird spotting, the weather is hot and sticky and our stomachs are rumbling.  We have promised ourselves sandwiches at Reculver Towers, a mile or so further along the coast.  Unfortunately, the bright sunshine has encouraged large numbers of pollen beetles to emerge and seek out the yellow petalled flowers they are so fond of. 

Alas for us, we are bedecked in bright yellow hi-viz vests – ever the safety conscious cyclists.  This is all well and good for advertising yourself to wayward motorists, but brings about a different kind of attention amongst certain members of the coleoptera family.  Suddenly we are enveloped in small black beetles, intent on finding the pollen that these two huge yellow flowers are clearly advertising.  Rapid deflowering is called for, as we secret away the offending garments.  Several hours later Betty finds one deep in the recesses of her lingerie.  Lucky little chap!

Hi-viz vests are great for safe cycling,

but can attract the unwanted attentions of pollen beetles!

As we approach Reculver Towers we pass a ramshackle collection of prefabricated buildings.  This is Reculver Oyster Farm, a working oyster farm where seed oysters and clams are bred under controlled conditions before being grown to maturity offshore.

Reculver is significant for its now ruined Roman fort, the ruins of its Anglo-Saxon Monastery and our lunch – which we hope is not ruined.  Checking my sandwiches, malt loaf and banana, I am delighted by their pristine condition.  We perch upon enormous granite boulders dumped here from the sides of ships, to protect this fast eroding shoreline from the depredations of the sea. 

Energy cells recharged, we make use of the excellent toilet facilities provided at Reculver Visitor Centre.  This is run by Kent Wildlife Trust to deliver environmental education to local school children, many of whom are in the process of burning off their excess of energy from their own packed lunches. 

 Reculver, the site of historic Reculver Towers

a modern-day oyster farm

From Reculver to Beltinge the cycling is a little harder, requiring us to climb a significant hill, by way of a grass track.  We are next detoured along suburban streets for a short while, before returning to the cliff top and a concrete footpath.

Below us we can see an inviting promenade to cycle along.  Alas, between us and the ‘prom’ stands several hundred metres of concrete steps – a daunting prospect, particularly on a bicycle.  Inevitably we dismount and push the bikes, as we descend the steps to sea-level.

Herne Bay

The concrete promenade is wonderful to cycle along, after the challenge of our vertiginous descent.  We decide to celebrate reaching Herne Bay with a cuppa or an ice-cream, but as we pass the remains of Herne Bay’s once impressive pier, we find ourselves engulfed by the patrons of an amusement arcade.  Call us snobs, but we don’t do amusement arcades.  This is probably an age thing, since I used to love the places when I was younger.  How many happy hours did I spend as a child, hunting around for dropped coppers to chance my luck on one of these addictive devices?  But I’m now probably too wealthy to need to scrounge for pennies and there is no way I’m parting with my hard earned pension just to benefit the dubious morals of those who operate such places.

So no ice-cream for the 2 pompous old farts on their bikes, but we promise ourselves a cup of tea in a cafe at Whitstable instead.

The pier at Herne Bay is a strange bit of seaside history.  There have been 3 different piers on the site since the 1850s.  Steamers used to call at the seaward end of the original 1,101m pier, but the rise of the railways stole its business.  The current pier is no more than a stub, with the steamer landing stage isolated several hundred metres offshore.  There have been many attempts to rejuvenate it, but it seems likely that only the landward stub of it will survive. 

The 1,154m long Herne Bay Pier was truncated by a storm in 1978 (its seaward end is offshore)

Beyond the pier a newer technology is signalling its presence – an array of rotating wind turbines.  This is the Whitstable Flats Wind farm, looking for all the world like a modern day version of Wordworth’s “host of dancing daffodils”.  Wind farms are controversial things, drawing lots of criticism, but on balance the offshore versions have far more virtues than vices.  Furthermore, what could be more appropriate at the seaside – a Victorian Pier, sandcastles and rotating windmills?

Continuing our journey at sea level, the weather is both hot and humid.  This is the weather for cycling.  Walking would be pretty unpleasant, but a self-induced 10 mile per hour wind is just perfect.

Soon we make Hampton Pier, which sounds like a rival to Herne Bay’s.  In fact it is a simple wood and concrete structure, built for sailing vessels of the local oyster fishing industry.  Its presence is believed to have been a major cause of the loss of the Hampton-on-Sea development at the beginning of the 20^th Century.  This failed Victorian holiday resort was finally removed by the sea over several years.  It illustrates how tampering with nature can have unforeseen consequences.  The pier interrupted the natural flow of the tidal waters along this part of the Thames estuary, with the sea biting out great chunks of land and houses on its westward side, leaving nothing but the Hampton Inn standing today.

As we approach Whitstable Betty is complaining about her nether regions.  She is desperately in need of a visit to the ladies, but she also has a wardrobe malfunction.  Apparently lacey underwear is not recommended for cycling, especially in hot, humid weather.  I’ll bear that in mind next time I chose my underwear on one of these jaunts.

Luckily for Betty we follow the coastline into what appears to be an industrial dead-end of oyster baskets, only to discover an oyster restaurant, with toilets.  We decide not to indulge in a fishy repast, but Betty still makes full use of the restaurant’s toilet facilities.  Alas, it seems that the cubicles are not sufficiently roomy to facilitate a change of underwear, so the lace torment continues!

We retrace our steps through the Oyster fishing complex and end up at the main part of Whitstable Harbour.  This is a quaint working harbour, full of fishing vessels depositing large baskets of whelks onto the harbourside.  A small fish market offers a welcome cool ambience for a minute or so, but I don’t fancy a winkle snack, so I return to the harbour side.  A whelk fisherman is climbing off his boat, so I try to engage him in a brief conversation.

“Do you catch the whelks locally, offshore?” I ask.

“Yeah” is his monosyllabic response.

I’m thinking that conversation is not on his LinkedIn skills list.

He’s probably thinking “Arse-hole tourist”.

Whitstable Harbour

bags of whelks caught offshore (I am reliably informed – “yeah”

We decide not to have a coffee in Whitstable after-all, drawn along the coast by the large numbers of beached boats and tides of humans moving along it.  Eventually the press of humans becomes too great for bike pushing, so we duck down a small side road and come out on Island Wall Road.  Here we can pedal with comfort, admiring the quaint architecture of this neat little seaside town.

Whitstable has been an Oyster town since Roman times.  Each summer they celebrate this strange little bivalve mollusc’s role in the town’s history, by having an Oyster Festival.  One of its other great claims to fame is the Crab and Winkle Line, the first steam-hauled passenger and freight railway in the world. In 1830 the Canterbury and Whitstable Railway Company connected Canterbury to nearby Whitstable.  It’s initials C&WRC, soon got changed by locals into its more familiar name.  Today the town is benefitting from the good road and rail connections to London and the capital’s soaring house prices, to turn it into a popular commuting town, as well as a tourist focus. 

The road eventually peters out and we are back on the beach.  Fortunately the tide of humanity is behind us and we have a pleasant stroll amongst the red valerian, mallow, and viper’s bugloss that decorate the strand line.  There is a feeling that we could be pushing our bikes over pebbles and hurdling wooden groynes for longer than we wish, so I ask an innocent bystander if there is a way back up to the road.  Fortunately he knows his local geography and directs us away from the beach. 

Seaside flowers at Whitstable ‘beach gardens’ – vipers bugloss (blue) and yellow-horned poppy

Sea Campion

Agrimony (yellow) and Red Valerian

Jack-go-to-bed-at-noon

 Jack-go-to-bed-at-noon (close-up)

At the top, we descend a long gentle road down through an expensive housing development with its own private road.   I am a little nervous as to where this might be taking us, only to discover at the far end that there is one of those tall and tight kissing gates designed to prevent cyclists getting through.  We’ve met these before.  I am about to remove my front wheel, when Betty points out a ramp leading down to the foreshore, this  mercifully saves me getting oily fingers and speeds us quickly to the main road from Seasalter to Faversham.  We are nearing the last leg of our journey.

I am pleased to be on this road, because I know of the Sportsman, a pub a mile or two further on, where we can have a much needed drink.  Sadly lots of motorists take this same route from the M2 to Whitstable.  Tiring of the perpetual discomfort of passing cars, we try cycling along the sea wall path, only to find it a bit bumpy for our sore back-sides.  Betty’s lacey knickers are still reminding her that a change of lingerie would be a good move.

We return to road cycling and with great relief pull into the car park of the Sportsman.  It is shut!  Looks like we’ll have to make do with warm plastic bottle water, instead of that beautiful, ice cool cider we have been dreaming of for the last hour or so.

With no access to toilet facilities there is no respite for Betty’s chaffed nether-regions.  We will just have to press on.  What does become apparent is that we are never going to be able to manage the rough track of the sea wall along the coast.  We opt for the quicker smoother option, sticking to the busy rat-run we are currently on. 

A mile or two further we pass the electricity sub-station built to take the power generated offshore by wind turbines.  I recall the public meeting held in the area, when it was proposed to build this substation 15 or so years ago.  I was invited, probably because I ran Canterbury Environmental Education Centre, on the National Grid sub-station site at Canterbury. 

It seems they got their planning permission, but now they are upsetting the locals again.  The presence of a sub-station adjacent to local marshland is just too good a business opportunity to ignore.  National Grid see a chance to build a solar farm on the Graveney Marshes and feed this new renewable source of power into their substation.  The natives are revolting.  Just about every house along the road is brandishing an anti-solar farm placard. Even the local parish church is bringing the big guns from above into play.

Graveney residents are protesting over the building of a solar farm on the nearby marshes

We pass a further pub, which has all the hall marks of a “strangers not welcome” establishment.  A malevolent face, topped by a dirty baseball cap peers at us over a fence.  We decide even the coolest, tastiest cider from this den of iniquity will not be worth the drinking. 

Twenty minutes of further cycling along the main road from the M2 to Faversham is only eased a little by being able to utilise the adjacent pavement.  Another 20 minutes of pavement cycling brings us to the Rising Sun at Faversham, which is able to furnish us with the two delicious and ice cool pints of cider that we have been craving since Herne Bay. 

The one fly in the ointment is that Betty never did get to change her undies, but at least she found the pollen beetle that had been creeping around in her brassier for half the day.