Walmer to Ramsgate – 23rd May 2019
Today we are going to turn to our trusty bicycles for the first time this year. Bikes provide us with an interesting alternative for legging around Britain. We get to use different muscles, get a quite different viewpoint and put far more miles behind us.
Walking is ideal for the more precipitous bits of coast, or where access by bike is limited. However, where the topography is more level and the scenery a little less varied and intersting, a bike is perfect.
The stretch from Walmer to Ramsgate is largely along cycle tracks, or roads within 100 metres of the coast. It is also very flat.
After a 1.5 hour drive we arrive at Walmer and prepare our bikes for the next leg of our Round-Britain tour. On our way here we passed many places walked through on previous legs. I am struck by how different the world looks from a car compared to on foot. You can drive all over the UK and draw conclusions about places, but until you have walked through them, those conclusions are likely to be false. Our knowledge of the East Sussex and south west Kent coast is now certainly more intimate than it was previously.
By midday we are suitably togged, with our mounts burnished and lubricated. It is bright sunshine and I am itching to get underway. However, Betty has a new backpack and obviously has to check how she looks in the car window, before we can risk being spotted by our adoring public.
We retrace our previous route, from Upper Walmer back to the beach near Walmer Castle. However progress is erratic with first Betty’s boots and then her milometer in need of adjustment. When we finally do arrive at the coast, the appearance of a public lavatory demands her inspection too.
Distinctive south coast pebble beach landscape at Walmer
Suitably comfortable, we strike out along a beautifully flat and well tarmacked cycle-way towards Deal. The large bank of marine derived pebbles that have been our near constant companion from Brighton to Walmer is now adorned with masses of red valerian and sea kale. It is a joy to feel the warm sun on our backs and a light, cool, following breeze to push us along.
The presence of a string of commemorative wooden benches illustrates that many UK citizens enjoyed their last breaths on earth along this stretch of coast. Statistically this must be one of the most dangerous coasts in Britain, considering how many must have died here. Even Betty’s great-grandfather gave up the ghost in Deal in 1896.
Beach Road, Deal, where Betty’s great-grandfather took his last breath in 1896.
The King’s Head, Beach Road, Deal, where he may have taken his last drink in 1896 also?
Some of the benches are occupied by grateful members of the public, resting weary legs, whilst many are also provided with green plastic cornets to hold memorial flowers left by loved ones. Most of the flowers are plastic, but cannot match the reds, yellows and whites of the flowers scattered along the adjacent storm beach.
As we enter Lower Walmer I notice that a sea-scout headquarters has been commandeered for the day, to serve as a polling station for the 2019 EU Parliamentary Elections. In line with expectation, there are no queuing members of the public eager to cast their votes. Still at least the local sea-scouts should benefit from the investment.
As at other places on the English Channel coast, the beach is a launching point for local fishermen. A few rather dilapidated huts and a miscellany of fishing gear adorns the beach here. This would normally give the area a dull industrial feel, but the masses of wild-flowers on the beach give the impression of a cleverly themed Chelsea Flower Show. The carnival atmosphere is completed by an unscheduled flypast of low flying military planes.
The Fisherman’s Garden at ‘The Chelsea Flower Show’
A few small children are excitedly playing in the open air paddling pool, watched carefully by their mothers, whilst Deal’s own Napoleonic castle continues to keep a look-out for any sign of beach invasion and marks the boundary with Walmer. A number of younger unemployed locals rub shoulders with retired visitors along the length of the promenade. The latter provide much needed tourist income for the town, but this is obviously insufficient to guarantee employment for the former, although I dare say an enterprising young carpenter could make a ‘killing’ in memorial benches and plastic flowers.
Betty and I have come on our own pilgrimage to remember her dead relative. 125 years ago, her late great grandfather died of liver failure at number Beach Road, Deal. He was a painter of some distinction. He was a student and contemporary of Edwin Landseer, being something of a Victorian ‘rock-star’ in his day. The nouveau riches of wealthy Victorian society queued up for his services as a painter of sporting dogs, particularly otter hounds in pursuit of their quarry, to give their newly acquired country mantelpieces an authentic noble image.
Betty has looked to continue the painting dynasty, with her father, grandfather, great grandfather and great-great grandfather all earning a living deploying their considerable artistic skills. His house is only a few doors down from the Kings Head. I wonder if he put the final nail in his liver there, or perhaps he just came to take the salt air on Deal Pier as a last roll of his dice. Whichever, we do not follow suit, since it is too early in our trek for alcohol.
Our respects to the dead suitably paid, we make our way along the sea front and decide to have a look at Deal Pier. As we push our bikes onto the board-walk a blue dressed jobsworth dashes out from his spy booth and advises us that we are not allowed to take bikes on the pier. He offers to lock our bikes up for us if we want to visit on foot, but by now I’m feeling a bit ‘umbridged’ and I decline (being a bit of a pier snob I prefer a cast iron Victorian version myself, not a 1950’s concrete facsimile).
As we cycle along the promenade we pass some cleverly fashioned concrete benches, whose serpentine elegance also serves as a sea defence. All along this coastline we have been impressed with the scale of the newly installed sea defences. Whether or not you believe Climate Change is caused by man’s industrial activities, it appears none of the local authorities are taking any chances.
The promenade at Deal, with the 1950’s concrete pier beyond
The Royal Hotel is significant in being the only building on the seaward side of the road. Large numbers of ‘ladies who lunch’ appear to be gathering around outside tables to discuss the topic of the day. I suspect that judging by the low lying position of the outside tables, in fact the precarious position of the Royal Hotel itself, this type of gathering is destined to be short term in nature. I wonder how it came by its name. Perhaps it was granted some kind of royal charter by the Queen Mother, when she popped down for a quick pint whilst discharging her duties as Lord Warden of the Cinq Ports at Walmer Castle.
At the eastern end of Deal’s seafront are the ruins of Sandown Castle. This, along with Walmer and Deal Castles, protected this part of Henry VIII’s Channel coast from the French. It was demolished in the 19th Century when the powerful British Empire was no longer worried about any threat from our troublesome neighbours across the way. I can see no sign of its ruins, although apparently they have been incorporated into Deal’s sea defences. This coast appears to have been fighting some sort of marine invasion throughout history.
Beyond urban Deal the coast is dominated by golf courses. National Cycle Route 1 turns inland here, but we stick to our task, of following the line of the coast as closely as we can and end up cycling a rough track atop the storm beach, which threatens to shake the fillings out of our teeth. For company we have the incessant twittering of sky larks and the hovering presence of a hunting kestrel. On balance I am satisfied with the trade-off.
The teeth rattling comes to a temporary end once we join the tarmac road at the Sandwich Bay Estate. This is a private estate, a fact that the road signs are keen to make quite clear. I suppose “if you’ve got it, flaunt it”, applies here. With the relief to our teeth, we decide to apply them to a different task and have a sandwich at Sandwich Bay. Some claim the Earl of Sandwich invented the sandwich, however similar ‘bread and meat’ combinations appear to have long predated the 18th Century lord.
As I tuck into the eponymous repast I admire the massive array of offshore wind turbines, which look so appropriate at the seaside. In my youth a similar structure adorned every self-respecting sand castle on the beach at Scarborough. It seems the bloody adults have once again stolen the kids’ toys. Beyond their rotating whiteness I can see a brown smear in the sky – smog. Is it those dirty French pumping out nitrogen dioxide into the atmosphere? Just as likely someone in Calais or Dunkirk is looking at the same smear and is saying “Regardez le smog britannique sale”.
Lizard Orchid (1 week too early) and yellow rattle
As we continue our northward journey to the mouth of the Kentish Stour, we pass The Royal St George’s Golf Club. This is one of the occasional English venues for The Open Golf Tournament. The last time it was held here my step-daughter and I interviewed the club secretary as part of her hastily put together dissertation on the impact of sport on the environment. His generous donation of time doubtless contributed towards her gaining a degree.
I am not a great fan of golf, but you do find some exciting wildlife at golfing venues. Royal St Georges do their bit for conservation, intentionally or otherwise, with masses of the rare and spectacular lizard orchid flowering here every year. The irony is that the majority of lizard orchids appear to prefer the road-side verge to either Royal St Georges, or the designated Sandwich Bay Nature Reserve. We are a week or so too early to see them in flower, but even the non-flowering spikes are impressive. Other good botanical finds here include yellow rattle and ox-tongue broomrape.
Eventually the tarmac road disappears into the forbidden bounds of Princes Golf Club, forcing us to return to the teeth rattling track over the wild flower encrusted pebble deposits. Even this concession to lowly cyclists is eventually withdrawn, with Kent Wildlife Trust forbidding non-member entry to their reserve. I am a little miffed by this, since when I lived in Kent I was a member.
We still have a mile and a half to go before we get to Snail Point at the mouth of the River Stour, but the only access is along the pebble beach. Realising this is not going to be cycling terrain, we abandon our wheels and resort to walking. The strand line is dominated by the carapaces of spider crabs, something I have never seen on a strand line before.
Spider crab carapaces on the strand-line near Snail Point
Snail Point – as far east as we can go without crossing the River Stour
Much to my surprise we find pieces of sea coal scattered along the beach. The last time we saw this was on the Northumberland coast, derived from coal exposures in the cliffs or wave-cut platform. I recall from a 1960s atlas, that East Kent had its own coalfields, however I don’t think any of the coal deposits were exposed at the surface. Perhaps this is coal that fell into the sea when ships were being loaded up from the coal mines, only to be washed up here 50 or more years later. Alternatively, when the abandoned mines collapsed up the River Stour from here and gave rise to the lakes at Westbere, could the loose coal have floated out as river water entered the galleries? I just love playing environmental detectives.
We are drawn by a small flock of waders, feeding along the strand line, which is managing to keep 10 or 20 metres ahead of us all the way. As we approach Snail Point they fly off. We are just about to start the return journey when we spot a shadowy figure lurking in the scrub. Anyone lurking in the scrub adjacent to a remote beach arouses suspicion. Even more so when you see they have a large lensed camera and a tripod.
I suspect that the lurker only has eyes for the wading variety of birds on the beach. As we return I spot no fewer than 3 other lurkers brandishing telephoto lenses and also what appears to be a naked male sunbathing in the scrub. We decide not to investigate. Perhaps there will be a naked version of Spring Watch next year. It would probably do much for the ratings, attracting both naturists and naturalists to a single programme. An image of Chris and Michaela presenting in the nude flashes across my mind, but I quickly banish it, at least until after the Watershed.
(I met the warden of the KWT reserve a few months later, who told me that the sign forbidding access to non-KWT members was not theirs, but one put up by the golf club, probably to restrict access – mean buggers. In fact what KWT don’t want is people like us walking along the beach and disturbing the waders – damned if you do, damned if you don’t)
The return walk is surprisingly tiring, considering walking is our regular mode of transport. Betty fairs better than me since she has taken the precaution of wearing her hiking boots, whilst I am shod with trainers. She may be the only person on the planet to cycle in hiking boots on a hot sunny day, but her strategy comes up trumps this time. Personally I think it is all in the mind. If your legs think they are going on a cycling trip they are ill prepared for any kind of walking.
It is with a sense of relief that we reach the bikes, only to realise we have a further mile or two of shaking along the pebble track. On re-joining the luxury of tarmac I somehow disappear into a trance-like state and forget about everything else on the planet, including Betty. As I take a right turn, heading inland down the beautifully smooth tarmac I eventually return to earth and decide to check the map. It is only then that I notice Betty is no longer with me. Oh dear. I quickly return back to the junction, only to find there is no sign of my dear wife. Fortunately I can turn to St Samsung, the patron saint of lost wives. With some trepidation I ring her and hear myself saying those fateful words “where are you?” Nothing is more likely to get you into trouble than these words, when a lost wife is found. Her terse retort is “more to the point where are you?”
It seems her boot-laces got tangled up in her chain and by the time she had extricated herself from it, I was a good way off. On giving chase to the distant cycling figure she thought was her husband, she shot past the turn that her real husband had taken earlier. One can only assume that the mystery cyclist she was pursuing, on seeing the rabid Betty coming, hid in fear in the scrub, like a guilty, naked bird-watcher.
It is perhaps fortunate that the boot lace problem cannot be laid at my door, as the shared stupidity means that the penalty for my wayward behaviour is punished with little more than a hard stare and pursed lips. By the time we reach Sandwich and find the Salutation Tea Rooms, relations are once again cordial.
The Salutation is an interesting mix of hotel, ornamental gardens and tea room. I do like the fact that tea is served in a sensible mug rather than a cup (readers will realise this a pet hate of mine). The fact that the mugs are 1950s memorabilia, celebrating The Queens Coronation only adds to the experience.
Tea and cake consumed, we opt to explore Sandwich’s tortuous one way system, picking our way through narrow streets of great charm and antiquity, before finally crossing the single lane bridge that spans the River Stour. We make the bridge just in time to be halted by a red light, allowing traffic from the far bank to enter Sandwich. I invariably feel smug as a cyclist, when dismounting enables me to claim all the rights of a pedestrian, as we push our bikes along the bridge’s footway, doubtless leaving glaring motorists in our wake.
At the far side of the bridge I reach for my OS map, only to discover it is no longer about my person. There is nothing to be done but to retrace our route around Sandwich, in the hope that we will find it. No sign of it. Oh well, we’ll just have to make do with Mr Google’s map for the remainder of the journey. Then as we reach the far bank for the second time, there is the errant map lying guiltily upon the road. Our reunion is filled with joy, like the conclusion of a New Testament parable. All is forgiven, as the map, adorned with the imprint of passing car tyres, guides us through Stonar.
Stonar is dominated by an impressive modern industrial complex. Until a few years ago it was the UK headquarters and research laboratories of pharmaceutical giant Pfizer. Alas the parent company closed most of the factory, with significant local job-losses. The closure was a bitter blow to 2,400 employees, as well as many local businesses. However, since then the offices and laboratories have become home to numerous innovative businesses under the auspices of The Discovery Park.
The prospect of having to cycle along the busy A256 to Ramsgate is a little daunting, until we discover a quiet cycleway through Pegwell Bay Nature Reserve and Country Park. The luxuriously appointed surface brings us out at Sandwich Road, which to my surprise has been bypassed since my previously lost-and-found map was published in 2004, allowing us to climb slowly and peacefully to Hugin Green, where a replica Viking Longship awaits our inspection. The Hugin was built in Denmark in 1949 and sailed across the North Sea to commemorate the 1500th anniversary of the arrival of Hengist who became the first Saxon King of Kent.
Betty and a replica of the Hugin –
which transported the first Vikings from Denmark
Below us are the remains of the International Hoverport, where giant hovercraft would whisk 400 passengers and 55 cars across to France in 40 minutes. I recall coming here in 1977 on a road trip to Turkey. The fact that the return channel crossing was cancelled due to bad weather, probably indicates one reason why the service eventually closed. This, along with the enormous cost of fuelling and maintaining these monster aircraft. Doubtless the Channel Tunnel hammered the final nail in their coffin.
A footpath leads us through a tunnel of blackthorn scrub, which thankfully has been kept trimmed back, although we have to walk to avoid severe lacerations to our scalps. The views across Pegwell Bay are spectacular and if I had my binoculars with me I could probably see the naked bird-spotter still crouching in the scrub at Snail Point.
View across Pegwell Bay towards Sandwich and Snail Point
The cycle ride into Ramsgate takes us through the village of Pegwell and past the intriguing architecture of the Pegwell Bay Hotel. Pegwell was the location of Britain’s most short-lived pier, lasting just 5 years, before being demolished by a barge during a gale in 1885.
From Pegwell we climb up to a large area of greensward designed for the use of the 19th Century promenaders who frequented this seaside resort, drinking in the bracing sea air. In 1856 they were joined by the monks of St Augustines Abbey, the first monastery to be built in England since The Reformation.
Pegwell Bay Hotel
The Royal Crescent on our approach to Ramsgate Harbour
More evidence of Victorian activity presents itself in the form of Ramsgate’s very own Royal Crescent, before descending to The Royal Harbour. The title Royal was bestowed upon the harbour by George IV, entitling them to fly the Royal Standard on 3 days per year. Many changes have taken place over the last 2 centuries, with the rise and demise of the new port facilities to the west of the Royal Harbour. Today the Royal Harbour is a marina for the owners of a strange mix of craft. Some are opulent motor launches, some are sailing boats of more modest proportions, whilst three canal barges sit looking strangely out of place with the nearest canal some 30-odd miles away in France.
Like the Royal Harbour, Ramsgate is a place of contrasts, where the wealthy moor their floating mansions, whilst unemployment is high amongst the locals. As we cycle through the town towards the station, we pass along the High Street which is liberally sprinkled with boarded-up, redundant shop fronts. Betty is cycling some 50 metres ahead of me, when a drunk wanders across the road and shouts out some inappropriate comment at her, before returning to his drinking partners. It is barely 7pm but I suspect he has been at the sauce for several hours. We thankfully make our train which deposits us at Walmer, in time for a pint at our favourite micro-pub, the Freed Man. The landlord surpasses himself, by presenting us with a free cheese board to go with our pints. This of course is followed by the mandatory ‘fish and too-many chips’ from the local chippy. Bliss!