Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

This morning is warm and the sky clear, with a low haze. I leave Sandwich and head through a pleasant park, crossing the river and walking along the bank towards Sandwich Marina.

Joggers pass me. A couple are out walking a dog. Otherwise all is peaceful, despite the nearby Industrial Estate.

Everything is closed. Today is Easter Sunday.

Past the marina, I follow a footpath that heads across farmer’s fields towards the shore, passing over land grazed by sheep and then following a track through a golf course.

In the distance I have a great view of the Richborough Power Station, now defunct but, I have heard there is a move to consider designating it a listed building.

As I approach the sea, ahead of me are some buildings in the process of renovation, possibly something to do with the golf course.

Here is the obligatory warning sign.

Beyond the buildings with their scaffolding is a rough road and a car park. On this beautiful Easter morning, the car park is filling up and people are arriving for a walk along the beach. The beach is shingle, large stones, leading down to muddy sands. People are out collecting bait. The light is wonderful (although hazy) and shimmers off bright sands, muddy flats and blue sea.

I look right across Sandwich Bay – to the route I walked yesterday; the cliffs of Pegwell and Ramsgate beyond.

The tide is low and I walk on the muddy shore, below the shingle, heading southwards. Few people make it down to this part of the beach. I enjoy the open expanse of sky, water and muddy sand. I am filled with energy and a sense of freedom.

I reach an area where the shingle extends to the water’s edge, making progress very difficult. I head up the beach, joining a road and noticing there are houses here.

This is marked on my map as ‘Sandwich Bay Estate’. Before I set off, I anticipated this Estate might be a caravan park or holiday complex. But no. Here are huge houses with impressive facades. Some of the houses are being renovated. But the layout is odd. There is an ‘institutional’ feel to the place. There are no private gardens. The surrounding lawns are neatly mown but the place seems strangely impersonal, people have not made their mark on these properties. How odd.

I reach the end of the housing estate. A group of youngsters are winching a motor boat up from the water, along a concrete jetty. The girls are doing the winching. The boys are guiding the boat.

Beyond the boat is a security man, chatting with the young people. Obviously this is a private Estate of some sort.

The road comes to an end and, from here to Deal, the path is a wide gravel track, raised slightly above the surrounding land. To the left is dunes, shingle and sea. To my right is mile after mile of golf course.

Now, the path is getting busier – lots of cyclists, some grimacing joggers and a few walkers.

And I am about to meet a man who knows how to rant. (I like a good rant from time to time, usually on the subject of obscured public rights of way, but this guy is the best ranter I have met so far.) If you look at the photo below, you can see him approaching. That’s him – on the bicycle.

I stop to take a photograph of the golf warning signs. I am intrigued, amused and somewhat irritated by the pointlessness of these signs. “Danger, flying golf balls.” So what? What do I do? Get ready to duck? Surely the signs are aimed at the wrong party; they should read “Danger, people walking. Don’t hit them.”

Anyway, as I stand taking the photo and contemplating who the sign is designed to protect (‘Don’t sue me for causing your brain injury. You were warned. Didn’t you see the sign?’), the man on the bike comes to a halt, beside me.

“Do you have any wire cutters?”
“No. Sorry. Have you got a problem with your bike?”
“I meant for the sign.”

Then he starts. The golfers are nasty people. They deliberately target him every time he comes this way, and that is nearly every day.

“Have you been hit by a golf ball,” I ask, wondering what the chances are of hitting somebody deliberately and how good a golfer you would have to be to hit a man on a bicycle. I am not a golfer myself, so the sport is a mystery to me.

He neatly ducks that question and continues, “They are all toffs, all stuck up snobs.” They make his life hell. They hate all walkers and cyclists – and they hate him in particular – and in return he hates all golfers. They have taken over this section of the coast. There used to be sand dunes here and water ponds and wild life. He talks of nesting birds, slow worms and other creatures – all fled. Golfers are trying to take over the path and are encroaching further on the shore (and he may be right about this, there are some well maintained green patches on the coastal side of the path). They spray the grass with chemicals and kill all the wild life.

To distract him from the golfers, I ask about the estate I have just walked through.

He tells me this belongs to Lady Astor. (I haven’t tried very hard to verify this, there is remarkably little information about Sandwich Bay Estate on the Internet. I did find something out about Lady Astor though – she is Samantha Cameron’s mother.) And he follows this up with a heartfelt, and very enjoyable, rant about toffs, the class system, the haves and have-nots.

“There is one rule for them and another for the likes of us.” I am glad, at this moment, to be included among the ‘likes of us’.

I wish him well and walk on.

Now, along the edge of the path, are small red pieces of paper, held down by stones, flapping madly in the breeze. Each piece of paper has a number on it. It takes me a moment to work out that these are likely to be markers for fishermen.

At the end of the path I reach the outskirts of Deal. My map indicates a ruined castle and I look around, failing to spot the ruin, until I realise I am standing on it. A pleasant little garden has been created.

After a number of failed attempts, I manage to take a self-portrait.

The sun is very hot. I feel a little sunburnt. Lunch beckons.

The northern end of Deal consists of a road, lined by houses on one side with a concrete sea wall on the other, bordering the shingle beach, and acting as a promenade. Families are arriving. This is not a bucket and spade resort, but the narrow promenade is filling up with people and families, in typical British fashion, are erecting chairs, tables and windbreaks on the shingle below.

Further along, I walk past the pier and stop at a hotel for a snack in the bar. The restaurant is full – I hear the waiter turning people without reservations away – but the bar is empty. I have an excellent meal of fish and chips. Next to me a couple and a toddler arrive and order champagne. I am amazed by the serene good-behaviour of the little toddler, who sits contentedly in her push chair while her parents toast the glorious Easter weather.

The next section of the walk, southwards from Deal, is very pleasant indeed. There is a wide walkway, running along beside the beach and this has become crowded – with cyclists, walkers, joggers, dogs and mobility scooters.

I am entertained by some strange sights, including these pieces of – well, what exactly – ‘art work’ on the shingle. I don’t stop to see if they are for sale.

There is no visible harbour area in Deal, but I reach a section of the beach that acts as a working harbour. Small boats are drawn up, with sheds, fishing gear, lobster pots and beach huts – all tangled up together. I take lots of photos of boats and huts. I could linger here all day and have to force myself to walk on.

I pass another castle, in better condition than the ruined one – castellated wall and big gates. Unknown to me, my husband and mother-in-law are visiting the same castle at around the same time. But I don’t stop. I have walking to do.

I am amused by a boy flying a kite in the shape of a shark. There is little wind today and he has to run across the pebble beach to keep the kite flying. It looks like the shark is chasing him.

There is vegetation taking hold on the shingle, small clumps of greenery and some wonderful trees that droop their branches around their trunks, forming little leafy tents. A group of families walk by and the children run, shrieking with delight, into the heart of one of these tree tents and begin climbing the twisted branches, while their parents attempt to call them away.

The path joins a narrow, unkept roadway. Houses line the landward side – real houses, not just holiday homes. On the shingle beach, sheds and huts appear, with a collection of small boats. There is an old-world, un-renovated feel to this area – Kingsdown on my map. I love it.

The road widens into a car park area. Cars are parked haphazardly with no apparent restrictions. Families are sitting outside on benches. There is a small pub, the Zetland Arms, where I stop for a drink. It is very hot. I can’t believe it is Easter Sunday.

Continuing along the beach, along a road with parked cars, I walk around lovely bay (Oldstairs Bay) until I reach a point where the way ahead is marked by a gate and MOD warning signs. This used to be a rifle range and the signs warn against picking up debris. I notice the sign has been peppered by pellets of some sort – maybe an air rifle?

I ask a man if I can get around the coast to St Margaret’s at Cliffe. He tells me this is only possible at very low tide. So, I climb a flight of steep steps and continue the path along the top of the cliffs.

This is, possibly, the loveliest part of my walk today.

I climb upwards, along a path running through green spaces at the top of the cliffs. Below me is blue sea, stretching to a hazy blue horizon. Behind me is a fantastic view of Oldstairs Bay. Ahead the path loops along the top of white cliffs, towards St Margaret’s and Dover beyond.

On the crest of the rise, ahead of me, I see a white building and a tower. As I draw nearer, I realise the building is an old coastguard station and the tower is a monument.

This is The Dover War Memorial, originally raised in honour of the men who lost their lives as members of the Dover Patrol during the 1st World War. An additional inscription commemorates the many service men and merchant seamen who lost their lives in the Dover waters during the 2nd World War.

(I am always moved by memorials to seamen. The only member of my immediate family who died in WW2 was my Uncle Peter, aged only 16 at the time, who joined the merchant navy and whose ship was sunk by a German U-boat. He died in the Atlantic, somewhere off the coast of North Africa, we think.)

Leaving the memorial, I follow the path through a nature reserve. Trees and bushes obscure the view as I head downhill until, through a gap, I see St Margaret’s Bay below.

It is beautiful. The late afternoon sun is lighting up the greenery on the top of the cliff, while the chalky walls of the cliff opposite take on a soft grey hue in the fading light.

I find a steep flight of steps, turning and twisting down through the greenery on the sloping face of the cliff, taking me down to the bay itself.

Half way down, I pass a couple climbing up. The man is laughing and showing off, running up the steps – two at a time. His girlfriend trails behind, puffing and panting.

“Nearly there,” I say.
“Thank goodness,” she gasps, as I pass.
“Not really,” I call back.

At the bottom I emerge, suddenly, into a car park, beyond which is the beach and sea. And, somewhat to my surprise, I find my husband is already there and waiting for me.

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Vital stats: miles walked = 12
Highlights: hearing an excellent rant and walking on the cliffs.
Lowlights: none – this was a great day.

If you are interested, you can see some great photos taken inside Richborough Power Station on the Derelict Places web site.

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I wake to see a glorious Whitstable sunrise through my hotel bedroom window – and fall back asleep, still feeling the effects of the hay fever tablets taken the day before (or possibly the large glass of wine I had with dinner – who knows?).

After a suitably hearty breakfast, and having driven my car to park closer to the railway station at Swalecliffe, I set off towards Herne Bay.

I am walking along a tarmac walkway, running alongside the shingle beach. The shoreline of Whitstable is lined with beach huts, with the town sitting above. In the morning sunlight it looks beautiful.

Stopping to take photographs, I realise, to my horror, that my camera is still ‘on’ and the battery is flat. Shaking it, as if hoping for a miracle cure, does not work. I must have forgotten to turn it off and didn’t check, as I usually do, before going to bed. Damn the hay fever tablets and/or large glass of wine.

Ah, well, nothing I can do about it now. I shall resort to using my iPhone as a camera.

The path between Whitstable and Herne Bay crosses open green space – and is busy. This is a beautiful Saturday morning and I am not the only person out, enjoying the sea air and the shore walk. Joggers pass me, grimacing.

I walk along the gentle curving bay and, at a gate that marks the end of the green part of this walk, as I leave Swalecliffe, I stop to look back the way I have come. Whitstable is vanishing in the haze across an expanse of shining water. On the gate, Canterbury City Council cannot resist an opportunity to assail me with warnings and instructions. I gather, among other things, I should keep my clothes on.

Between Swalecliffe and Herne Bay the shore is shingled and groynes stretch across shingle and mud, pointing out to the open sea.

I see a father and son, fishing, standing on the shingle at the edge of the waves. The boy is about 12 years old. They have just caught a fish. The father is unhooking the fish and holding it, with difficulty in one hand while the fish wriggles and thrashes.

“Let’s throw it back now,” he says.
“Noooo!” wails the boy.

As I pass them, they are still arguing. I guess they should have decided what to do with caught fish in advance of the expedition.

I pass a small concrete pier, running out to sea, and a pub. Beyond this the beach curves towards Herne Bay. The shore is lined with beach huts and I walk on a path, behind the huts.
Signs welcome me to Herne Bay.

I am nearly run down by people on mobility scooters.

There are few people on the beach itself; that remains covered in large shingle stones and looks uncomfortable for walking or sitting. There promenade becomes more crowded.

Ahead I see a bustling resort with a stubby pier. I notice a structure out to sea. Is it the disconnected end of a long pier, now destroyed?

The pier itself is disappointing; a box like structure. I feel no temptation to walk along it.

The path from Herne Bay to Reculver stretches out before me, in a long straight line along the promenade, encompassing both a cycle route and a pedestrian walkway. I sit and have a snack, watching sailing boats on the wind-less sea, at the beginning of this long, long walk. To begin with, I pass a few dog walkers and families out for a stroll, but the further I get from Herne Bay, the fewer people I see. Eventually, I arrive at Bishopstone, where a road slopes steeply down to join the promenade. Beyond this, the promenade itself comes to an end and a sign warns me of dangers ahead.

The tide is in and there is no way round by the shore today.

So I climb the steep slope and follow footpath signs towards Reculver. To my delight, I find I am walking on an easy pathway through a pleasant forest area.

Crossing over a deep gully, the path winds between trees, down and then up again, until it emerges on the cliff top.

There are great views towards Herne Bay, but I am unable to take decent photographs – what with the hazy light and my tiny iPhone as my only camera.

At the top of the cliff, I come across a car park and see – to the east, ahead of me – the enigmatic twin towers of some sort of ruined structure, perched on top of the cliff, towering above the sea.

From here, paths snake through the open green spaces of a ‘country park’, across the cliff top, leading towards the towers. I enjoy this walk. The views are great. More importantly, my map indicates the white building at the base of the towers is likely to be a pub – and I have grown exceedingly hungry. The towers act as beacons, encouraging me forwards.

As I descend, along the path, I notice there is a busy car park ahead in Reculver and there seem to be a great number of walkers out. Perhaps it is hunger, but I begin to have paranoid fancies. I imagine the pub full and no space to sit down. I imagine it has stopped serving food (it is now nearly 3pm). Or maybe it doesn’t serve food? I imagine there are signs saying ‘no boots allowed’.

In the end, my fears are unnecessary. The pub is mainly empty. There is plenty of food. Nobody seems to mind my boots.

I have something I have never eaten before – skate wing (tasty but full of bones) – with salad, chips and a pint of cider.

After lunch, and feeling much better, I look around Reculver. The twin towers are the remains of a church (St Mary’s), allowed to fall into ruin in the 1800s as the sea encroached, with the towers remaining as navigational beacons. The church itself was built on the remains of an old monastery, which was itself built on the remains of an old Roman fort, dating from 200 AD.

A splendid example of recycling, I think to myself.

I was really looking forward to the next part of my walk today. On the map, this section of Thanet Coastal Path (and associated cycle route) runs along an isolated section of coast line, with no built up areas or development to spoil the view, until you get to Birchington.

In reality, the walk is long and somewhat monotonous, stretching out into the distance in a flat, straight line as far as the eye can see; marshes (Chislet Marshes and Wade Marsh) to the right, shingle and sea to the left.

I am passed by a few cyclists and the odd, lone, solitary, sweating jogger. A female walker, older than me, overtakes me. A couple of young lads on a moped (illegal on this path, I think to myself) pass me and then, turning back, ride past me again, heading back the way they have come. They have fishing rods sticking up from back backs, like strange antennae, and are searching for a route down into the fresh water marshes to my right.

I wonder if my husband would enjoy cycling along here? He would certainly be able to pick up speed with no distractions or traffic to slow him down.

A tiny plaque on a piece of kerb stone catches my attention. It is a memorial to a cyclist, Derek Hart, who died here in 2003. I catch my breath. It seems eerie – I was just thinking of my cyclist husband, and here is the spot where another cyclist met his death. Was it natural causes, maybe due to the exertion of cycling? Or an accident?

I see many birds; ducks, gulls and some strangely upright, black sea birds sitting on posts in the water. Without my camera’s telephoto zoom, I can’t get a good view. Cormorants? I resolve to try to learn more about sea birds.

Later, as I approach Birchington, walking through an area called Plumpudding Island on the map, for no obvious reason, I come across a rusted bike. Some person with a sense of humour has chalked a sign on the path – ‘bike’ – along with an arrow.

Next to it (not visible in the photo) was an abandoned beach chair, with a similar sign – ‘chair’. And a sign saying ‘poo’ – although the offending excrement had disappeared with time and weather.

For some reason, I found this all very humourous and am grateful to the unknown chalk sign writer for cheering up the end of a somewhat tedious walk.

I am in Minnis Bay. Finally, the shingle has given way to sand and Minnis Bay is a fine, traditional, sea-side resort. Even the sign is cheerful and welcoming.

(From here onwards, the signage at each resort becomes tremendously improved – no more fierce prohibitions on stark signs – but friendly warnings with explanations instead.)

The promenade continues and, ahead, beyond the buildings at the end, I can see white cliffs.

My heart leaps.

Here, in sight, is the start of the chalk cliff sea front that will continue all the way to Dover and beyond. After miles of flat marshes, it is a welcome sight. And a reminder of what is to come – one day soon, I will be leaving the flatlands of the east behind and beginning new adventures along the rugged south coast.

I pass the beach front of Minnis Bay and Birchington. Now there is a choice. Turn into the town, as my map suggests, following the signed cycle route to the station; or continue along the sea front promenade, under the tall white cliffs, and delay making my way inland until after I get round the promontory?

Looking at my watch, I have 40 minutes to spare before the next train back to Swalecliffe and my car. I choose the longer and lower route, walking along a wide concrete walkway, with waves below and white cliffs above.

Suddenly, rounding a corner, I see the bay stretching away – a beautiful sight – in the low afternoon sun. And I can see Margate in the distance.

For a moment I am tempted to continue. Margate looks tantalizingly close. The sun is shining. There are many hours of daylight left.

Then reality sets in. It is late afternoon. I am tired and growing hungry again. I still need to find my way to a station, take a train back, collect my car and then I have a long drive home. Be sensible!

But, after this decision is made, for a few minutes it looks as if I will have little choice but to continue onwards. The cliffs are high and steep. Apart from the occasional glimpse of a roof, I can’t see any activity above and – most importantly – no steps upwards. I carry on walking. There is hardly anybody in sight.

Then I see a narrow path, leading off the promenade and heading upwards in a steep slope. I find myself on a pleasant road, with residential houses along the landward edge and green spaces between the road and sea edge. A footpath is signed, leading down a little alley to a road beyond.

Following this, I find myself on a road that runs down the hill, directly to the train station at Birchington.

Ahead of me are a couple of young men with rucksacks and a bag. They are obviously heading for the station, and they are in a hurry. I can’t keep up with them and begin to worry I will miss the train and face an hour’s wait until the next one. But they are hurrying to catch another train, the train that goes to Margate. In reality, I arrive early and have 15 minutes to spare.

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Vital stats: 12 miles

Later I try to find out more about the dead cyclist, Derek Hart, but am unable to find any references on the Internet.

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Route on Google Maps:

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I set off from Faversham station, walking along the main street where a market is under way. It is a dull day with just a occasional glimpse of sunshine coming out from behind the clouds.

As I find the estuary, I am disappointed. I can’t walk alongside the water because of the new houses built along the bank. Through gaps in the houses, I see there is a nice walk along the water – a paved promenade – but access for walkers is forbidden.

I see the familiar signs – all too familiar in North Kent – “Private Property”.

Finally, I am allowed access to the bank, walking through a ramshackle boatyard and shipyard, where people are preparing boats for the forthcoming summer season. The path through the yard (part of the official Saxon Shore Way) is not marked. I keep walking and trust that I am (a) heading the right way and (b) not trespassing.

The yard is full of interesting ships – oyster smacks, pleasure craft, old catamarans, decrepid barges. Later I find out this is the Iron Wharf Boatyard, essentially a place for DIY boat owners.

At the end of the boatyard, a narrow walkway takes me over a watercourse and along a path. I leave the buildings and boats of the marina behind and I am on my own. A family on bicycles pass me, heading back to Faversham. I pass the obligatory sewage works and continue on the narrow path, following the bank.

As I reach open fields, I realise I am walking within 50 feet of the path I took the other day, tracing a parallel route along the bank with the water between. This is an area called Nagden Marshes.

I must confess, I found this section of the walk somewhat boring. There are smelly fields of yellow, oilseed rape flowering to my right, a featureless waterway to my left, beyond which are the flat fields of Ham Marshes with Faversham behind, lost in the distant haze. It is midday but the sun is obscured and the light is dull.

I saw this all before, last time I was here. The tide is out and the creek consists mainly of mud.

The smell of the rape flowers irritates my nose and throat. I stop and take a hay fever tablet, swallowing it with a gulp of water from one of my bottles.

Over the water, I see a pub I passed on my last walk, looking inviting but tantalisingly out of reach.

Suddenly, figures appear on the path ahead. As they draw closer, I see it is a man cycling on an adult-child tandem bike. The kid on the back has given up pedalling and is bumping up and down, looking uncomfortable and grumpy. The man is struggling to pedal and control the bike as it bumps over hard-packed earth. We have had little or no rainfall for six weeks and the ground is unforgiving.

“It’s bumpy,” the man says, sweating and grimacing as he passes me.

I wonder why they are here. This is a footpath, not a cycle way, although the path and cycleway merge further along.

Now I see the sea ahead of me and, as I come to the mouth of the creek, across the water is the hide where I sat and ate a snack on my previous walk. From this distance, the hide look bleak and somewhat threatening in the dim light – like an oversized pill-box.

I enjoy being close to the sea again and stop for a snack and a drink. Ahead of me, across mud and water, is the Isle of Sheppey. Looking to my left, past the lonely hide, I can just make out, in the hazy distance, the arc of the Sheppey Crossing bridge; the industrial structures of that area lost in the misty distance. To my right, stretches the sea wall (a proper wall now, with concrete protection against high tide and waves) and a grassy path that runs just to the landward side of the wall and vanishes into the distant horizon.

Turning to my right (eastwards) I walk along this raised bank. To my left, The Swale is a shining expanse of water and mud, with – as I near the open sea – increasingly more water and less mud.

The sky grows increasingly overcast and threatens rains. I have a view across flat fields of bright rape and grass to my right. Nagden Marshes become Graveney Marshes and then Cleve Marshes. This is lonely, empty countryside.

After some time I see, walking over the fields ahead of me, a figure. As the figure draws nearer to the sea wall, our paths look set to intersect. I realise this is a girl. She is walking quickly and is alone with no rucksack and with no dog. I wonder what she is doing, in such a lonely place. And, I realise, she is wearing shorts with thick dark tights – a fashionable look this winter. Obviously, whatever her reason for being here, she is not dressed for walking.

I see a patch of fenced-off mud with warning signs around it. Is this ‘sinking mud’ – ready to suck some unsuspecting walker into its clammy embrace?

I stop to take photos. The girl in shorts and black tights, who has joined the wall behind me, and is walking with quick, purposeful strides, overtakes me at this point.

Over the wall, flapping lazily, flies a large bird – pale in colour I think, but hard to tell against the bright sky. Is it a heron? Around me are smaller birds; darting sparrows, a few wading birds on the muddy sands, and the ubiquitous sea gulls.

Finally, I see a building ahead and, on consulting my map, realise I am approaching a pub. Maybe this is where the girl is heading Perhaps she works here? There is a car park and people are out, walking on the bank with dogs or standing (not far from their cars) taking photographs. I see a serious photographer with a huge camera mounted on a tripod, looking out to sea – on the hunt for interesting birds.

When I reach the pub, I discover I have missed lunch. Last orders were 3:00 pm. It is now 3:01.

Although I wasn’t planning on eating lunch here (I had a huge breakfast and several snack stops already!) the fact that I can’t have lunch is strangely irritating. I order a coke and crisps, enjoying a rest in a comfortable chair. I look around, but don’t see the girl with the shorts.

Refreshed with junk food, I continue, walking now with beach huts lining the sea-shore. The path is concreted – a promenade now, no longer a rural walk. I meet a man who is walking along the narrow top of the wall, hands outstretched for balance.

“I think you are forty years too old for that,” I say, smiling.
“I am letting my inner child out,” he replies.
And why not?

Fields give way to caravan parks, as I continue.

There are beach huts here and some, misleading, signs telling me this is a private beach. Misleading? Yes, because you can’t designate beach below the high tide mark as your own property – not in the UK – even if you own the land above the high tide mark, because all property below the high tide mark belongs to The Crown (i.e. the Queen), unless it has been officially designated differently, which is very rare.

I reach the beginning of Seasalter, on the outskirts of Whitstable. Here begins a road, stretching ahead of me, with a separate path running along the sea-shore and a patch of sloping grass separating the road from the path. The road is lined, on the landward side, with a row of nice houses. What a lovely situation. The houses have great views of the sea.

Then I realise the road and path ahead are barred with barriers of metal poles. There is a notice saying ‘Private Estate’. I can’t see any signposts indicating the official Saxon Shore Way. I look at my map. The red marks of a ‘Public Right of Way’ are clear on my map and continue along the sea front, following the route of the ‘Private’ path in front of me.

So, I drop down onto the beach and walk on shingle and pebbles, avoiding the barriers. There are steps leading back up to the path, but they are barred with more ‘Private’ signs. Further on – more steps and more private signs. Apparently (according to the notices) the path, the road and the sea defences are owned, built and maintained by the residents. I don’t believe it. There are substantial defensive groynes stretching into the sea. The sea wall is wide, high and made of concrete and has clearly been here for some time. I feel that familiar feeling of anger and irritation – yet more landowners trying to reclaim the sea wall from public access.

Eventually, I climb some steps, swing myself round the barricades at the top and continue my walk along the wall – following what I know is a public right of way – unless my map reading is completely wrong.

There are other people out walking here – with dogs and push-chairs. Are they all residents? Or are they simply ignoring the signs, like me.

At the end of this ‘private’ stretch, I follow the road (and the official Saxon Shore Way, now signed), crossing over the railway and following the road for a short distance, before a footpath heads off to the left and takes me to another footbridge over railway. From the vantage of the bridge, I take some great photos of the golf course and beach huts.

A woman with push-chair, a toddler, an elderly mum and a dog in tow, is struggling up the footbridge. Suddenly, I have vivid recollections of similar outings with my own family. My rucksack feels light in comparison.

I really enjoy this final bit of the walk. The path follows the edge of a pebbly beach. There is a lovely light, coming from the sun in the West. I walk past a golf course, pretty beach huts and another pub. This is the first, proper, seaside resort I have walked through since I left Southend, last September.

Now I am in Whitstable itself. It is a pretty resort; pebbly beach and a nice promenade. I leave the beach, skirting the harbour area, heading along a road and looking for a cafe. I find a bar, overlooking the ocean, with an upstairs pub and balcony. I sit outside, enjoying the view and the cold drink.

But my body is in trouble. For the past few minutes, my right hip has been hurting; not the inner groin area, which would indicate pain coming from the hip-joint itself, but the outer part of my hip. Is it a ligament? A tendon? A trapped fold of synovial lining from the joint itself? Or the dreaded Iliotibial Band syndrome?

When I set off again, the pain intensifies. I have to force myself to walk without a limp. I wonder if I am going to make it back Swalecliffe station, where my car is waiting. My husband is not with me today – so I have no obvious form of rescue, other than calling a taxi. What about my walk tomorrow?

I walk along the promenade, close to the shore.

There is a strange spit of shingle, pointing out into the sea, with people walking along it – marked on my map as ‘Whitstable Street’.

My path leads behind a row of beach huts. I dodge dog walkers and people in mobility scooters (oh, how I wish I had one of those!). Limping up a slope, I rejoin the road – Marine Parade – above. There is a great view of the sea from here, across a nice patch of green land I am looking down on beach huts, a pebbly beach, with mud and water beyond. The tide is out. There are plenty of joggers and walkers enjoying this warm evening.

I see the Marine Hotel, where I have a room booked for the night. It is tempting to stop at the Hotel, but I want to collect my car, containing my overnight things.

I carry on, heading down Herne Bay Road, towards Chestfield and Swalecliffe railway station and my waiting car.

As I sit in the car, changing out of my walking boots and into trainers, I notice my hip stops hurting. Magic? Psychological? Change in position responsible for ‘untrapping’ something? Don’t know. And at this stage, I don’t really care – I am just glad to be free of pain.

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That evening I stayed at The Marine Hotel, right on the sea front in the Tankerton area of Whitstable. Although I booked a single room at the back, they gave me a huge double room with sea views and a bath (bliss). I ate a huge steak, cooked perfectly, and had a large glass of wine.

I don’t know whether it was the wine or the hay fever tablet, but I fell asleep watching the news in bed and woke up to find an Irish leprechaun had taken over the television. What a nightmare!? Then realised I had slept through the news and was watching Graham Norton.

Vital stats: Miles walked = 12

I became increasingly frustrated with “Private” signs during my walk along this section of the coast. While preparing to write to Kent County Council, I discovered a good document produced by Kent Ramblers’ Association, which documents the problems with access and erroneous attempts by local residents to deter walkers.

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I am experimenting with adding Google Maps. My walk is marked on the one below, in blue.

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Starting from Teynham station, I find a footpath leading me back to Conyer. This is not the same path as yesterday -that would be boring – but a parallel track leading close to orchards through grass still wet with morning dew.
The forecast is good but the sun is still obscured by a  morning haze. Straight rows of blossoming fruit trees create grassy corridors, stretching into a misty distance.

I reach Conyer and see the Teynham bus waiting there, as it was yesterday. For one moment, I feel caught in a time warp. Nothing here has changed since yesterday. Same bus. Same place.

There is a signpost with multiple footpaths branching out in all directions. Despite this helpful sign, I struggle to work out the correct route. Where is The Saxon Shore Way? I start off. After a while, I realise I must be following the wrong road. I ask a man tending his garden and he puts me right.

I walk along a track that passes behind the nice waterside houses I saw yesterday.

Then I reach the bank of the sea wall. Wow! I catch my breath.

The sea is perfectly and utterly flat. There is a pearly mist hanging over the mud and water beyond.

Sky merges into water, merges into mud.

A wide green bank stretches alongside the shore, heading past Fowley Island just off shore, eastward towards the open sea. I know there is open sea ahead. But on this beautiful morning, everything beyond a couple of hundred yards is veiled in bright blue-white light.

Two moored sailing ships float on still water, each one balancing above its own perfect mirror image. A soft mist rises from the water, and nearby mud, gently drifting inland, towards the bank I am standing on.

The light, the water, the mist, the stillness, the clarity of the near distance, the obscurity of the far horizon – so magical. I have never experienced anything like this before.

I take photographs, and would have lingered longer, but notice there are people on the ships. A man on one and a woman on the other, standing and talking to each other across the still water, morning cups of coffee in their hands. I feel I am intruding and hurry on.

I really enjoy this section of the walk. The bank is wide and curves gently in and out. The ground is firm. The going is easy. The water with its mystical light is on my left. Open fields, stretching to a misty horizon, are on my right.

Then I notice a strange sound. It is gun fire. Not the deep bang of a shot-gun, but a more frequent, more insistent, crack-crack noise. Looking at my map, I realise I am passing a rifle range, just inland of here.

I pass a field of bullocks. They are nosey and come to watch me walking by them.

At some point, I sit down on a plank of wood and have a drink and snack. I feel I am making good time and, as often happens when I feel I am progressing ahead of schedule, I dawdle and enjoy the moment – taking photographs, sitting and thinking, watching the water, the light, the mud.

I am blissfully unaware of the passage of time. (As a result, I nearly miss my lunch in Faversham. But that does not concern me yet.)

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I continue.

As I walk along the bank, enjoying the day, I leave small, muddy, Fowley Island behind. The sky brightens. The sun, still hidden by haze, seems stronger. I pass isolated boats. Across the water is the Isle of Sheppey. Yesterday and the days before, I experienced the industrial landscape of the western end of Sheppey. Today, the view is blissfully rural. If there are industrial structures beyond, they remain obscured by the distant mist.

I pass an area of old wharves and jetties – flat concrete areas, now overgrown with weeds and encroaching greenery, the only remnants of what must have been a port or marina. It seems a long way from anywhere and I wonder what boats came here and with what cargo. Later, I notice a sign, advising me about speed limits

Now I reach the area of Oare Marshes, a nature reserve. A track joins the sea bank (the first road access since Conyer) and there are cars parked with people out, walking along the bank, with pushchairs and dogs. Inland there is a lake, surrounded by reeds, with ducks and swans.

The wind has picked up, coming in off the sea in gusts. I shelter in a wooden hide, looking out to sea across mud flats, watching sea birds – and eating another snack. A couple enter the hide, chatting to each other. They see me and apologise for disturbing my bird watching. I confess to only being there for rest and refreshment.

The path turns inland from here, heading down a creek – unnamed on my map, towards Faversham. At the mouth of the creek, the wind blows streamers of mist across the path. Further along, the creek has the usual assortment of fine sailing ships, pleasure motor boats and decrepid working boats.

As I walk, I realise I am tired and I am getting cramping pains in my stomach. I conduct a mental check test of everything I have eaten in the past 48 hours, but can’t think of anything that may have upset my stomach.

I begin to pass houses and find myself on a small bridge. This is Faversham. It is 1:45 pm and I am hungry. Luckily, I spot a nearby pub. It looks closed. I have been misled before; finding pubs converted into private houses, despite still bearing pub signs and being marked on the OS map as PH.

There is a man leaning on the side of the bridge.

“Is there a pub near here?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, looking at me as if I am a little demented. “There is one over there.” He jabs his finger in the direction of the shut-looking pub. “And one further up the hill.”

The pub is, indeed, open. There is a sign up saying “no muddy boots”. I sigh, mentally. Everywhere I go in North Kent, I am surrounded by signs telling me what I can’t do and where I can’t go. Luckily, my walking boots are clean – the ground has been firm and dry. I go in.

The next sign I see says, “Last order for lunch 1:45”. On no. I look at my watch, it is 1:46. The barmaid takes pity on me. The cook is about to go home (I see no other food customers) but she will make me a sandwich. I marvel at the fact our pubs are now open long hours and can sell drinks all afternoon, but seem unable to cope with the idea that people might want to eat outside of ‘normal’ eating hours. However, I say nothing, and gratefully accept an exceptionally good ham sandwich.

I am unable to finish the sandwich. Stomach pains intervene and I run for the toilet. Then I feel guilty about not finishing the sandwich – after all, it was made especially for me. Surreptitiously, I pull out my snack box and place the remains of the sandwich in there. The barmaid will never know.

Now, I am worried about finishing the walk. As my abdominal discomfort subsides, I decide to continue. My plan is to complete a circuit of the Ham marshes, before heading for the train station in Faversham.

Over the bridge, and a sign post directs me along the other side of the creek. I walk up past boats and a marina. Every few minutes, cramping pains return and I walk, rubbing my stomach with one hand. Just as I make the decision to turn back, the pains stop. Relieved, I continue. The pains return a few minutes later and keep me company, intermittently, for the rest of the walk. Therefore, I can’t say I really enjoyed this section of the walk – tired and with a griping stomach.

Shame, because this was a very pleasant walk. The sun is shining, warmly. I follow the bank around the perimeter of this patch of flat land, surrounded on all sides by river estuaries, with Faversham in the misty distance. The air is full of bird noises. There are sea birds to my left, and land birds to my right.

As I approach Faversham, again, I meet a man walking very briskly towards me, with his dog. At first glance, I think he is out for a walk. He keeps whistling to the dog, a black mongrel, who keeps running back, away from him, down the path towards a tent, pitched beside the bank, close to a perimeter wall. The dog clearly prefers the tent to the walker. There are three men standing by the tent. I assume the tent has been pitched by fishermen; not uncommon on the coast.

Drawing nearer, I realise there is a minor drama unfolding. Two of the men, by the tent, are uniformed police officers. They stand, tall and large, with their fingers hooked into their belts and jackets. One of them draws out a notebook. The third man is short and skinny, stooped shoulders and with a guilty look to him. The dog returns to lick the skinny man’s hand, and then disappears in the direction of the walking man, who is disappearing quickly into the distance.

I notice the tent is not full of fishing equipment, as I initially assumed, but contains a rolled up sleeping bag and some personal effects.

Putting two and two together, I decide the young man is sleeping rough (albeit with a tent). Somebody has reported this to the police and he is being ‘moved on’. The other man (now a dwindling dot in the distance) was probably his companion, but has decided to scamper off.

I feel sorry for the skinny man.

Somehow it seems wrong to take photos of this sad scene. So I resist and walk on.

Now I find the path barred, with the usual assortment of notices telling me I can’t pass here. New buildings have been put up along the bank of the creek and, although it would appear the path was diverted to a walkway alongside the water, the foreshore has been eroded by tides and the path has disappeared.

I feel angry. How can a new footpath have been so easily lost? What were the planners thinking in allowing an important section of The Saxon Shore Way to be destroyed? And why can’t I walk through this new housing area?

Now I have no choice. A map shows the detour I have to make. It is not far. But the detoured route follows the perimeter fence of an industrial area and the walk, once so scenic, is now the usual grim stroll alongside high fences warning me not to trespass and, in case I was tempted, reminding me that I am being watched by CCTV.

Perhaps it is the tummy pains, still coming and going, or perhaps it was the sad scene with the homeless young man I just witnessed – but I feel unusually aggrieved by the detour.

Come on Swale District Council. Come on Kent County Council. If you want to create a nice long-distance walk, then, for heaven’s sake, get it right!

The only good thing about the detour was the strange Tardis box I came across, guarding the access to the ‘private’ housing area and the industrial estate. If I was Doctor Who, I would abandon the little blue box for this one.

I reach a road. Looking back along the river, I see the housing area which forced my detour. Although it looks lovely in the setting sun, internally, I half wish the blasted new houses will slip into the river, following the footpath into the watery depths.

But that is unkind.

Ahead of me, Faversham looks lovely.

But my feet are tired, my stomach hurts; I don’t want to wander any further than I need to. I seek directions, constantly, from every passerby I come across.

“Where is the railway station?”

I walk through a pleasant town centre – coffee bars, interesting shops with art, books and antiques, people out strolling – yes, this is a very pleasant town. The first truly nice town since I left the centre of Rochester.

At the station, queuing for my ticket. Two small, anxious boys approach me. I guess they are around ten years old.

“Can you lend us enough for our train tickets? We haven’t enough money. We need, like … two pounds?”

They have middle class accents and are dressed in clean clothes. Is it wrong to find myself more sympathetic to their plight because they are middle class boys? I don’t ponder too long. I give them two pounds. They buy their tickets and run back to me to give me the change. I ask them if they have enough money to get home. They nod.

Safely seated in the train, I clutch my grumbling stomach and think about the events of the day. After a beautiful start, I got caught up with annoyances and dramas – my tummy ache, the pub with no food, yet another forced deviation to the path, the homeless young man with the policemen and the anxious young boys without enough money for their fare home.

People ask me if I get lonely or bored on my walks.

No. Not often.

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Health update: That evening, on my return home, I felt very ill indeed; nausea, diarrhoea and crampy pains, along with the shivers and a headache. I had a much-needed bath and went straight to bed. It was some sort of bug, from which I took 48 hours to recover.

Miles walked = 12

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