Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

Stage 41. Birchington to Margate to North Foreland

Posted on April 22, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

Good Friday. A whole long weekend ahead of me. The weather forecast is for sunshine and warmth. I can’t wait to begin walking again.

Birchington promenade, beneath the chalky cliffs, is wide and inviting. The tide is out, exposing rocks and muddy shore line. There is a smell of salt and seaweed, with just a whiff of decaying slime. The sky is blue and the sun is shining – just as promised. The only disappointment is the haze, obscuring the horizon and preventing some really good photography today.

With the good weather, and the holiday, I expect to see people around today. This sea front is broad and long, and with no sand to attract the family crowds, it remains relatively empty; yes, there are walkers, some cyclists, a few fishermen, a couple of children hunting in rock pools and some brave swimmers.

As I walk along the concrete walkway, I come across lovely little sandy bays. And the promenade ends at Epple Bay – unspoilt – with blue sea and white cliffs.

At Epple Bay, I walk up the cliff and continue along the road, running into Westgate on Sea. The sun is hot. By the side of the road are signs, warning of crumbling cliffs.

The street is lined, on the landward side, with rather nice houses. They must have great views of the sea from upstairs windows. Now the road winds down and I see Westgate on Sea stretched out before me. There is a largish expanse of sand and – what a change – crowds of people on the beach.

Feeling tired and thirsty (and very hot), I make my way across the bay, following the promenade. On the other side is a cafe. It is too hot to sit outside – very few of the tables have umbrellas – so I sit inside. Although I often have fish and chips for lunch, I decide it is too warm for a cooked meal (never thought I would say that on a Good Friday in the UK!). I order a cup of tea and a scone with jam and cream.

The cafe is basic and the prices are cheap. Somewhat to my surprise, the tea is served in a china mug – a big china mug. Lovely. And the cream, although frothy, does not seem to have come out of a can. Wonderful.

After lunch, I follow the promenade, walking past beach huts, heading for Margate.

On the way, I pass some cheeky little sea birds. They appear relatively unafraid of humans. Knowing nothing much about birds, I take photos and later (using the RSPB Bird identifier facility), I realise they are two different species, the darker ones are turnstones in their breeding plumage. The lighter ones are sanderlings, still in their muted winter colours but with their feathers just beginning to change for the summer.

I round a corner and see Margate ahead of me. It looks lovely. The artist Tracey Emin lived here as a child and talks about the wonderful light that Margate enjoys. This is because of its strange position, looking westwards, so the town catches the long western sunlight in the afternoon. Anyway, it looks lovely to me.

As I walk towards the main part of the town, I pass a fenced off area with a derelict looking building, in the process of being redeveloped. I am intrigued by the faded sign on the facade. At first I think it says the ‘Royal Sea Bath Hospital’. Then I realise, it says ‘The Royal Sea Bathing Hospital’.

Was Margate somewhere people came to ‘take the waters’, as the Victorians did in the spa towns of Bath and Cheltenham?

Later I learn this is an old tuberculosis hospital and, yes, the patients were treated by dousing them in sea water. Indoor pools were built so they could undertake this treatment throughout the year. Whether it killed more than it cured is anybody’s guess.

There are some wonderful photographs of the old hospital on this Abandoned Britain website.

At the far end of the bay, close to the harbour wall, I see a modern building. I wonder if this is the Turner Contemporary, recently opened by Tracey Emin a couple of weeks ago. As I draw nearer, I realise I am right.

It is stunningly hot. I head for the cool looking building and my heart is set on a late lunch here, but I find, to my disappointment, that the cafe is housed in a greenhouse-like extension (sun flooding through large glass windows) and all seats inside are taken. Outside there are tables and chairs, but no shade umbrellas.

I take off my rucksack and sit in the airy, cool foyer and wait until the sweat on my back has dried.

To my left is a huge window, looking out on the sea and sky. Yellow stripes fall down the glass, with a punched out circle in the centre. The walls on either side of the window have mirrors, with reflections bouncing back and forth, creating a kaleidoscope effect.

I realise this is one of the exhibits – by Daniel Buren, Borrowing and multiplying the landscape. This is fabulous.

Luckily, photography is allowed.

Now, I could bore you for the next 50 minutes with my thoughts and feelings on this great exhibition, staged for the opening of the Turner Contemporary, and called Revealed, but I won’t. Instead, I’ll direct you to the Independent’s review of the exhibition, which is, in my opinion, gives a better overview of the exhibition than the Turner Contemporary’s own rather over-complicated web site does.

If you are thinking of visiting the gallery yourself, a clue to the type of art on display is in the title – Turner Contemporary.

The most disappointing part of the exhibition, for me, was Russell Crotty’s display. I love astronomy, I love walking, I love writing and I love art – and his work brings these four passions together. But I found his ‘planets’ were little too pale and insipid for my tastes. The words hidden in the art were punchy – but that punch was not reflected in the overall execution. Much of his art work was in the form of giant sketch books and, for reasons of wear-and-tear, the curators were only allowed to turn the pages every 15 minutes. This meant that most visitors would only get a glimpse of the art contained in the books. That said, I found his ideas really inspiring.

An exciting exhibition by Hamish Fulton will be opening in January 2012 – entitled, simply, Walk. I love the idea of this and may return next year to visit. He was commissioned to conduct a series of walks by the gallery, before its opening. An unusual concept and a great idea.

Hamish Fulton: ‘Walking is an art form in its own right, it does not have to be a lesser form of land art.’

Now, that is my kind of artist!

I lingered in the gallery until 4pm. Now, with the air cooling, I feel I need to get walking and pick up the pace.

Heading east, I follow the promenade. This area in less frequented, and less well-kept, than the western side of Margate. There is a disused lido, the remains of old steps and cliff lifts – all covered in chalk graffiti and reminders that this resort was once more extensive.

Interestingly, in this deserted section of Margate, I found foreign families out; an asian family having a picnic, some Russians with a barbecue, groups of eastern Europeans strolling.

The next patch of my walk is truly beautiful. I walk through sandy bays, across an area used for jet skiing, along the bottom – and then along the top – of chalky cliffs, past a ruined fort. The sea has worn the coast and eaten chunks out of cliffs, creating interesting shapes. Families are out, sitting on the beaches and swimming in the sea.

The sun is low in the west, but still warm, although the heat of the day has gone.

One section of cliff has become detached from the main cliff face, with a broken road surface dangling into an abyss. Another reminder of the power of the sea.

Finally, I reach an amazingly beautiful outcrop of rock, called (I think) White Ness. Beyond the chalky cliff face, blue sea stretches out to a hazy horizon and, like weird ghosts, the faint outlines of large ships can be seen, floating in the Channel.

I catch glimpses of a large house – looks like a castle – towering above the cliff. As I approach, I realise my route along the sea (both above and below the cliff) is barred by the private grounds of this castle. Built in the 1760s, Kingsgate Castle has been converted into private residences.

So, I am forced to deviate inland, walking along a road and then along a cycle route.

Across the fields I see the North Foreland lighthouse, lit up by the slanting sunlight.

Then I arrive at Joss Bay. At first I only see the car park, then, looking down, I realise this is a perfect bay – a beautiful punched-out curve of sandy beach, blue water and stunning white cliffs.

I sit and wait for my husband to arrive to collect me, watching families on the beach as they pack up their belongings and climb the steep access path to the car park.

I drink the rest of my water and eat melted chocolate from my snack box – not caring about the mess.

Miles walked: 8 (not including walking around the Turner Contemporary)

Route taken:

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged art, coast, photography, travel, walking | 15 Comments

Stage 40. Whitstable to Herne Bay to Birchington

Posted on April 16, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

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.

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.

Route on Google Maps:

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 20 Comments

Stage 39. Faversham to Whitstable

Posted on April 15, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

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.

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.

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

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 11 Comments

Stage 38. Teynham to Faversham

Posted on March 25, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

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.)

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.

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

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 3 Comments

Stage 37. Sittingbourne to Teynham

Posted on March 24, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

The Saxon Shore Way between Sittingbourne and Faversham runs along the water, first along the edge of Milton Creek and then along the bank of The Swale, before following the estuary into the heart of Faversham.

According to my map, the distance would be about 12 miles. More – if I get lost. According to the B&B landlady in Upchurch, this is one of the most punishing parts of the route.

My husband is away, skiing. I have lost my valuable support and there is nobody to rescue me if I want to give up before I reach Faversham railway station. So, being a coward, a wimp and with my determinedly I-am-going-to-enjoy-this attitude to walking, I have decided not to attempt this section in a single day.

I am, therefore, breaking my walk at Teynham station. Although this requires a trek inland of about 1.5 miles, I reckon this is the best plan.

My day begins well. I drive to Teynham station and take advantage of the free car parking. My plan is to travel back to Sittingbourne to resume my walk. Unfortunately, the Teynham ticket office closes at 9:30 am and I have just missed the chance to buy a ticket. There are stern signs on the platform, instructing me not to travel without a ticket, or I will be flung in jail. There is a machine on the platform, but it is broken.

Then I spot a machine I can use to ask for help. I duly push a button, half expecting this machine to be broken too. To my surprise, I end up speaking to an Indian with a decidedly indian accent. I explain my situation. He asks me to spell Teynham. Mentally I do some tut-tutting. I assume he is manning the help line from some distant Indian city. I think of Mumbai, or Delhi, or Calcutta. He is very polite and tells me it is quite alright to travel without a ticket, given the circumstances.

Later I learn that Teynham is pronounced Tenam. No wonder he needed to check the spelling.

As I wait, two young people begin wandering down the platform. They are having an argument. The girl is in front. She is a pretty teenage, but has a sharp face and a smirking grin. I recognise this grin. It is the expression my 5-year-old daughter used to have when deliberately winding up her sister. Behind her, shouting expletives, is a skinny young man pushing a push chair. Well, not exactly pushing it; he shoves it angrily forwards and it runs down the slope of the platform towards the perimeter fence. He grabs the handles, jerking it back, before pushing it forwards again. He is shouting at the girl. She runs ahead of him, tossing her hair.

Then I realise there is a child in the push-chair.

The girl must be the mother. The angry young man is the father. The child is fat, dribbling and lost in a world of his own.

The man catches up with the girl at the end of the platform. They sit on some steps, still arguing. He holds the push-chair with an outstretched arm, a few fingers wrapped around one handle, as though the child is nothing to do with him. The girl is refusing to take the push chair.

A middle-aged woman appears on the platform. The couple, still arguing, get up. They do a little dance around this woman. The girl puts the woman between herself and the young man with the push chair. He circles the woman, trying to get close to the girl. She moves further around, keeping the woman between them as a buffer – a human shield.

The woman realises something odd is going on, the girl being too close for comfort – invading her personal space as she plays cat-and-mouse with the young man. She walks away and stands with her back to a post.

A few more people arrive on the platform. When the train pulls in, I choose not to sit in the same carriage as the young couple. I feel alarmed. They are acting like 5 year olds. But they are out with their baby. Is it safe to leave such a young child with two adults who are clearly little more than children themselves?

The journey to Sittingbourne is very short. I become unduly agitated. The buffet trolley is in my carriage and the attendant stops next to my seat to serve the couple in the seat opposite. They slowly deliberate over choices of food and drink. I feel hemmed in and worry about getting off at the next stop. As the train slows, I get up and push past the trolley, spending the last few minutes of the journey standing by the doors.

I get off the train at Sittingbourne, as planned. I pay for my ticket at the booth in the station. I notice I am the only one who does this.

When I walk through the station car park, I spot the young man, still pushing the push chair in the jerky manner I noticed before; – angrily shoving the chair away from his body and letting go of the handle, walking a few paces and catching up with it, grabbing the handles and then pulling it back, before shoving it forward and letting go again. The baby remains quietly unperturbed by this bizarre ride.

The young man is shouting a string of expletives. His shoulder are hunched up with rage. He is walking past the taxi rank, looking around. I can’t see the young woman. She has run off or is hiding.

I must say, I find this incident very unsettling. It is not clear how anybody could, or should, intervene. I worry about the child. Despite my concern about the safety of the baby, I walk on.

The first part of my walk is along busy roads with lorries hurtling by. Sittingbourne appears to be a town of industrial estates linked by roads. Perhaps this is unfair. It is just the impression I get. I am really looking forward to re-joining a proper footpath and sigh with relief when I see the alley leading off to the left. This should take me to the shore.

But, wait. No! The footpath is closed. My heart sinks.

Luckily there is a detailed sign and a map. It appears they are building a bridge across the river at this point; responsible for the closure of the footpath on the other side (and the detour I was forced to make yesterday) as well as on this side.

I pull out a notepad and write down the detour instructions. I check my OS map. Yes, the instructions and my map both concur. There is an alternative route. And it is a public right of way.

I pass a derelict church, or chapel.

Now I walk along beside an industrial estate (where I notice an upside down sign – one of the perils of attaching a sign while standing on the wrong side of a fence!).

Next, I cross over a busy dual carriageway and walk down a track towards a scruffy caravan site. The instructions tell me to follow the track as it skirts the caravan site and leads onwards.

But the track appears to lead into the centre of the site. And stops.

This is not one of those holiday caravan sites of the type I have met before on my coastal walks. This is a domestic trailer-park site for people who cannot afford anywhere else to live. There is rubbish, abandoned cars, chickens and dirty men with greasy hair.

“You can’t get through there, mate.”

“I’m looking for the path.”

“Where you heading?”

“To the coast. To the sea wall,” I say, not sure that I want to tell this disreputable looking man where I am heading.

He tells me the track is hidden under a mound of rubbish, “temporarily” deposited there.

But if I scramble up a bank and down the other side, I can rejoin the track.

“It’s a long way to the sea wall, mate,” he warns me.

I scramble up the rubbish strewn bank. This is not only supposed to be an official footpath, but is also one of our national long distance cycling routes (National Route 1, indeed). Nobody could cycle here. There is so much broken glass on the bank, you would have to carry your bike or risk punctures.

After that, the going is easy. I follow a track winding through woodland with lakes on my left.

I meet a man on a cycle – not a touring bike, but more likely to be resident of the caravan site.

I see nobody else for miles. Then I join a narrow road and am passed, bizarrely, by a dustbin lorry. It returns a few minutes later, having collected bins from the only house I come across on this section of the walk. Beyond the house (with the usual “private”, “keep out”, “you are being watched” signs) the track leads through fields towards the sea wall.

Across the fields, and across the water beyond, I can see where I walked yesterday; the tall chimneys of the paper mill, the jetty of the gravel works and the sweep of the bridge beyond, leading to the Isle of Sheppey. The air is clear and the sun is shining.

When I reach the sea wall, pleased to be back on The Saxon Shore Way, before me stretches a lovely vista; gleaming mud flats, the obligatory wrecked hull, an expanse of blue water beyond.

Although I am still in the shelter of the Isle of Sheppey, I am nearing the open sea again. I feel a surge of blissful happiness. Progress at last and the sea is ahead of me.

I sit down, on the landward side of the bank to avoid the wind, facing open farmland, inland water and a sunlit landscape, to have a leisurely picnic lunch and enjoy the sun on my face.

With some difficulty, I remember how to use the timer on my camera and take a self-portrait.

Then I continue walking. The path is wide and easy, curving gently.

The tide is coming in and the mud flats between my bank and the Isle of Sheppey are soon covered.

After a while, I reach Conyer Creek and turn inland. The mouth of the Creek is lovely – mud flats and blue water, with bright buoys marking the deeper channels for shipping to follow.

I am following the path along the side of the creek, as it winds through fields of sheep and baby lambs.

On the other side are some fine-looking residential houses and a host of small ships, moored in the mud and water.

People are out walking dogs, the first people I meet since the man on his bike. A small group, clustered around a car, are flying model planes. The planes whine and whirr – and dive bomb the sheep. Women with dogs tut-tut at this noisy intrusion into the rural scene.

At the end of the creek is a marina and I walk round the fencing, skirting the boat yard.

When I reach the road, there is a bus waiting. It is showing “Teynham” as its destination. I am tempted to get onboard. But take the public footpath instead.

I walk down a narrow gravel road, that runs straight as far as the eye can see. This is an official bridleway and takes me directly to Teynham station. There are orchards of fruit trees to my left, paddocks of horses to my right. The way is lined with trees and it is very pleasant walking. There is no danger of getting lost. I have nearly reached my destination.

At the end of the bridleway, I walk through an orchard. There is a roaring sound and a small motorbike, ridden by a young man, races past me. The bike is one of those off-road types, so small that it forces the man to sit hunched up with his knees close to his ears. It bounces over the uneven ground. He roars away, following the perimeter of the orchard.

A few minutes later, and I come across his companions; another young man, waiting impatiently for his turn and a girl. The girl is very pretty. She is sitting on a large stone, her knees drawn to one side and her legs together, like a mermaid on a rock. She is wearing a short skirt and has long hair. With one hand she is grooming her hair, running fingers through it and flicking her head backwards, so that her hair cascades in a long straight waterfall down her back. She looks beautiful.

I notice there is a collection of lager cans at the base of the stone. Neither of the young men is wearing a helmet.

As I pass them, I think of the freedom of youth. There is a brief time when the world is young, you have no cares, and you can sit, preening on a stone, while young men show off their skills on mini motor bikes, oblivious to the danger of broken bones and brain damage, in a sunny orchard, in early spring, enjoying a cold lager.

Then I think of the young couple with their public quarrelling and the unwanted baby caught up in the middle of their childish squabbles. Yes, there is the wonderful freedom of youth – but it is a fragile thing and easily lost.

The footpath crosses the train tracks and emerges at the end of Teynham station. There are a group of young lads loitering in the car park. I feel a pang of anxiety. But I find my car, unscathed.

Miles walked = 7 miles.
Foot paths blocked = 1
Number of times got lost = 0

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, photography, travel, walking | 6 Comments

Stage 36. Upchurch to Sittingbourne

Posted on March 23, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

I wake this morning feeling flushed and I wonder if I am running a fever. When I look in the mirror, I discover I am sunburnt from yesterday’s walk.

After breakfast, my host in the B&B shows me the best footpath to take from Upchurch, heading north to pick up The Saxon Way. I set off early (before nine o’clock), knowing I have a long way to walk today. The weather forecast is fine. I am taking no chances and have applied sunblock.

The footpath winds through an orchard, where the well-pruned trees are just beginning to blossom. The birds are singing. The sun is shining. The world is good.

At the end of the orchard, I walk along a track, running alongside a field of sheep and young lambs. The sheep catch sight of me and begin charging towards me, lambs following. They are after food. There is a hullabaloo – deep-throated baas from the sheep and high-pitched echos from the baby lambs. As I walk along the field, the flock keeps pace with me and the noise doesn’t cease until I turn away, towards the shore wall .

The coastal path here is lovely. The morning sun gleams off sea and mud. There are house boats, many clearly being occupied, pleasure boats moored on the bank and further off the shore, in mud and water, an assortment of sunken hulks. Across the water is the familiar view of Kingsnorth Power Station.

Unfortunately, I come across a marina and boatyard with “Private, No Access” signs. I am forced to make an inland detour.

Walking across fields, along a way that is seldom used, usually leads me to disaster. And this, today, is what happened – I got lost, twice.

The first farm I cross has well maintained ‘kissing’ gates, allowing me access to the fields. Although the footpaths are untrodden and invisible, I can identify the exit route from each field by spotting the gate on the far side. Nothing impedes my progress, the ground is dry and firm with bare earth and no crops or mud to force a detour. So far, so good.

Then I enter a field, through one of these ‘kissing’ gates, and find the path is bounded by fencing. Now, this is the official Saxon Way, remember; one of our long distance footpaths. But instead of leading directly across the field – as per the official route, marked on the map – the path takes me round the sides of the field. Since the field is indented by a copse, and the path leads around the edge of the protruding copse, I end up walking much further than 2 sides of a triangle.

Worse still, close to the trees, the path is narrow and undermined by rabbit warrens. I am unable to detour onto firmer ground, hemmed in by wire fences, but forced to stumble across this overgrown and uneven terrain. Luckily, as this is March, there are only a few, low nettles growing here. But I can see the route will soon be overgrown with them. Meanwhile, to my right, is a bare empty field with no reason at all for this forced detour – no crops, no animals, nothing.

Having nearly completed this tortuous circuit, I reach a section of the path that is, well, completely impassable. The fence excluding me from the farmer’s field is intact. But the fence on the other side has fallen across the path, where an assortment of brambles, thistles, old gate posts and rubble are strewn across the way. It is hard to believe this is supposed to be a footpath.

So, I jump over the fence and into the field. This is, I think, what I should have done at the beginning. Walking across the field, following The Saxon Way route as marked on the OS map, I reach a broken gate and leave the field easily.

A few minutes later, and I am lost again. I was congratulating myself on good progress and had stopped near some ponds for a drink and snack. I see some Saxon Way signs – so I know I am on the path. It is just not clear where to go. I set off across another field. In retrospect, this is where I went wrong and ended up heading too far South. I end up on a track, and then on a road. A passing motorist stops and asks where I am heading.

“I’m trying to find The Saxon Way,” I tell him.

“It’s over there,” he says, pointing back in the direction I have come. “And if you find any Saxons, let me know.”

I thank him, but, disoriented, I don’t believe him. Later, after losing all the expected landmarks and resorting to the compass on my iPhone, I realise he is right. I have come too far to turn back now, but I see a way to rejoin the footpath.

Cursing the lost time and extra miles incurred by this unnecessary detour, I head towards the village of Iwade. Catching glimpses of the main road and the bridge to the Isle of Sheppey, I realise I am very close to Kemsley, on the outskirts of Sittingbourne. This is one of the destinations along my planned route today and I am almost tempted to cut across country and make straight for Kemsley. But this would pass out a long loop of The Saxon Way as it winds close to the shore. I resist.

Now I find a footpath, leading across a large field of grazing horses, towards a spot marked endearingly on the map as “Raspberry Hill”. It is not much of a hill, and I see no raspberries, but find myself back on The Saxon Way and heading down towards the shore.

The sun is behind me and as the open space of mud and bright water opens up before me, I feel a surge of energy. There is the familiar whiff of rotting vegetation from the muddy marshland, the ubiquitous wrecked hulls that litter this part of the coast and the familiar tower of Kingsnorth Power Station in the hazy distance, across the water. Yes, I am back on familiar territory. Back on the marshy coastline once again.

On my map, this area of mud and water is named “Bedlams Bottom”. I must confess, this mile of path is the best part of my walk today. Luckily, I have no idea of the difficulties to come.

I am walking on a peninsula of farmland and watery wasteland – an area called Chetney Marshes.

The Saxon Way leads me towards some ramshackle farm buildings, not marked on my map. The footpath sign is lying on the ground. I hesitate. Do I go through this farm-yard, or round it? I hear a strange noise. Is that a hoarse cockerel crowing? Further on, I see it is not a cockerel. It’s a peacock.

Once again, I have lost the track. Warning signs (“Private”, “Keep off”, “Nature reserve”) bar my way forward along the marshes. It is not clear to me who owns this land. There is no explanation on the signs.

I would expect a proper nature reserve to have signs indicating ownership and some information about the significance of the reserve.

Yet again, I am suspicious of this “reserve”. Who owns it? Why is it private? Why are white vans and other cars driving across the tracks that criss cross this peninsula, while walkers like me are kept out with rude signs?

I find the Saxon Way again. It runs along a hard, rutted path. Walking is difficult and the countryside is flat and featureless.

I cross the peninsula and, on the far side, I walk along the water (The Swale), along a lovely raised grassy bank, with rabbits hopping away from me.

It is lunch time. Stopping to have a drink and a snack, I take in the view of across the narrow strip of water towards the Isle of Sheppey. A few boats make their way along the … is it sea or river? There seems to be a fair amount of industry on the Isle and ahead of me, looking along the bank, I can see the arch of the road bridge and distant traffic crossing too and fro.

Now I see plenty of birds – Canadian geese, ducks, moorhens, ghostly heron, oyster catchers, a hovering BIG bird – I wonder what it is – too big for a harrier.

Continuing along the bank, heading south-east, towards the huge bridge to Island. As I draw nearer, I realise there are two bridges. One (the high one – Sheppey Crossing) seems to be carrying hunch back lorries. Then I realise they are car transporters – a constant stream of them, travelling from the Island to the mainland.

The other bridge (Kingsferry Bridge), lower down, is carrying slow-moving traffic from the mainland to the Island.

I cross under the bridge. On the other side is blue water and lots of little motor boats.

Running late now, I pick up my speed, walking at a quicker pace than I would naturally choose. So intent am I on making good progress, I fail to stop and check my map. To my surprise, and dismay, I end up at a dead-end. The bank ahead of me is taken over by a huge quarry with a jetty, fenced off by security fencing. A large boat is moored and a huge machine is scooping gravel from the quarry site and emptying it into the boat. I can’t believe the path is blocked. What am I going to do?

Then I check the map and realise the official Saxon Way leaves the bank, shortly before reaching the quarry and heads inland, skirting this industrial area, before rejoining the bank further south. There are, of course, no signs to indicate the deviation.

Cursing, I retrace my steps and, after a short scramble through rubbish and debris, I arrive at a section where a lovely path has been created on the raised bank the follows the peripheral road around the industrial site. There are bushes on either side. The path is reasonably well trodden with short grass and soft ground. I cross over a disused railway line.

Back on the bank, I walk through a VERY industrial landscape. But there is blue water and boats to my left and, ahead, the view of open sea in distance – a promise of things to come – hurrah!

Next bit of the walk is completed in a blur of fatigue. I walk faster than I wish to. Apart from one dog walker near the industrial site detour, I meet nobody.

Tired and irritable, I find a sign nailed to a post. The sign is encased in plastic but is faded by the weather. As far as I can see, the sign is warning me of a footpath closure, due to bridge building.

Yes, The Saxon Way is closed between Gas Lane and a map reference. I find the map reference – just South of here. Where is Gas Lane? The OS map does not have street names, just place names and, of course, map references can be found on it. Damn. Why give a map reference and a street name?

South of where I am standing, the Saxon Way follows the line of Milton Creek, running towards Sittingbourne. The map indicates the path passes close to a railway station and a built-up area of Kemsley. Before that, it winds around the perimeter of another huge industrial structure (I assume this is a power station, but later learn it is a paper mill). I hope the path is open until I reach the end of this industrial site. Then I plan to cut off the path, heading towards Kemsley. There must be a road connecting the station to Kemsley.

I resign myself to walking along roads from Kemsley to Sittingbourne.

If it wasn’t for the fear of finding my route blocked, forcing a long walk back the way I have come, I would enjoy this section. I pass lots of industrial sites – a sewage works, a rubbish tip with pipes rising out of the rubbish (reclaiming gas?), jetties and structures whose purpose I can’t fathom.

Now I am walking along the perimeter of the large paper mill and, as I reach the end of the high perimeter fence surrounding the mill, I notice there is no obvious route inland. My heart sinks. What should I do? Continue on and be forced to turn back later? I have to reach Sittingbourne. My car is parked there and I have a bed booked for the night at a B&B in the town.

Then I notice an unmarked pathway, leading inland from the Saxon Way, hugging the perimeter fence. Is it a proper path? I have no idea. But it is well trodden.

I follow the path for a short distance. It runs with the high fence on my right and tall bushes on my left. I can’t see far ahead. Scrambling up a bank I find, to my horror, I am on a railway line!

Where is the railway station? I can’t see any sign of it. To my right, the line ends in some buffers. To my left, it stretches out in a slow curve, heading towards Sittingbourne. Straight ahead are bushes, a steep bank and high fences. There is no way to cross. If there are roads and houses on the far side of this, I can’t see them.

Looking at the map, I realise I am a long way from a road. There is the bulk of the paper mill ahead of me, fenced off and inaccessible. The only real access point here is the footpath I have just left.

Just then, I see a boy walking away from me, along the line, in the direction of Sittingbourne. He is wheeling one bike and carrying another one. Maybe he knows what he is doing. I follow him.

As I walk along the edge of the line, I notice the line appears to be used. It is clear of weeds. There are no missing sections. I can tell from the map it is a “Light Railway”. That means steam trains and tourist rides, doesn’t it? Nothing will be travelling along here on a weekday in March, will it? I notice there are no signs saying ‘do not trespass’. And there is room at the sides of the track for me to stand aside if a train comes.

It still feels odd, and very wrong, to be walking along a railway track.

I speed up to keep up with the young lad ahead. If he turns off, I want to see where he goes. I have to follow him. I can’t follow this track all the way to Sittingbourne. In any case, I suspect the track will be fenced off by security fences when we reach a more populated area.

Passing a building site, workmen in yellow jackets nod and say hello. If they think it is odd to see a middle-aged woman walking on a train track in the middle of nowhere, they are too polite to say so.

The boy turns off the track, just where gravel roadway crosses line. I follow him, relieved to be away from the railway, and find I am on an industrial road. I get the feeling this is part of a construction project. The road is made of loose gravel and there are speed restriction signs.

Then, I see a church ahead. At last, a landmark. The map says I am in a ‘country park’ – very new park with baby trees, tiny trunks surrounded by anti rabbit protection fences. There are a few people walking here, some with dogs, so it must be public land. I head south-westerly, across the park, to join the road that leads to Sittingbourne.

To my horror, I find the way ahead barred. There are temporary structures, offices, building materials and, worst of all, a big gate with security men, separating me from the road. This is a giant building site after all.

It is five minutes to five o’clock. The workmen, in high vis jackets and hard hats, are congregating around the gates, loading vans, preparing to go home.

“Can I pass through here,” I ask, hoping I look suitably tired, lost and pathetic.

“You’re not supposed to love,” they say. “Where have you come from?”

“Somewhere over there,” I wave vaguely in the direction of the railway line. “I didn’t realise I couldn’t get through.”

It is five o’clock. They are going home. They are in a good mood. They let me through.

Now I walk along busy roads towards the centre of Sittingbourne and the comfort of another B&B. Thank goodness I arrived before they closed and locked the site. I could have been stuck there – trapped.

There is one more odd experience on this strange day.

To my left, I pass a ramshackle mobile home. It looks like some temporary structure, belonging to the building site. Then I notice the NHS sign.

This is an NHS surgery? It can’t be. It is!

Yes, this horrible shack is one of the much vaunted Darzi Centres, officially entitled “GP-led Health Clinics”, where instant access to a GP and a range of other services in a one-stop shop will be provided for the convenience of patients and because us humble GPs are, apparently, incapable of providing a decent service. The last government promised the public would have one of these wonderful clinics (a “Super Surgery” or “Polyclinic”) in every area.

This is one of those clinics? Dreadful. Truly dreadful – like a third world health facility.

I assume it is disused. Then a small car pulls up beside it and a large man makes his way, leaning heavily on a stick, toward the door. It is being used. What a disgrace. Surely the people of Sittingbourne deserve better than this?

I am almost too tired to be angry. Almost.

Miles travelled = 15 miles (felt much longer).
Railway tracks walked along = 1.
Getting lost = three times.

High points: orchards and Bedlams Bottom.
Low points: seeing the Darzi Polyclinic.

Scenic value? 3/10 due to the dominating, everpresent, industrial scenery.

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, photography, Saxon Way, travel, walking | 3 Comments

Stage 35. Gillingham to Upchurch

Posted on March 22, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

Gillingham station is horrible. I walk behind an oversized girl, with a homemade tattoo on her bulging spare tyre, trying to get past the ticket barriers with a child’s ticket. She is stopped and, as I leave, she is being cross-examined by three ticket inspectors.

The only thing of interest I see during my walk down towards the shore, is an amazing white cat with different coloured eyes.

I walk behind a middle-aged woman pushing her grandchild (I assume) in a push chair. She has so many bags hanging off push chair, if she let go of the handles it would surely topple to one side. To be fair, most of the bags are full of disposable nappies.

Today I am carrying enough in my rucksack for an overnight stay at a B&B. This took a great deal of planning, as I try to travel as lightly as possible, so I have a change of clothing and some wash things, that’s all. At one point, I realise I am being eyed up by a fellow walker, walking on the other side of the street. Stealing glances towards him, I realise he is a real tramp – disheveled and with a dirty rucksack on his back.

Partly to avoid walking too closely to him (and I am slightly ashamed of this), I linger in a church yard and get my camera out. A man, putting out the bins, motions me over and lets me into his garden, where there is a better view of the church. The churchyard is nice and just below it there is a green park (Gillingham Green) where, finally, I find some signposts for The Saxon Way.

I duly follow the signs, leading me down a nice lane until I reach a busy dual carriageway. Then the signs stop. Which way do I turn down the road? Left or right? The Saxon Way runs parallel to this road, on the far side, but how do I get access to it?

Then I remember my last visit here and see a familiar landmark.

Yes, I turn left and head for gasworks, a landmark I recognise. (Later I realise I could have joined Saxon way by going right – this would have been shorter but I would have missed excitement of The Strand).

There are people in The Strand and, unlike my last visit, the toilets are open. Still no snack bar or tea shop – shame. There is a low mist hanging on over the near horizon and I take some spooky snaps of Kingsnorth power station and the industrial structures on the Isle of Grain behind.

There are some very noisy gulls with black heads. I am getting better at recognising wild life. I believe these are called Little Gulls.

Now the sun comes out and, as I walk eastward along the shore, the area suddenly appears more attractive. Some time and effort has been spent here, turning the waterside into a scenic area (despite the surrounding industrial landscape). After walking past some houses and industrial areas, I come across a couple of lovely nature reserves – including the Riverside Country Park.

There are sunken barges in water. Kingsnorth Power Station remains a presence in the background. And, strangely, I notice ducks – dabbling – in the sea!

I see a notice about interesting flora and fauna. One thing that strikes me is the phrase “… grass snake, this is one of two species of snakes found here” – what is the OTHER one? There are only three species of snake in Britain, so it must either be the smooth snake or adder? (Later, I look up ‘smooth snake’ on the internet and discover these are rare and not resident in Kent. It must be adders.)

There are wonderful place names here. Horrid Hill is a small peninsula – with not much of a hill. Motney hill is a larger peninsula with a definite hill. The path leads here and joins a road. Not many people seem to walk this way. I wonder why.

The first clue is a tanker, passing me along the road, with “non dangerous waste” on its side. The second clue is the smell.

Yes, Motney Hill is a pretty peninsula but houses a sewage works.

So, the far end of the peninsula is inaccessible and the shore is screened off by large fences. I wonder how people can work and live with such a stink – there are residential houses here with children’s play equipment in the gardens. But, after a while, I don’t notice the smell anymore. I guess you can get used to anything.

I follow The Saxon Way as it winds along the edge of Otterham Creek. Moored in the creek are a motley collection of old houseboats, sunken ships and decaying wharves.

After that, Saxon Way turns inland and I walk along quiet roads and footpaths, up Windmill Hill, through orchards. I catch a glimpse of a man skinning and gutting rabbit with no sign of a knife – in a field beside his open 4×4. From the glimpse I have, he appears to be deftly removing fur and innards with his bare hands. He must have a knife! I don’t linger to find out.

After that, I am forced to follow a road. Although there is not much traffic, the road is dangerous for walkers, barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass and certainly not wide enough for two cars and a pedestrian, there are no pavements or verges. The map shows the footpath branching off to the left. I see a likely looking track, but it has ‘private’ signs and a barrier (albeit raised to allow access). Continuing on, I realise that this must have been the footpath – the official Saxon Way. By this time it is too late and I have climbed a steep hill and am in the village of Upchurch.

I resolve to report this to the council. Up until this point, this section of The Saxon Way was well signposted. Someone has removed the signs.

I stop at a busy little village co-op and buy some coke and snacks for tomorrows walk.

Then, walking onwards, I arrive at my booked B&B., where I am given a warm welcome, a cup of tea and a huge slice of cake in the garden. A robin joined me for tea, perching on the back of the garden chair.

In the fading sunshine of this warm day, I notice the garden birds very noisy. It must be spring.

Already I am worrying about my walk tomorrow. I feel exhausted, have had trouble finding the correct footpaths, and yet I have only walked 7 miles today. Tomorrow’s walk will be 14 miles to Sittingbourne.

I was right to be worried. Little do I realise what a mission this will be!

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, photography, travel, walking | 9 Comments

Stage 34. Hoo St Warburgh to Rochester

Posted on March 6, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

I walk through the graveyard of the church at Hoo St Warburgh. There are fresh graves with real flowers and little windmills. On a child’s grave there is a teddy and balloons. I refrain from taking photographs – it seems too intrusive on other peoples’ grief.

It may be a grey day, but I am glad to be alive.

I cross the road and join the Saxon Way. In front of me, Kingsnorth Power Station is belching steam, but I am not heading back towards it. Instead, I follow the path as it turns to the South and I walk briskly down the hill to the shore.

I am going to find a river, not the sea. Oh, I long for the sea but I have the River Medway to navigate first. I have only seen this river from the M2, whizzing over it on the way down to Dover or Folkestone, on family holidays.

According to the OS map, There are 2 Saxon Ways – one running close to the river, the other further inland, running along the top of a slight ridge. My husband advised me to take the top path as the views would be better. I am inclined to take the route closer to the shore – following my self-imposed rule of sticking as close to the water as possible.

When I reach the river bank, turning right to follow the shore, I wonder if I have made a big mistake.

The path winds through unfriendly semi-industrial spaces and is, at times, hard to spot. Oh, here it is, hidden behind this fence and with unappealing barriers making sure I keep to the straight and narrow. Narrow it might be. Straight? I wish!

When I emerge from this unpleasant alley way, I find I am walking round the edge of a marina. Fences line my path and there are many signs telling me not to trespass, private property, keep off. There is a strange jumble of boats; some large ships that appear abandoned, a collection of houseboats, a few yachts and an assortment of small tugs and motorboats.

The marina has a slightly run-down feel to it, but at least it is used.

Emerging at the other end of the marina, the walk stretches ahead of me, hugging the shore line. This is the most pleasant part of the walk so far and, indeed, the most pleasant part of the walk for the rest of the day.

The shore is typical estuary – a mix of mud and shingle. There are obvious signs of erosion along the bank. In some places I can see, above my head, large, exposed tree roots. Here parts of the bank (trees and all) look as if they could come crashing down at any moment.

Now I realise why there are two Saxon Way’s marked on the map. At high tide, this path would be covered.

There is the obligatory, and collapsing, pill box.

Across the water are some nice looking, modern houses.

Looking at my map, I realise this must be a new residential development on St Mary’s Island, part of the town of Rochester. The brightly painted houses look somewhat surreal against the muddy estuary and the hulks of wrecked and abandoned boats.

As I approach Lower Upnor, I see ahead of me a castle on the river bank. It rises, imposingly above the water. The light is too poor for photography. Later I learn this is Upnor Castle built in the 16th Century to protect the Medway, on the orders of Queen Elizabeth the 1st.

My path now winds around the edge of an industrial area, some parts of which appear to belong to the Ministry of Defence. There is the usual assortment of unfriendly notices, telling me to “Keep Out”, “Beware, Guard Dogs”, “CCTV in operation” and, while I’m at it, “No parking”.

A climb up some steep steps and I find I am walking around the back of the castle.

There is a high wall to my left, marking the perimeter of the castle grounds, while on my right are steep wooded slopes with glimpses of a road below. When I emerge from this leafy pathway, I find I am in a very pleasant village, Upper Upnor.

The street I am on is very pretty and the houses are well cared for. Lions guard some steps. There is interesting architecture.

I pass the front gates to Upnor Castle, but resist the temptation to go in.

Time is pressing and I have arranged to have lunch with my husband in Rochester.

Upnor means, literally, “at the bank” in Old English. The High Street is perched above the river and is, really, just a footpath – leading down to the shore.

The shore itself is very muddy. I see a family walking down towards it. The children run ahead and begin shrieking with delight as the mud grasps their boots and they begin to slip and slide. The parents stop, horrified, and shout to them to come back. Too late! Mud – glorious mud – everywhere.

I am glad I have my walking boots on.

From here the path turns inland and I see the busy dual carriage way that lead to the Medway Tunnel. I begin to worry about crossing this road, then, to my delight, I see there is a set of traffic lights for walkers and cyclists.

Once safely across, I scramble up a steep hill and walk along a road, approaching Rochester. From this high vantage point, there is a good view of Rochester. I see the bridge across the river, a fine-looking 12th century castle and a Cathedral.

As I near the bridge, I realise there are actually two bridges across the river; the nearest bridge being more modern with an attractive older bridge, guarded by imposing lions, on the far side.

Bizarrely, I spot a submarine in the river. It is badly rusted and listing to one side. I am surprised to see a hammer and sickle on the turret. Later, I tell my husband there is a Russian submarine in the Medway. He laughs and says someone must have painted the Russian emblem as a joke.

Later I find out it is, really, a Russian submarine; a Hunter Killer Class sub, called The Black Widow.

After lunch, I walk through Rochester (or is it Chatham), heading for the shore at Gillingham. I wish there was something nice I could say about this part of the walk. It is not possible to follow the shoreline (due to docks, wharves, industrial units, etc), so I follow the Saxon Way as marked on the OS map.

“It must be scenic, if it’s the Saxon Way,” said my husband. There was a shorter route I could have taken, but I believed him.

Chatham / Gillingham is a deprived area with massive unemployment following the closure of the naval base at Chatham Dockyards in the 1980s. Despite a marina and a new business park, there seemed little sign of prosperity. The Gillingham railway station is one of the scruffiest I have ever seen (come on Southeastern Railway – how much does a tin of paint cost?) and I walked along neglected and unloved streets with sad-looking houses with peeling paint, broken windows and concreted front gardens. The only nice, new building I saw belonged to Medway Council.

Maybe I am being unfair. Maybe it is the grey weather and the low clouds. Maybe.

Eventually, dispirited, I arrived at The Strand – a newly developed, much trumpeted, leisure area. I am looking forward to a cup of tea and a visit to the toilet. If I follow the signposts of the Saxon Shore Way, they should me lead here. The problem is, the signage is poor. I reach a main road and don’t know whether to turn left or right. I walk in both directions but see no evidence of a leisure park. Eventually I phone my husband, who is sitting in the car park at The Strand, and he directs me.

“Head for the gasworks,” he says.

I do.

Here, in the shadow of the gasworks, is the Strand. There is a car park with a few people sitting in their cars, eating takeaways. Beyond some children’s play equipment, I can see the shore and the waters of the estuary in the distance, with Kingsnorth Power Station as a backdrop.

There is no cafe.

The toilets are shut.

Vital stats:
Miles walked = 10
Submarines spotted = 1

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, hiking, travel, walk | 6 Comments

Stage 33. Allhallows-on-Sea to Hoo St Werburgh

Posted on March 5, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

Finally, a Saturday with no rain forecast and the temperature above freezing. Here we are, in the car park of “The British Pilot” pub in Allhallows. It is 5 months since I last walked the coast and I am dying to get on with my trek.

It is a grey day with low cloud. I take the footpath across the field towards the bank. Here I stop to admire the view – scenes of where-I-have-been-before are spread out on the other side of the Thames estuary. Looking left, past Allhallows itself, I see the refineries of Canvey Island. Across the water is Southend-on-Sea. To my right, my path for today extends Eastwards along the deserted bank.

I set off with water on my left-hand side and small waves lapping against the bank. Is it a sea bank or a river bank? I am not sure. This is the junction between river and sea, the in-between area.

I have not gone far before I turn southward, following the bank as it follows the course of Yantlet Creek. On the other side of the Creek is the Isle of Grain (misnamed now, as no longer an island, just a peninsular – the gap between has silted up – although there was a time when you could sail a ship through here, avoiding open sea).

I notice a beacon out in the water and beyond that a stone monument. Later I learn this is one of the ‘London Stones’, marking the boundary of the jurisdiction of the City of London.

Across the water in Southend is another London Stone, the Crow Stone. (I photographed it in September, when I walked through Southend, not knowing what it was.) The line between the two stones, running across the mouth of the River Thames, is called the Yantlet Line and defines the limit of jurisdiction of the Port of London Authority. I suppose this is the line beyond which the River Thames officially becomes the North Sea.

The sun comes out. There is nobody around. Across the fields I see the distant industrial structures of the Isle of Grain.

There is nobody around. I wonder why. Allhallows-on-Sea hosts a large holiday camp and I would expect people to be out, walking dogs, etc.

I have done my research today. The footpath follows the bank ahead but ends abruptly. I couldn’t find any ‘right of way’ connecting the path to a track or road. So, I have decided to strike off inland, following a footpath to Binney Farm and then into Allhallows itself.

I nearly miss the footpath, the signs are destroyed. And the path is very muddy. Obviously hordes of cattle have travelled this way. The bank is covered in cow pats but, worse still, the footpath itself is churned up by hundreds of deep footprints. I make my way, with great difficulty, across the marshy field. I wish I had my poles, I think, as I leap from one muddy area to another

Then I reach a section where I must cross a narrow spit of land, surrounded by water on either side. I know this is the footpath – I can see Binney Farm ahead. But the crossing consists of deep, sticky mud. Worse still, it is pockmarked with huge, water-filled, cow footprints. I can’t go forward. On either side are watercourses. There is no way around. Mud has reached past my laces to the tops of my boots. With each step, I feel my boots being tugged downwards. I am in danger of sinking to my knees – or ending up barefoot.

I crisscross the muddy field, trying to find an alternative route, but water ditches impede my progress, too wide to jump.

Eventually, with considerable frustration and a heavy heart, I admit defeat. There is nothing else to do. I turn round and retrace my steps back to Allhallows-on-Sea, back to The British Pilot pub.

On my way back, I pass a monument that I failed to take much notice of first time. This is a grand monument, erected by the Southern Water Authority, Kent, to commemorate the completion of the Thames flood defences (1975 to 1985).

The monument is leaning at a rakish angle. The river refuses to be tamed and is already claiming victory. Nature is having the last laugh.

From the pub in Allhallows-on-sea, I follow the road to Lower Stoke, where I am meeting my husband for lunch. I leave a trail of muddy footprints along the pavement.

Luckily, the road is quiet with very little traffic. It follows a slight rise to the land, and I have a good view of the Isle of Grain across the fields.

I worry about lunch. It is too cold to sit outside, but my boots are very muddy. I needn’t have worried. The pub is run down, unloved and uncared for. There are a couple of old boys at the bar, otherwise the place is empty. It is Saturday lunchtime but they don’t do food. However, the bartender is happy for us to buy food from elsewhere and eat it in his pub. A nearby convenience store is staffed by a Chinese Lady who cooks hot food to order! How wonderfully convenient.

From here onwards, I stick to footpaths, crossing fields to pass by the small village of Stoke, on to Tudor Farm and continue via a bridleway, grandly called North Street on the map. In the distance, Kingsnorth Power Station comes into view and grows steadily larger as I walk southwards.

Now I cross over railway lines. As I hesitate (stopping, looking and listening – as instructed by the signs), I see ahead of me a path with a tall hedge on one side and just get a glimpse of a figure; a man appears to leap into the hedge, just out of sight.

I feel a momentary flash of anxiety. Why is a man hiding in the hedge?

But I have braved cows, snakes and mud. And, I have no choice but to continue. So I do.

As I walk along the path, he comes into view, standing on the side of the track, almost in the hedge. He is youngish, and he has a shot-gun slung over his arm. After another flash of anxiety, I realise he also has a sheepish look on his face. He doesn’t look menacing – he looks guilty.

I nod and say ‘hello’ and he returns my greeting. I feel slightly uneasy as I pass and walk onwards. With my back towards him, I can no longer see him or the gun. But I notice the ground on either side of the path is full of rabbit holes and I am pretty sure that explains his purpose today.

There is a line of pylons on my right. I can hear electricity crackling in the air around them.

Approaching the power station and surrounding industrial estate, the footpath becomes littered with the debris of untidy humans – crisp packets, tissues, empty bottles, cigarette butts, etc. But, apart from the man with the gun, I meet nobody. It is Saturday and the place is a ghost town.

I walk past one entrance to the power station, manned by a bored looking guard. The footpath continues onwards across fields, under another line of marching pylons and towards Hoo St Werburgh.

The light, already dull, is fading further. I am tiring and looking forward to the end of this walk. I can see the church spire ahead of me.

Looking at the map, I realise I am on the official Saxon Shore Way, one of our long-distance footpaths. Now I meet more people, walking dogs and riding horses. I cross a road and walk through the church yard to the front of the church.

I am early and my husband is late. It has been too muddy to stop anywhere for a snack. Now I sit on a wall and drink my water and eat all my chocolate bars.

This has been a day of ups and down. For the first time, I have been defeated by mud. Walking along rivers and estuaries can be very frustrating, with constant detours inland. Having started off so close, I am now, it seems, some way away from the sea.

But at least I am making progress. And tomorrow is another day ….

Vital stats:
Miles walked = 10 miles
Interesting sights seen = The London Stone, man with a gun, Kingsnorth Power Station, industrial landscape, tons and tons of mud.

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, england, travel, walking | 10 Comments

Stage 32. Egypt’s Bay to Allhallows-on-Sea

Posted on October 10, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

I start my walk at Swigshole, climbing over the style and walking up the potholed track to reach Halstow marshes. Walking along a raised bank, I am back on the riverside footpath once more.

Egypt Bay looks different this morning. The gulls have gone.

I walk with the River Thames on my left. Across the blue-grey water are the storage tanks and chimney towers of Canvey Island.

Large freight ships pass up and down, carrying containers.

I walk along the endless river wall. To my right is marsh and farmland, stretching inland to where the land rises into a gentle ridge.

I see nobody.

I walk, making good progress and following the raised bank, around another inlet, called St Mary’s Bay. Now I am in the area called St Mary’s Marshes.

The tide is coming in. The river wall disappears and becomes a simple raised bank. The shore is free of litter but is rough, with seaweed strewn rocks. The river widens and the far bank looks, well – far.

I look back along the River Thames to Canvey Island, disappearing behind me. I am beginning to feel I am making good progress and will soon be near the open sea; something to look forward to after days of river walking.

Rounding a curve in the river bank I see, across marshland, Allhallows-on-Sea ahead of me. This is where I am meeting my husband for lunch. There is a little bay between. The tide is in and, although there is an area of sand bank running just off shore, I can see no easy, dry, route across the bay.

I consult my map. The official footpath runs parallel to the river, round the bay, but keeping just inland, along a bank that runs along the edge the marsh. As I search for the footpath, I come across a wide track and am tempted to follow it, but this would lead me too far inland. Allhallows is my destination and that is ahead of me, across the bay.

Then I spot the footpath through the marsh, following the top of one of the many banks running between waterways. The path is not signposted, but other people have trodden the long grass down, creating a visible track. I follow the path with confidence, but it soon becomes lost in a maze of bramble and hawthorn bushes. Sticking to the beaten route as best I can, I bend down to crawl through clumps of hawthorn and I constantly fight off the thorny embrace of bramble branches.

Looking back, I see two young walkers have crossed the bay, using the sandbank as a path. They have come from the direction of Allhallows. There must be a way across the bay, avoiding the marshes and keeping close to the water. I am tempted to go back and retrace their steps, but I have come so far along here now, and the route back is through thorny brambles. So I decide to continue my trek through the marsh.

In retrospect, this was a mistake.

But for the moment, it seems like the right decision. The path becomes clearer and leads along the edge of a farmers field. Here the ground is very muddy, churned up by cattle, and I am glad to come across a style, leading back over into the marsh.

Where to go now? I see some planks of wood lying in a line across the ground. Everywhere else is mud and bog. This must be the path.

Now I reach a bank, slightly higher than the surrounding bog. It looks like people have walked along here. But, as I follow it, the bank meanders, taking right-angled turns, so that I am constantly doubling back on my route and making slow progress. The path becomes less obvious and the tracks disappear. Now the top of the bank is narrow and obscured by long grass. There are no thorny bushes but the ground is rough and uneven. I am grateful for my poles. Progress is painfully slow.

As I jump across a ditch, landing on a bed of flattened grass and reeds, something long and thick slithers away from close to my left foot.

It is a snake.

The colour of the snake was a uniform, dull brownish green colour. I know this means it was a grass snake and, although I am no longer fearful of grass snakes, I do worry about something worse – adders. I would like to put my gaiters on for protection, but the ground is too uneven for me to balance while I do this and I can’t bring myself to sit down in this damp, muddy, snake-infested bog.

My meanderings have brought me closer to the shore and I see there is a narrow, shingle “beach” by the water. I abandon the path, if it was a path, and stumble across spongy, wet vegetation to reach the shore. Now I walk on shingle and am grateful to be off the marsh.

But ahead I see a bank of soft earth. The tide is in and the beach is covered with water up to the bank. The bank is boggy with water trickling down it and marshy plants visible on top. Although it is not very high, I realise I can’t climb up easily. I would have to scramble up on hands and knees and, even then, may not be able to make it up the soft, slippery surface. And I have no idea what sort of foothold there is at the top.

Reluctantly, I turn back and, where the ground is flatter, make my way back onto the wet marshland.

Following a raised bank, I come to a dead-end. The bank ends and there are water-filled ditches on every side.
I am faced with the awful prospect of walking back the way I came, or trying to find another way across the marsh.

Then I see a plank across one of the dykes. Is this a proper path? Or has someone just put it here to get access to an area for fishing or hunting?

I don’t know and I don’t care. I am running out of choices. I walk the plank.

The bank stretches ahead from this point, one of a number of banks, all running parallel and separated by stretches of green water and mud. I have no idea whether I am on the right bank and I worry that I will come to a dead-end and have to retrace my steps back through this boggy marshland.

All thought of following the official footpath has long since gone. I just want to get to the other side of the marsh; in one piece and before the end of the day. So I continue, balancing on the top of the bank, using my poles to support me and praying I don’t twist an ankle or meet an adder.

After some time, and to my surprise, I see people walking in the distance. I am approaching Allhallows. In my world of water, mud and bogs, I had forgotten another world existed. The people ahead are walking in a line that takes them across the end of my bank, far ahead of me. Even at this distance, I can see there are children in the group. So there must be a dry route ahead and it must be relatively safe.

The bank continues straight and, eventually, ends when it meets a flowing waterway; a narrow river. By the time I reach this point, the group of people have long since gone. I realise they weren’t on this bank, but on a far bank, on the other side of the waterway. My forward progress, once so hopeful, is now halted. Luckily, there is a bank along my side of the waterway, and I follow this towards the shore.

Ahead of me, the shingle beach comes into view. The sun comes out and shines on the sea, the beach and one of the ubiquitous pillboxes that dot the countryside.

My bank dips sharply downwards, towards the beach and I head downwards at a run. Now there is a shallow stream of water separating me from the shore. Compared to the watery wastes behind me, this barrier is a trivial inconvenience. I splash across it.

From here the going is easy, with the narrow beach taking me up to a wall with a promenade. There is a holiday park here. People are out with their families.

The promenade is being eroded by the sea. This end is narrow with signs warning the route may be impassable at high tide. But I am just grateful for solid concrete beneath my feet, albeit cracked and broken.

After my lonely trek across the marsh, it is strange to be here, with people.

Around a corner of the promenade and I come across a slipway where a large car is unloading a jet ski into the water. The skier sits astride the machine, shooting water up into the air, before he sets off in a bouncy ride across the waves.

It is windy. There are people fishing off the promenade and, further along there is a wide green spaces with benches. I am feeling very tired and sit on one of the benches for a while.

I am hungry and need my lunch.

The last mile of the walk is hard going. My legs ache from the strain of my journey across the marshes and I am still feeling the effects of yesterday’s 15 mile hike.

As I leave the shore, heading inland towards the pub, I walk between static caravans and holiday cottages, past a fishing lake.

From the door of one of the cottages, an elderly lady calls out to me. Would I like some mushrooms? No, thank you, is my first reaction. I am tired and groceries are the last thing on my mind. But she has picked them today, far more than she needs and, if I don’t take some, they will be wasted. She had a huge plate for breakfast and can’t face anymore.

I take the proffered plastic bag. The mushrooms do look lovely. All different sizes and with creamy, pale tops and warm, brown gills.

My husband is waiting in the pub and Paolo Nutini is playing through the speaker system. We have a large roast dinner, with cider, and talk about ways to cook mushrooms. I have another cider. My aches and pains begin to fade but are replaced with a wonderful feeling of sleepy relaxation. I tell my husband I will walk no further today.

I have another cider while he fetches the car and fall asleep on the way home.

Miles travelled = 7 as crow flies, but considerably more in reality.
Snakes seen = 1
Low point: getting lost in the marshes
High point: a bag of fresh mushrooms

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged hiking, Kent, snake, travel, walking | 24 Comments

Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

Stage 41. Birchington to Margate to North Foreland

Stage 40. Whitstable to Herne Bay to Birchington

Stage 39. Faversham to Whitstable

Stage 38. Teynham to Faversham

Stage 37. Sittingbourne to Teynham

Stage 36. Upchurch to Sittingbourne

Stage 35. Gillingham to Upchurch

Stage 34. Hoo St Warburgh to Rochester

Stage 33. Allhallows-on-Sea to Hoo St Werburgh

Stage 32. Egypt’s Bay to Allhallows-on-Sea

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