Post-breakfast, pre-six nations Sunday thumb twiddling, found me happily installed upon a motorcycle heading east on the M2 in Kent, with that little jewel of the garden of England’s north coast in mind. March temperatures are most conducive to the more heavily insulated among us, and a stroll around Whitstable with its idyllic working harbour, myriad of cafés whose decked fronts spill delightfully onto the beach, and fascinating mix of sea-dog characters, eccentric artists, beautifully attired European tourists and day-trippers from east London, prove to be an aural and aesthetic cauldron of joy for the avid people watcher.
I soon arrived at the back of the usual queue from the motorway slip road, that joins the main route into the town, and slowed to a halt behind a centipede of cars, which can be frustrating and maddening in the summer; two wheels makes it easy to thread through, with ample dedicated bike parking at the harbourside, a rare and convenient reward. With bike stowed next to the impressive Lifeboat station, my nose and lungs feast on the salty air, my feet and I stroll and crunch over the fragments of oyster and crab shells that dust the quayside, and I head past fish crates stamped with names of far off fisheries, buoys, floats and a cat’s conundrum of netting and rope that turn the scene into a jigsaw maker or chocolatier’s dream, arriving at the first Latte purveyor of the day where I’m greeted with a wide smile and heartfelt enquiry as to my health.
Coffee pressed, milk steamed and cup handed over with a wide smile and a chat about the weather, I stand and sip and purvey the harbour. Blue, red and white fishing boats bob and chunter their engines, ribs ready themselves and their stacks of lifejackets for the day’s boat tours, and proud owners of ornate Dutch barges tidy rope and rigging in to shapes that would look stunning on the wall of a gallery, let alone the heavily varnished dec and glinting brass fittings they adorn. Surprisingly large herring gulls land next to me, as if I too were a gull, and I wander the other stalls of the harbour selling anything from exquisite fine art prints and watercolours, to steam punk ornaments, to lavish plates of Thai and Chinese noodles, and of course, oysters and crayfish tails, fresh this morning from those chuntering trawlers only yards away, still tidying their nets.
With eyes on the beachfront, I saunter back though my fellow enjoyers of the quintessential - past dog walkers, joggers, trawlerman, couples, families, and folk pointing phones and cameras in every direction. Happily mesmerised children dart hither and thither pointing at everything at once while their parents chase them carrying half-eaten ice-creams. My ears pass through a mix of cockney, French, German, middle-English and Italian accents and I pause to chuckle at a temperature of fourteen degrees, more than enough for shorts and tea-shirt for some, but still thick puffy down jackets and scarves for others, some with ‘badges’ from ‘those’ gulls.
The beach itself is a whitish gold of mostly shells and fine sand, stretching to orange and brown pebbles below the tideline, and the famous oyster racks are just visible as the tide drops, marked with brightly coloured buoys and flags. Much of the town’s charm comes from its architecture of ‘sea shack chic’, with many of the beach front houses constructed of slatted wood, old brick and decking. With each turn of the head or thrown glance, the eye lands upon a scene that would fit happily in an illustrated book of sea shanties, with house names and coastal bric-a-brac to suit. Indeed, its somewhat like walking through a coast lover’s fairytale, and I particularly revel in the feel of walking among tall breakwaters, boats, yachts and their plethora of ornate rigging and knots which fascinate with intricacy and colour. I feel part of the sea itself at times.
That fairytale feel is bolstered by Whitstable’s alleys and back-ways, which, with the sun lowish in the March sky, cast wondrous shadows through the streets and masts and high gable buildings into narrow, winding walkways, that link the beach to the high street and its watering holes. One is never far from a boat, a sea shell, a character with a storey to tell, or somewhere to sit with something to drink and watch clouds go by and the tide ebb and flood. For a Daytripper, or even a Kentish local like myself, it’s a place for mindful happiness and escape from a digital world.
Much controversy just now, as with a lot of similar places, around tourism, the buying of second homes and AB&B rents, and prices are fairly high it must be said. A lengthy and complex discussion will no doubt rumble for the foreseeable future, but to its utmost credit the town still maintains its ‘local’ and more importantly its ‘independent’ feel, well worth a deeper reach into pockets for the atmosphere and the soulful feel of old-English working harbour, and of course the numerous opportunities to find beauty and intrigue with a camera or a paintbrush.
