Whitstable: pretend like it’s the weekend

It seems we’re having some sort of tropical rain storm outside today, so I’m glad to be in the comfort of my home with a cup of coffee, ready to tell you about my trip out of London yesterday.

While the newspapers worry about another steaming volcano in Iceland threatening to ruin people’s Bank Holiday jet-away plans, I wisely choose a “beach holiday” reachable by train. After a bit of Googling, I decided it was going to be either Camber Sands near Rye or Whistable. The Internet gave me the impression they were both idyllic beach towns. The Internet is a liar.

Whitstable then. 

Lately, I have spent much time fantasizing about leaving the London madness, “quitting the rat race” and relocating somewhere quieter. This trip was the sobering up I needed. Our train to Whitstable passed through some pretty rough towns. Rochester … whatever happened in Rochester? Rochester is like a broken home, all sadness, ghosts and rust. Sure, the property prices are probably lower there. For a reason. It was a slap in the face. Not all small towns are full of smiling children playing in green fields, or happy parents sipping Fairtrade caramel lattes with gold dust sprinkled on top. It reminded me what I escaped from 9 years ago. The small-town boredom, teenagers hanging out in dusty car parks, hating everything and everyone, no opportunities, no possibilities, nothing to do and nowhere to go.

Whitstable wasn’t that much better. The Internet gives you the impression it’s a gourmet paradise, a fishing village where posh Londoners come for their seafood. I was mildly disappointed. There are far more trees and green spaces in my neighbourhood in London than the whole of Whitstable. The grass is not greener, but the concrete sure is greyer.

The locals were a friendly bunch, though. We stopped an older couple to ask them for directions, and they explained to us that the name Whitstable comes from “White Staple” because they used to have salt pans here. But now they don’t make salt any more, because this is Britain and nobody makes anything in Britain these days.

We tried to make the most of the rocky beach, eating strawberries and reading in the sun. I’m currently re-reading Jack Kerouac’s “On The Road”, so my head is full of images of the California sun, endless highways and hobos hitchhiking across America with barely a dollar in their pocket, laughing and enjoying an ultimate freedom on the road. I’m travelling in my head … with Mr. Sal Paradise and his fellow bums for company. It’s a fun journey.

The lady who sold us the strawberries mentioned something about divorcing her husband after 20 years. She said it with a brave matter-of-fact voice that was supposed to make it sound like nothing was happening, but, deep down, you knew she was totally gutted. I felt sorry for her, in this town, alone. Her strawberries tasted good.

It was my first time ever tasting oysters! Hey, I come from a landlocked country. We don’t eat oysters there. They tasted just like the sea. Yeah, it was exactly like Eating Sea.

 
A dad and his little kid were flying a kite on the beach. The sky was glorious.


One of the things Whitstable is supposedly known for are the funny street names.

My friend M. lost his shoes in Whitstable. He left them on the beach and then the high tide came and took them. He had to travel back to London barefoot. Hardly anyone on the Tube noticed. Hilarious.

---------------------------------------

Camber Sands next time.