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It took almost 40 years for Shelley-ann (Shan) and me to get to Kent (excepting many trips to Dover as a conduit to France and beyond) and it took a couple of great friends from Norway to entice us there ...  Above: Stepping out for dinner at the local golf club at Boughton-under-Blean near Canterbury in Kent; a fine party of the country for painterly attempts. A phone call from one of my longest friendships, Graham Dyson, was all we needed to initiate a foray into Kent to accompany him and his wife, Kjersti, on a bit of a coastal romp of Eastern Kent. They were determined to holiday outside Norway without air travel. Trains proved to be the order of the day and an exploratory attempt down to the UK offered a couple of hurdles to overcome ... getting South of Oslo and crossing a bit of reasonably serious water. I liked to think that Shan and I might have been influential in the equation, too. Graham and Kjersti had visited me a few times at home in Oxfordshire after I had been diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML) in March the previous year and the experts had given me a few months to live. Those occasions had involved a fair old effort on the Dysons' part, involving flights and hire cars and excursions to our house. Despite fairly successfully fending off AML as far as my immediate longevity was concerned, my personal reliance on the NHS[1] contrived to make travel outside of the UK prohibitive. Travel insurance for AMLers was spectacularly expensive[2] by orders of magnitude that made Shan and me accept that future holidays would have to be confined to these happy shores. We booked into the same hotels as the Dysons' and were rewarded with the additional benefit that a mutual friend from the heady days of the University of Natal, Durban, in the late 60s would be joining us for a couple of strolls in Kent. Graham had been in constant contact with Rod (Smith) but I'd only bumped into him very briefly during the intervening 50+ years. I'd always been fond of Rod but never got to know him properly after I gave up my law studies in about 1971 and became a cub reporter. Issues with Booking.com were overcome. Several of these emerged during our stay in Eastern England but failed to ruin the reunion between friends. Canterbury The first leg of our trek took us to Boughton-under-Blean, which was to be the base for visiting the ancient city and for the first of a couple of life affirming bucolic walks. Above (l-r, top-bottom): Canterbury Cathedral, an omnipresent backdrop; river (Great Stour), parks and skies; Blackfriars Chapel with the Great Stour in the foreground; street art abounds; sited opposite the gates of the cathedral is a pub that has been in the location for more than 500 years, now named the The Old Buttermarket[3]; rather a splendid array inside the pub, which also incorporates a restaurant area. Apart from collecting Rod from the London to Canterbury train, the cathedral was always going to be the prime attraction of our visit to Canterbury, for Kjersti, Shan and me. It is reputed to be the oldest cathedral in Britain having been founded in 597 but was completely rebuilt between 1070 and 1077[4].  Above (top-bottom, l-r): The cathedral in its entirety is all but impossible to capture in one shot; the entrance to the cathedral grounds; a sculpture named "Transport" by Antony Gormley, created from reused nails from the roof of a section of the cathedral that was being repaired[5]; a 500-year-old pub once frequented by the late Chas Dickens; one of the many extraordinary windows (many others were destroyed over time and filled with plain glass); Kjersti and Shan admiring a mosaic floor; Graham and Kjersti ready for lunch in the town[6]. Kentish easy summer scenery. I always enjoy "painterly" photographs (as does Rod, I was led to believe) so it was no hardship to return to Boughton-under-Blean (BuB) after lunch and prepare to stride out into the Kentish idyll. Stupidly, I chose to wear shorts in the clement weather. As a country dweller, I should've realised there would be lovely fresh new nettles along every path. Fortunately dock leaves were plentiful, too, so I was able to mitigate the damage down to creepy-crawly skin. I have to say my companions were more sympathetic with my plight than I'd have been with theirs if the roles had been reversed. It should also be admitted that the earnest country stroll had a slight feeling of a pub crawl. This was excellent as there is a certain expectation from my Faringdon (old) mates that photographs are taken of obscure pubs and shared immediately with them via social media. Pubs that incorporate a walk get the maximum stars. We set out from BuB happy in the knowledge that a reasonably gentle half-hour walk would bring us to the Red Lion in Hernhill, Above (top-bottom, l-r): on the way to Hernhill we spotted our first oasthouse; one would hope some of the hops found their way to the Red Lion, to which Graham is leading the charge; some unusual (to those of us from London and Oxfordshire) local brews?; the local pastoral peace (2); Kjersti and Rod surveying some parkland. Sadly the beers at the Red Lion turned out to be from a little further afield with Tenterden being the only pukka tipple from Kent. The Griffin was brewed at Fullers in London. None of us really cared, though, sitting outside in the sun at this 14th century inn and contemplating a forest walk up to the highest point in the area. We didn't quite make it to the top but revelled in the Kent countryside before heading off for a delicious spicy supper at the the Korean Cowgirl at Cave Hotel and Golf Resort on BuB's outskirts. Isle of Thanet. The next morning we departed for the Isle of Thanet, heading for Botany Bay and our next hotel which had sweeping sea views but was miles from anything much else. This was not a bad thing because we'd planned for coastal hikes and both Broadstairs and Margate were a reasonable walk away (each about 2.5 miles with buses and taxis to return us to our centre point). There are significant white cliffs along this piece of coast, especially en route to Broadstairs, which is an attractive seaside town, probably a little posher than Margate, but the latter is on the ascent, being influenced by the influx of artists looking for a relatively cheap place to hang out and probably also in the hope of hanging out with Tracy Emin. There is also the Turner Contemporary museum on the seaside[7]..   Above (top-bottom): Late afternoon light on an offshore wind farm; and the sun goes down over Botany Bay. Is it a bay, is it an estuary or could it be the open sea? The views from the Isle of Thanet beg this question. I did enjoy a single finger salute to the Orange Ogre when I trumped his pig-ignorance with the wind farm churning out power from the middle of the Thames Estuary with Clacton-on-Sea[8] somewhere in the background. The second pic has an altogether gentler tone. It is difficult to choose between the Thanet seaside resorts: each one has its own charms and grubby back streets. For me, I'd probably choose Margate with its reviving old town. I'd probably then also put on an appropriate "corporation[9]" with excessive visits to the charming Wellington. We were delighted with our evening there after being introduced to it by the Guardian's Grace Dent and I left a 5-star review[10]. Everything from food and service to wine were just top notch. With everyone other than Kjersti having spent some formative years on the East coast of South Africa, it was curious to see the names of the towns from the Isle of Thanet down the coast to Brighton. Margate and Ramsgate to name another two. Above (top-bottom, l-r): This coast on England is always associated with white cliffs and it didn't take long to encounter this magnificent example when striking out on the coast path from Botany Bay to Broadstairs; once a castle, en route; reaching Broadstairs happy in the knowledge that we could grab a post-prandial bus back; just a short climb up to a restaurant for lunch. As previously mentioned, apart from Tracy Emin, Margate also boasted its own Turner Contemporary museum although our visit was somewhat disappointing having paid what turned out to have been a generous voluntary entry fee. There was just the one lesser Turner work in a small room and that was it as far as he was concerned. There were a lot of Bridget Riley dots and stripes in more cavernous rooms but, having been less thrilled by similar work at the Guggenheim in Bilbao recently, we could take it or leave it. Obviously some people love it. The highlight was, for us, without doubt the huge David Hockney "Sunley" window that is there until Nov 2026. Above (top-bottom, l-r): Shan drew my attention to my favourite pic of the trip - a random person walking (dancing) up this slipway from the sea; moody lighting in old Margate on the way to the Wellington; a random poster; a colourful backdrop to the Margate seafront. We lost Rod to London nightlife, dropping him off at the station in Margate before visiting the Turner (so he didn't miss much) and then heading off to Herne Bay and Whitstable, the former for lunch at the Land and Sea restaurant, which served tasty locally made food with fresh ingredients. We thought we could walk off our midday repast on the walk to Whitstable half anticipating topping up with Lobster and oysters at a well-known pier there. We walked the 1.5 miles along the coastal path to Whitstable via the Oyster Shack where we still weren't hungry enough for a full oyster and lobster ensemble so had a mediocre ice cream in the town centre and walked around one of Victoria's and Albert's haunts in the middle of the picturesque town and its front, filled with yachts and fishing craft. Above (l-r): It would be fair to say that many miles of the Thanet coastal line can be quite monotonous with samey beach huts looking out to a fairly featureless sea ... here between Herne Bay and Whitsable; the walk from lunch to the Oyster Shack on the outskirts of Whitstable sadly didn't make space for Crayfish and Oysters! The next day we dropped Kjersti and Graham at Ramsgate and rather wished we'd had enough time to visit what appeared to be a rather grand town, but we had the remains of a day to travel the more scenic (avoiding motorways) route to Brighton via Rye. Rye Rye is a fascination of its own and is in two parts: the town on a hill and the salt marshes a mile or two to the SSE bounding the River Rother. We started with the marshes, which sort of speak for themselves in pictures ... Above (top-bottom, l-r): a yacht makes its way down the Rother towards the sea; the Rother empties into the sea in the background; the salt marshes along the Rother; one of the 45 remaining Martello Towers of the original 103 built to fend off Napoleon in the early 19th century. After a short(ish) walk down towards the sea we set out to visit Rye (on top of the hill). We found the last parking (using my disabled permit) on the edge of town and headed blithely off on an assault of the mound containing the castle. We neglected to take sufficient bearings and for the first time in our many travels we couldn't find our chariot when we finally descended the hill. It was with great relief after patrolling in increasing panic to spot our familiar little vehicle! Above (top-bottom, l-r): looking up the narrow street to the top of the hill; a suitably ancient hostelry on the hill; the sign speaks for itself; Familiar to any Durbanites?; the small fort defending Rye from the top; ... and one of the cannons protecting it; one of the entrances to Rye's higher reaches; what looked like an extremely tempting pub had Brighton not been calling. A great introduction to Brighton. Our trip to Brighton was to be a big treat with a room[11] in a grand old building on the Marine Parade with views over the beach and the Palace Pier. After admiring our view and a quick shower we were up for some Brighton nightlife. We didn't have to go very far, ending up at the ideal pub literally one minute around the corner and up a side street. Brighton Rocks contrived to cater to the needs of all generations and proclivities. The more robust were sitting on a deck outside while those of us who preferred things a little more cosy squeezed into spaces around the bar with people playing board games, flirting with each other and drinking from the well-stocked bar. We spent a few hours there before heading off to sample the local food in the area. Cheerful Indian seemed predominant and we ended up in a brightly lit unlicensed dining room with delicious curry. As always there was a supermarket across the road and our hosts happily opened a bottle I'd procured in a jiffy. Above (top-bottom, l-r): Shan revelling in the marine view from our hotel; yes the "sand" is that colour being a myriad of multicoloured pebbles when looked at up close; at Brighton Rocks; a familiar outlook to TV viewers who watch the TV series Grace with police chasing baddies or corpses through the ironwork; the remaining pier; Shan on the pier; there had to be one, didn't there?; the Brighton Palace Pier Groyne; a view from the the remaining pier of another groyne, the burnt-out pier, the i360 and the Worthing Pier 10 miles away in the distance. Apart from the extant pier and its accompanying groyne hiding the sewerage outflow from the city (and the palace judging by its location) the last picture highlights another groyne known and named for its doughnut sculpture (not very well captured in this photo, see if you can spot it?). Then there's the derelict West Pier[12] whose ruins have been left as a stark reminder of the loss to the city after a storm in 2002 and an arson attack in 2003. It had been closed in 1975 for safety reasons and was being restored piecemeal. The link above has an excellent chronology. And then there's the i360. It's one of those things that looks possibly insignificant until you get into its own doughnut. It resembles some of those revolving towers of our youth but is much more minimal and stylish, being the world's slimmest tall tower. It soars above the city and its surrounding countryside at its 531 ft pinnacle, with its 200 people capacity pausing for a while at 453 ft enjoying a fully-stocked bar before returning to ground level. What's not to like! After our ride we headed off to the fabled Brighton Lanes ... and our only slight disappointment. We'd been expecting something quite a bit more BOHO but, as with the older, more characterful areas of our cities, it had suffered a fair bit from "chain creep" with a high proportion of vendors now being branches of high-street outfits. We discovered the vulgarity we'd been hoping for just around the corner at the Royal Pavilion. As is often the case with national treasures like this, the atmosphere is set by the staff and we had one of the best guides/raconteurs we'd ever encountered in such a visit. Originally the Pavilion had been created by King George IV and eventually (briefly) became the home of Queen Victoria between 1837 and 1847. Our colourful host described this era eloquently in the present tense. He brought she who would "be obeyed[13]" to life. It's difficult to tell how many of the artefacts currently in the palace were originally there and/or shuffled between Brighton and Osborne House[14]. but the current display is pretty opulent. Could I say garish? Our guide described the predicament of George IV's obesity and how a tunnel was built between the main house and the stables so that he could travel between the two unobserved by the public. His state was borne out by paintings of him and his vast walking frame. Oh that Julia Margaret Cameron could have captured that on film! Queen Victoria's discomfort with the Pavilion also stemmed, anecdotally, from hatred of people ogling her although she seems not to have shared her paternal uncle's obesity. She contrived to sell the place to the town in 1850 and moved many of its artefacts from there to either the Isle of Wight or London. Some of those have found their way back to Brighton. Above (top-bottom, l-r): a sneaky view of the old West Pier; the 200 person doughnut sets off from its base at beach level; as it glides up the pole, dramatic views can be obtained of the derelict pier; Shan regrets her last aperitif in the Brighton Rocks; the commanding frontage of the Brighton Metropole; most cities in the UK these days have a historic sector and they all seem a bit samey. Below (top-bottom, l-r): one enters there; while a banquet is being prepared here; and is then consumed here (x2); and presumably pops out here; meanwhile a lot of the remaining ground floor is occupied with a current dragon theme (we were warned) that probably needed a guided tour to make more sense of it (x3).   With great guides and varying themes, it would seem, in retrospect, the best way to view the Royal Pavilion is on a guided tour. One's entry ticket is valid for a year and as many visits as one wants, so looking out for ongoing changes might be well worthwhile for Brighton residents or those who have easy access to the city. Sadly I'd opted for a quick kip when we returned to our hotel room from the Royal Pavilion and I woke up to find Shan glued to the window watching the finish of the 2026 London to Brighton Vintage Commercial Vehicle run from Clapham Common to its finish in Madeira Drive just beyond our window.  Above (top-bottom, l-r): much loved stragglers coming to the end of the London to Brighton Run (x3); the light fades on a few of the beach stalwarts outside our hotel window. All that remained in Brighton was another visit to Brighton Rocks for a couple of sharpeners before a simple but excellent meal at an Italian restaurant/tapas bar just up the road. Not Worthing and a slow drive home I'm not sure why I insisted on going to Worthing after Brighton other than its existing pier and memories of a 1969 Al Stewart song about driving there in the rain. The pier was possible but traffic around the town was heavy-going so we consoled ourselves with Shoreham Fort as a pit stop[15]. Mostly fishing seems to be the thing at Shoreham Beach these days.  Above (top-bottom, l-r): the view of the sea on the road into Worthing; Shoreham Fort with the beach in the background; The Fox Goes Free just down the hill from Goodwood Racecourse (Horses); a little reminder of our beautiful daughter and her garden; Charlton is truly peaceful and a good jumping off point for the South Downs Way (x2); our trusty little EV on its last night from home. I'd wanted to find an enjoyable pub for a night on our last leg and really had nowhere to start until I spotted The Fox Goes Free on a route map from Brighton to Oxfordshire. The name caught my imagination, thinking the place protected foxes in its area. We arrived at lunch time on the May bank holiday and the place was heaving. But the staff remained in control, providing excellent service all afternoon and suppertime. Good food, too. But it was only the next morning that I managed to get to have a short chat to the manager ... I wanted to convey how we'd chosen the pub based on its name and he immediately laughed, explaining that in 1985 it had been bought from Phoenix Breweries and ceased to be a tied house (thus becoming free). It had had other names in its 400 year history but had been the Fox throughout the 20th century, during which time it had hosted the inaugural meeting of the first Women's Institute (WI) in England on the 9th of November 1915. It really does have quite a history that can be explored a bit more at [16] in the endnotes of this article. Conclusion
So it's not so bad being excluded from foreign travel by a way-out illness. The combination of fine places to visit in the South East and wonderful people to share it with couldn't easily have been bettered abroad. Thanks first of all to Shan for being there and performing all the driving and to Graham and Kjersti for suggesting that we join them and for doing all the early research into places to stay and being altogether good company. And a special thanks to Rod, with whom I'd last had a sensible conversation sometime around 1970 in Durban, South Africa ... [Endnotes]:
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