p part 1…

I was home by lunch on Friday, I chucked a few items into my rucksack and waited for Myfwt to arrive, which she did, late of course. The journey back from the office was undertaken in vicious pissing rain, by the time Myfwt arrived at the flat the rain was still cheerlessly hammering London, this didn’t bode well for a trip to the seaside but we’d accepted that, the thought of eating oysters under a brolly watching a cold grey sheet of open water chewing at the coastline still held a subdued thrill. We set off.

It took a long time to get out of London, it seems that the entire road network had a turd of a bulldozer sat by an open pit requiring achingly slow traffic lights to allow the traffic to creep past, of course, not a stroke of work was being done, I guessed the labourers were all sat in cafés round mugs of steaming hot tea discussing football and porn I shouldn’t wonder. Disgraceful. It took over an hour to exit the city and settle onto the A2 before we made any progress. Disgraceful. Disgr- oh forget it…

The rain had subsided and the sun made itself known, it was blustery (of course) but the nearer we got to our destination the more clement the weather, this was all turning out to be rather jolly don’t you know.

I’ve no idea why I’ve not visited Whitstable before, not as an adult anyway, my mum assured me we all went in some brown-flared Sunday in the 1970’s but I have no recollection of the place. It’s a small town nestled on the Kent coast near Canterbury and resides happily in the England past of tearooms and butchers and model shops, ‘multiculturalism’ exists in the form of one Chinese restaurant and a miserable place boasting ‘Peking Cuisine’. You could starve to death of a Sunday.

We checked in at the hotel that faced the broad Spartan beach, itself locked in a Hammer Horror timewarp which I found oddly enticing, the room was clean, antiquated and cosy, we dumped our luggage and immediately headed for the bar, it was 6pm after all. It was still bright outside; the sound of the sea hissed in the background and the occasional seagull skidded overhead in the baby blue sky under a random gathering of plump white cloud, it was fucking well nice. Myfwt sipped a G&T and I inhaled a couple of pints of Early Bird, Shepherds Neam is the local brewery and I have to congratulate them on a beer that is nearly as good as one of the Young’s fellows back in the smoke.

The bar was a dingy affair, brown with brass fixtures (the latter aspect included the female staff), overseen by a clearly under active landlord with a pin head and thick grey locks. The atmosphere was one of latent depression and broken dreams but, like the hotel room, congenial with a peculiar comfort to it. The bar began to fill with people dressed conscientiously in dinner jackets and dickies, their clucking wife’s hauled themselves beside them all permatan and slap stinking of brandless perfume and looking vaguely repugnant. It was time to go.

Myfwt and I left to walk the half-mile up the coast to an Oyster restaurant, we were in excellent cheer and arrived in a large room set with round tables under low sedate lighting. After ordering a disappointing Pinot Gris (bit too sweet but very drinkable) Myfwt and I took Oysters, frankly the reason we chose Whitstable as our destination as it’s renown for it’s seafood, in particular it’s Oysters and she had 6 raw and I had 3 large chaps cooked with spinach and cheese, I’d never eaten cooked oysters before but by thunder I shall again, they were fucking amazing. For main Myfwt had smoked eel on toast, it’s like bacon and is quite sublime, with scallops and a side of salad. I opted for half a lobster and potato salad. Whilst excellent the starter had set a high benchmark and I sort of wished I ordered the crab, this was just a question of being spoilt for choice of course as I think it was finest seafood I’ve eaten.

We tottered back the hotel making idiotic use of our ridiculous camera phones and returned to our seats in the bar and drunk possibly one of the most dreadful bottles of wine I’ve ever tasted, Myfwt gave up and opted for a Rose, I persevered like the trooper I am, the evening faded off into giggles and drunken sincerity and we took the spooky climb to bed yonder. I awoke at 5.30am in blazing sunshine all over my bloated face and again at 7.00 in much the same condition, Myfwt and I struggled until10.15 before finally dressing and checking out.

It was Myfwt b’day, a beautiful sunny day, reasonably warm and bathed in glorious light, the ochre sandbanks were visible under the now calm cornflower blue sea and we stepped onto the brightly shorn pebble beach and rifled among the chrome and sunshine coloured stones like children. We drove up the marine drive to eat oysters and winkles in the fish market, took tea in a little café on the high street and wandered into quaint little shops amidst the subdued bustle of the townsfolk. It had a friendly atmosphere if a little parochial but maintains a sort of innocence to the consumerism of the 21st century. Save two small department stores Whitstable is populated by local shops run by and for local people, one doesn’t feel quite like an outsider but the residents seem to have an agenda that differed from ours, one suspects (patronisingly) they may not fully appreciate their environment as we, as tourists, did on that bright spring morning.

Before leaving we bought chips (cooked in dripping as they should, they were unbelievably good) that we ate in the cool sea air finally buying some fresh fish to take back to London. It was rather strange that 20 minutes into the journey home the heavens opened and we were plunged into a sublimated grey fug and forced to take precaution in the driving rain, our hangovers drained from us we travelled home and by the time we arrived the whole seaside experience felt rather ethereal and intangible, almost as if we’d not left our dwellings but had awoken from a wonderful interactive dream. My Myfwt dropped me off to prepare for the evening and I was once alone feeling mildly confused, annoyed almost to be back and feeling the early twinges of hindsight.

NB. The above was written late saturday pm. On sunday I got fucking ill, p part 2 with all the gory details to follow. I’m still not 100% so bear with…