It has been many years since I clocked off from a week of factory work, June 18th 1990 in fact. Since then I seem to work as and when needed and just got on with it. But anyway, I am considered old enough and sensible enough to look after the casual worker's tabbard I was issued with and along with the locker key, which means instead of queueing up I can dump the stuff in the locker and just clock out and walk out.
Yay!
Jools was waiting for me outside in the car, and we headed off back into the Dover rush hour and back to our house high on the cliffs. How wonderful it is every night to leave the town behind and take the narrow coast road and see across to France and the ferries before arriving at the village, through the narrow streets, down the dip, up the other side and then, HOME.
We made a pot of fresh coffee; something we have cut down on since me being unemployed. We sit outside and watch the butterflies flit around and the cats washing after having their dinner. It's perfect here, and we thank our lucky stars every day.
That evening, we were to meet one of my friends from Flickr for a meal before he heads off on his considerable travels; two weeks and many places to visit and pictures to take. Bob, not being a driver, but liking his food and ale, we decide that we would take him to a country pub we know near here called The Old Lantern in Martin. It's in an old farm some 600 years old, and has been a pub since 1802, so quite new at the pub lark.
We have a reservation, so we have to be out early to meet Bob at Martin Mill station and then on to the pub.
The meal was great, Jools had steak, ale and mushroom pie whilst bob and I had lamb and mint pie; we were all very satisfied with that, and with the summer ales we washed the meal down with. We even had desserts, bread and butter pudding for Bob, summer fruits meringue for Jools and mixed fruit crumble for me. Although mixed fruit was 100% apple!
We retired to the beer garden and watched the sun go down and the bats come out, whilst bob told us of the places in Europe he is going to visit. Not a bad evening at all.
We decided that for Saturday, we would do a small rail tour around east kent; and for the princely sum of £24 we each got three days unlimited travel around Kent; although we only wanted the one day. So, anyway; we caught the twenty past eight train from Dover and headed out to Faversham, which little were we to know it, but our troubles were about to begin......
Since 9/11 little by little our freedoms have been eroded, most have been sleepwalking, but some have noticed. I have been aware that something as simple as photography has now been seen as a potential terrorist activity, but little did I think a fat bloke taking pictures of a train would be a threat.
We arrived at Faversham where our train and one from Ramsgate were to be joined before heading on to London; I saw a good shot coming together as the two trains nudged closer to each other.
I raised my camera.
And was shouted at. A fatter bloke in an orange tabbard was telling me not to take the picture, I asked why. But instead of answering me he spoke into his radio and requested back up.
The station manager came and told me it was against the law to take pictures of the general public and against company rules to take pictures of staff. I do know the rules and law a little and knew him to be talking bollocks, I tried to engage him, but he was having none of it, and so we left the station, me shaking and none to happy.
In a calm moment I searched the net with my mobile and found I was right after all, and a simmering rage began. But, for now, I would have to bide my time and speak with Southeastern on Monday and then organise a formal complaint agaist the staff or the company. That I am the administrator for the Southeastern group on Flickr, and have done unpaid publicity for them recently in regard to the new high speed service is neither here no there, but shows I have no axe to grind.
Faversham is a great town; a mix of the mediaeval and industrial. Narrow streets and wide market squares and a huge brewery with towering chimneys and warehouses. I sapped away at buildings, people and rivers. We found a caravan on the market square doing wonderful bacon rolls and so we sat down for second breakfasts and watched the town pass us by.
I wanted to see where they brewed our local beer, Shepherd Neame is apparently England's oldest brewer still going, and I do like their beer, and it is in Faversham where they brew it all. Their place is down on the river, and we followed the signs and soon enough found the modern brewery. In getting there we passed the old one, which looked far more interesting, but apparently was now owned by Tesco, and was now part of their huge store in the town.
The river was tidal, and was mostly mud on Saturday morning, but made for great shots. A group of cyclist whizz by me, I snap them and they gurn for me.
We try to walk along the riverside, but find there are signs everywhere say to stay out because it is private land. Block after black we see it, and it all gets depressing. We end up in a boat yard with sail barges tied up, I snap away. It feels real, rather than the semi-gated communities trying to protect their investments.
I want to get the hell out of Faversham and so we walk back to the station and travel one more stop up the line to Sittingbourne.
Wikipedia describes the Isle of Sheppey, thus:
"The Isle of Sheppey is an island off the northern coast of Kent, England in the Thames Estuary, some 38 miles (62 km) to the east of central London. It has an area of 36 square miles (94 km²). The island forms part of the local government district of Swale. Sheppey is derived from the ancient Saxon "Sceapige", meaning isle of sheep, and even today the extensive marshes which make up a considerable proportion of the island provide grazing for large flocks of sheep. The island, like much of North Kent, comprises London Clay and is a plentiful source of fossils.
The land mass referred to as Sheppey comprises three main islands: Sheppey, the Isle of Harty and the Isle of Elmley (it was once known as the Isles of Sheppey before the channels separating them silted up), but the marshy nature of the land to the south of the island means that it is so crossed by channels and drains as to consist of a multitude of islands. The ground is mainly low-lying, but at Minster rises to about 240 ft (73 m).
Some Sheppey inhabitants like to call themselves Swampies, a term that began as, and for some people remains, an insult; for others it has become a term of endearment or a phrase for reinforcing identity."
In reality it's that; it barely rises out of the Thames estuary, is a major port and is now, apparently, another little London.
There is a branch line that runs from Sittingbourne to Sheerness on the coast on Sheppey, and Jools had always wanted to ride on it. And this was the plan. We sat on the train as the be-sneakered and be-jewelled talked on their mobiles, possibly doing drug deals. Young thin white men sounded like gang-bangers from Compton.
I tried not to laugh.
The ride over to Sheppey is not long, and unlike many on the train we had a ticket and were polite. That, maybe, is harsh, and most is for show. Near us a group of skateboarders talked of music and made fun of a non-skateboarder; a woman tried to find out where all the money had gone from the families account with her husband on the phone, and the flat countryside slipped by.
Over the bridge, and we were on Sheppey, and heading for chav-central; Sheerness. Sheerness is the end of the line in all senses of the world. It was a town built to serve the port, and is pretty soul-less and is a mix of low cost housing and poor shops frequented by former cockneys in heavy gold chains and gold sovereign rings. Men in day-glo track suits did deals on mobiles whilst smoking smuggled cigarettes.
We headed for the seafront.
The seafront doubles as the island's sea defences, and has little beach to speak of. Steps lead down to the water's edge, but families make the most of the glorious sunny weather, eating picnics whilst car transporter boats head back to sea from Tilbury.
We walk along the sea wall and I take illicit pictures with the camera held at my hip; some come out great and I will post them later. After 20 minutes we have had enough and we decide to return to the station and then back to the mainland.
My plan had been to head back along to coastal line, stopping at Margate for more pictures of people enjoying the sun, sea and jellied eels; but in reality, we were pooped and both decided to head back home for a quiet afternoon of laying in the garden and/or listening to football. I'll leave you to guess who did what....
From Sittingbourne, the train was packed with families heading to the seaside for sandcastles and candyfloss before the sun went away for another year. Children so excited by the thought was wonderful to see, although not so pleasant to hear. As we passed through Whitstable, Herne Bay, Margate; the train emptied, and by the time we got to Ramsgate there were just a few of us left on.
Whilst we waited for the train to Dover, we sat on the platform and ate a Twix together, before getting on the air-conditioned train for the last leg of our trip.
I had decided that I wanted fish and chips at some point in the week, and so that's what we wanted to eat that evening; as the regatta was on in Dover, and likely to be still heaving with people, we went in the other direction to Deal.
We found a shop right on the seafront and with a parking space! We get our order and make our way past the bandstand and find an empty bench and unwrap the golden food inside. Oooh, the smell of grease, fried food and salt and vinegar is so special; nothing quite like it. And the cod was so fresh, the flesh was brilliant white.
People walked past as we tucked in, on the beach, fishermen mended nets whilst their families waited. And the sun set behind us.
Not bad, not bad.
We go home and open a bottle of a light, white wine and sit in the garden to wait for the stars to come out and the moon rise.
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