KENT CALLING

Travel

Chris Sullivan explores three towns on the Kent coast for signs of a decent holiday in the sun

I’ve always had a soft spot for the British seaside but it took Covid restrictions for me, and many other Britons, to once again become tourists in our own land. Previously, I considered it a duty to visit as many foreign countries as possible and, consequently, surfed the wave of cheap flights, grazing the budget airlines each week looking for an economical conduit into pastures extraneous. That’s all changed of course but, entirely undaunted, I plumped for a series of adventures in the resorts on the North Kent coast, and was rewarded beyond my every expectation. My first port of call was Margate. I’d visited the vicinity a few times way back, decked out in my peg trousers, plastic sandals and Hawaiian shirt to attend the Bank Holiday soul sessions at the Ballyhai but, after a fearsome battle with big angry “The Bay itself, with its pier and adjacent amusement arcades, is classic Kiss Me Quick territory but, if that’s not your cup of Rosie Lee, one can sit outside The Hampton Inn and rejoice in its ample seating, look out to sea, imbibe copious amounts of liquor and acquire a spiffing sunburn, which, in my book, no holiday is complete without”

Teddy Boys on the beach, didn’t return until 2010. My mission then was to DJ at a friend’s 40th in the wonderful ‘disco’ basement of the utterly wonderful Walpole Hotel. A magnificent establishment that has remained architecturally intact since the fifties, its corridors are positively festooned with what might be described as a Chap Museum, including cabinets full of wartime memorabilia, antique billycocks, historic dining sets, wind up gramophones, 1930s Colman’s Mustard and Bovril posters, while mannequins in 1920s mufti stalk the corridors. I played a few records after the campest pianist since Liberace, Bobby Crush, tickled the ivories and, as we all stayed on the premises, nearly had a coronary when turning corner to see a 1930s flapper looking at me with those dead glass eyes.

On that occasion, I didn’t have much time to see the town proper, as the hotel is in Walpole Bay, a mile or so from the town, but I still got a whiff of its charms. Included was a peruse of its many secondhand furniture emporia, such as the magnificent Ford Road Yard (where I wanted to buy everything) and Junk Deluxe where, for a pittance I bought four 1960s dining room chairs exactly like the ones I had as a child. Whisked away by nostalgia, I’d not considered how to get them home to London on the train and, after a tremendously difficult mile walk with chairs hanging off my arms and on my head, arrived at the rail station sweating like a Mongolian wrestler and looking far angrier.

The journey from King’s Cross to Margate is only 90 minutes, so the beach is easily accessible for city dwellers. Thus, my next visit was during that tiny gap in Covid restrictions last year but, as every hotel

was booked, for a day trip with the lovely lady, Dolly. We started with a look in Wayne Hemingway’s Dreamland, where classic Dodgems, a Big Wheel etc makes it great for kids. But for us, the scorching heat caused us to install ourselves in Barnacles, a classic low-priced British pub with old men boozing at noon, a pool table, darts board, a fruit machine and a substantial outside seating area looking over the bay. Unfortunately, the view is marred by the brutalist eyesore of Turner Contemporary Art Gallery, a heinous blot on what was once a lovely landscape, and which could easily have been built somewhere else, like Poland.

After a good few pints of Shepherd Neame (Kent’s local beer) we merged into the long queue for Peter’s Fish Factory and sampled as good a Haddock and chips as I have ever tasted, setting us back a mere £5 for a huge portion. Next we visited The Sun Deck, where they played soul music, proffered an array of international food stalls and served rather marvellous cocktails that we considered it our duty to investigate fully. Then it was sunset at the Buoy and Oyster Bar on the seafront, replete with a lovely sun terrace, extravagant cocktails, cracking seafood and the most magnificent sea view. They also offer apartments for rent, which I would have taken advantage of, had they not all been booked.

So enamoured was I of Kent that, after due examination of the forecast, I made my way down just a few days later to spend a weekend in Herne Bay and Whitstable that, on the face of it, are very different but both still worth a visit. We took the train to Herne Bay and plotted up in a classic British Bed

“One of Herne Bay’s greatest assets is its celebrated vintage stores. The Emporium is a large shop front that comprises a brace of different stalls selling everything from deco soap holders to thirties toys, Victorian wild boar horn pepper pots, indispensable Victorian Guzunders to 1960s Whitefriars ruby glass jugs”

and Breakfast The Evening Tide: bijou, charming and inexpensive and with a formidable breakfast entirely unlike the classic meagre scram of old lodging-house days. The Bay itself, with its pier and adjacent amusement arcades, is classic Kiss Me Quick territory but, if that’s not your cup of Rosie Lee, just a lovely walk down the sea front will take one to The Hamptons, an unobtrusive and rather empty impeccable beach. One can sit outside The Hampton Inn and rejoice in its ample seating, look out to sea, imbibe copious amounts of liquor and acquire a spiffing sunburn, which, in my book, no holiday is complete without.

One of Herne Bay’s greatest assets is its celebrated vintage stores. The Emporium is a large shop front that comprises a brace of different stalls selling everything from deco soap holders to thirties toys, Victorian wild boar horn pepper pots, indispensable Victorian Guzunders to 1960s Whitefriars ruby glass jugs. Opposite the Emporium is Briggsy’s, which, appropriately sitting on the site of an Art Deco cinema, is full of so much totally wonderful items you will come out in a cold sweat and even wee yourself in excitement on entry: fifties bar stools, oak shop fittings, Gray’s original art deco dining sets and on and on. Of course, we did not come away from Herne Bay away empty handed, but the bulk of our booty came from Pretty Green Vintage, from where Dolly bought a fetching hand-embroidered thirties silk kimono and a deco shot glass set with matching tray for £50 (the perfect purchase for the entertaining Lady), while I spent £30 on an authentic twofoot high free-standing African sculpture. By the time we got to the utterly exceptional Alamode Vintage clothing store we couldn’t carry anymore, but we are planning a visit this summer and bringing two larger suitcases. For those who care about antique clothing, accessories and objets d’art, Herne Bay is nothing less than copiously essential and, as the items are at least half the price of anything in London, is worth a trip just for this aspect alone.

Bags bursting, our next port of call was Whitstable. Here, due to a cancellation, we just managed to snag a night at the original Art deco

Hotel Continental; overlooking the sea, it might be the setting of a Hercule Poirot mystery and whose view is not spoilt by the obscene Brett Aggregate Works, which, almost as much of an eyesore as the aforementioned Turner Contemporary would be better in Bulgaria. Luckily though, it’s easily avoidable and once one gets about 100 metres past it, the pebble beach separated by wooden groynes is really rather charming and quaint and, as such, does not feel like the UK at all. Having been to Whitstable many times, my modus operandi is luncheon a la plage comprising take away fish and chips from Ossie’s on the High Street or W.C.Jones on Harbour St. with a stack of beers or a bottle or two of Rosé from the off licence a few doors down. Subsequently, after a post prandial swim in the unusually warm waters, it’s a stroll down the beach, perhaps picking up a few dazzlingly fresh oysters (a legacy of the Romans who partook of Whitstable oysters as far back as 80 AD) from the Whitstable Oyster Company on the coastline, and then onto the marvellous hostelry, The Old Neptune (an infamous smugglers’ haunt in the 19th Century) to sit on the beach with a jar or five of their brown frothy stuff and experience what J.M.W. Turner described as the world’s greatest sunset. And to be fair to old Joe Turner, he was right, as twilights here really are most exceptional; add a few pints and a jar of cockles and one’s world is flawless.

If I’m staying the night in Whitstable I usually take supper in Wheelers, opened in 1856 by Dredger Man Richard ‘Leggy’ Wheeler. A quite incomparable establishment, it also proffers quite awe-inspiring beach picnic boxes, and for dinner the likes of Lobster linguine, monkfish marinated in buttermilk, honey and saffron and steak and oyster pudding made with Guinness suet pastry. Otherwise it’s the Harbour Street Tapas restaurant, which takes advantage of the wonderful freshly caught local seafood.

I would attest that Whitstable (once home to Peter Cushing) is somewhat special, as it carefully avoids what some might describe as naff, and is sophisticated without being either overly stuck-up or peevishly posh. It’s just nice, bucolic, rather

welcoming and, dare I say, encouragingly European.

Herne Bay (once the residence of Bob Holness) is a rather more typical British seaside resort but not overwhelmingly so, and certainly appropriate for families or rabid vintage hoarders such as I.

The chosen home of the late great Hattie Jacques and John Le Mesurier, Margate ticks every one of Herne’s boxes twice but is still not the least offensive and, being perfect for the younger folk or groovy soul fan, is unquestionably worth exploring.

Indubitably, the main advantage of taking a break in the UK is that it can be last minute. Thus you don’t waste money and time sitting in the rain in a costly hotel in Europe or beyond. I just check out the weather on the Met Office site and, if we’re looking tip top, book accordingly and, if all the accommodation is taken, instead do a day trip. This year, I’ll be doing both and will plot up in Whitstable for a good few days and, when not on its beaches or pubs, will either cycle or walk to Herne or take the train from Margate (30 minutes by car and 25 by train, so if the kids get bored you can take them for a day out in Dreamland) to sample their slightly diverse offerings. So, if you heed my advice, maybe you will see me there, resplendent in my knotted hankie headwear, string vest and trousers rolled up to the knee, waving a European flag. n