May 9, 1998: Teynham to Faversham
Our third pub stop: The Railway Hotel in Faversham
Almost three months passed before we were able to get back on the trail. It had been an eventful period. Our colleague Jim McGovern had died on March 29th and we had been busy at school looking for replacements for half of the department, including the retiring Tosh, who now arrived with Harold at Victoria at 8:25 on a sunny Saturday morning. We bought return tickets to Faversham and Tosh and I waited out a line in a coffee shop for some refreshments. “I hate queues,” the impatient Tosh, a bun in her hand, complained. (Earlier I had bought my lunch in a mini-market around the corner.)
We boarded the 8:41 stopping train and had an hour and twenty minutes of school gossip (Tosh was quite behind the times) before arriving at Teynham. It was time for me to test my energy levels against the after-effects of a real malady, pneumonia, which had hospitalized me in Beijing on April 10th.
We left the station and walked along the south side of the tracks until we reached a level crossing that allowed us to return to the little path that we had used in February as we departed Conyer. We couldn’t find the mysterious line of plants that no one could identify last time (though there did seem to be a field of raspberry canes) but we did find some shelter in the apple orchards for quiet pees. Poor Tosh was suffering again from cystitis and had consumed a giant bottle of water on the train. Her problem on this day was finding private places in a landscape that was often treeless. While we were waiting for her on this occasion I took off my black sweater. I walked the rest of the day wearing only a black dragon-emblazoned t-shirt I had bought in the duty-free shop at Beijing airport.
An Old English Sheep Dog barked at me when I tried to pet it (“He’s just timid,” his owner said). We were a few yards south of a giant cement block on which someone had stenciled “Fragile, handle with care.” Beyond this was the Saxon Shore Way again and we left our path to continue up Conyer’s main street. A chap was drinking a cup of coffee and sitting at an outdoor pub table waiting to register walkers on a charity outing for childhood leukemia. We continued north, back to the Swale, following a lovely level path through some rare woodland – which was now emerging in its springtime glory, with the sound of a cuckoo echoing off to our left. Then it was out into the open with a drainage channel on our right, grazing sheep-filled grass beyond the reed-filled ditch, and – off to the left as we reached the sea wall – the ubiquitous Isle of Sheppey across the water. Sailboats darted about. There was quite a breeze, which served to keep the temperatures down on a very warm and beautiful day.
Walking was very easy and we made good time. I was having no difficulties with breathing or energy and soon I lost all awareness that today’s outing was something in the way of a post-illness experiment. Tosh began agitating almost immediately for a lunch spot but I tried to get us to persist at least until noon. When we reached the rotting jetty that had once been a ferry point she tried to lie down on the grass but I pointed out that a better target was the Information Centre erected by the Kent Nature Conservancy, just a few minutes ahead. Off to our right were the Oare Marshes and a terrific racket was coming from them. Harold suggested frogs but the old gentleman at the Information Centre tried to convince us that it was mallards. He also tired to tell us that the white birds were Shelducks, but this, I’m convinced, wasn’t true either. Anyway, we tromped upstairs to his bird observation room and then continued another five minutes along the sea wall where, after seeing two black lambs in the flock on our right, I found a nice grassy spot at the bottom of the bank, facing the omnipresent high voltage line and the Harty Ferry Cottages – and here we had lunch. The Lees complained about how bland their ready-made sandwiches were and how stale the bread was; mine were fine.
While we were eating I could see a couple approaching us, with a dog, on the sea wall. It took me a while to determine that they were both women: two dikes on a dike. We resumed our walk after only a few minutes on the grass, rounding the corner to head down Faversham Creek and passing these two ladies. One of them had taken her top off and was hiding behind the other, wearing only a bra and a monstrous tattoo that covered her shoulders and back. Well Tosh had complained that there wasn’t much variety in this countryside.
We soon encountered another chirping pool on our right and this time we could see the small green frogs themselves; how they could bellow! They were making a show of jumping on one another’s backs and chasing off enemies and it was really quite amusing to see their shenanigans.
After a few minutes Oare Creek appeared on the right and we followed it toward civilization, with much boating activity on the opposite shore and St. Peter’s church and its graveyard on the hillside on our right. We reached the village of Oare at about 1:30 and headed straight for the Castle pub, where we paused for the first of three refreshment stops. I was drinking only Diet Coke today; here they actually managed to get some ice into my glass. One wall of this local was decorated with photos, plaques and medals of the local Goal Running teams of yesteryear – this was a sport we had never encountered before. When we were seated I said, “Harold, you’re probably wondering why we have brought you to this distant location on this day and the answer is that we are here to celebrate your 1500th mile of footpath walking!” Harold was quite surprised and gratified and I took a couple of pictures of him with his half pint.
We then crossed a bridge and headed back toward the Swale – for I intended to see if we could not also find the Shipright’s Arms at Hollow Shore, at the tip of the peninsula where the Oare and Faversham Creeks meet. On our left we were now looking across at our route into Oare. The wind was blowing the metal parts of the rigging of beached sailboats and there was a cacophony of tinkling notes worthy of the frogs. Once we were diverted accidentally from the true, but overgrown path, walking through a trailer park and forward on a dike toward the pub.
A wet blonde Labrador was standing on the sea wall just as we reached his pub. We entered its dark precincts and Tosh headed for the loo. There was also a sign for the gents – “Outside and turn left four times” – which turned out to be true. Across from us a couple was smoking their lunch (she looked like an aging Donna Mills) and inside the Lab was looking longingly at their plates when he was not chasing every other local dog around the pub in circles. I had another Diet Coke (Harold too this time) and read the announcement about the Bank Holiday festivities due here in two weeks. These included 17 Real Ales, a spit-roast, a tug of war, blindfold rowing on the high tide and a yard of ale competition and offered “Distructions” on how to reach the pub by motor.
It was quite warm when we left at about 3:00 and headed along the side of Faversham Creek, not seeing very much waterside activity because it was now low tide. A breeze continued to blow and I often carried my Cal cap. We continued south for a couple of miles and finally reached a factory that barred further access to the creek. Here Harold and I paused to eat some chocolate while Tosh, who had made another pit stop, caught up. Then we had to circle around the works, threading our way along a bright yellow field (a local lady with a dog confirmed that it was rape) and returned to the creek for a few hundred additional yards to reach Faversham proper.
I had the train times in my pocket and confirmed that there was a fast train shortly after 4:30. I had to use Bea Cowan’s guide, with its OS inserts, as we threaded our way through back streets and, at an appropriate point, we abandoned the Saxon Shore way to head south into town. We squeezed through market stalls and passed a number of nice shops in a town that seemed to have just a little more charm than many of those we had walked through recently. A finger post confirmed that we were heading in the right direction for the station; across the street from it the Railway Hotel was offering en suite accommodation and Tosh said she wanted to stay here some time (it seemed seedy enough to me).
At the station, after ten and a half miles, we discovered that the fast train was going to be 18 minutes late (a contradiction in terms) so we decided to take the slow train in twenty-five minutes and this gave us time to have a third drink, this time at the Railway Hotel. The couple from the Shipwright’s Arms were here too and a louche crowd of tattooed layabouts were working out the odds with the help of the sports section of the Star. Tosh said she wanted to go to a dog track once – just to see what the people were like – and I suggested she just have a look around now.
Our 4:45 train was waiting for us and we took seats in a car with an ever-changing assortment of gormless youth. “That would be excellent,” one explained to a friend, “You could climb out the window of this train and into the one on the opposite track but you could slip and fall on the live rail or get caught between two moving trains so the whole thing might be pointless.” Exactly!
We dozed for most of the way home; I have a memory of the train stopping a dozen times but not of the journey between the stations. We arrived at Victoria at 6:15. My legs were stiff and my left heel was now protesting as I shuffled through the station (the Lees were heading for the loos) to begin my return journey on the tube – after a most successful outing.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: