Canterbury Tales

Last weekend saw me camping in Canterbury. Leaving an hour later than planned meant that my first of three trains was pretty busy and that the cycle carriage was full of passengers. None of them were inclined to move further along the train, not even when the ticket collecter came by to berate me for blocking up the gangway. indeed as I got up to move the bike for an unexpected right-sided platform my seat was snaffled. later in the week a friend mentioned that he had seen me on the train but had not said anything as I seemed a bit grumpy. "Were you sitting in the cycle bit?" said I. When he answered that he was we agreed that it was probably just as well that I hadn't noticed him.

I caught the train at Victoria with only seconds to spare having got a bit caught up in hundreds of Pompey fans making their way to Wembley - yes up the blues - get out of my way! Settling into my seat I got chatting to a nice old man who was heading off to his caravan at sheerness for the weekend. All was going pretty well until, having mentioned that I was brought up in the area, he mentioned that I wouldn't like it nowadays - not with all the Nwords and Pwords and such like and haven't we got enough to do looking after our own - oh dear. I was rescued by the ticket collector informing me that I was in the wrong part of the train for my destination and that it would imminently split in two but not to worry as there would be at least five and a half seconds at Faversham for me to change carriages.

Arriving at Bekesbourne station, 1 mile from my destination, I took a wrong turn and some 5 miles later reached the village of Littlebourne - or the Village of Closed Pubs - where my error was pointed out to me in the village shop with the advice that, having almost done a full circle, I should carry on up and down hills for another three miles or so, pausing only to turn left at the first "proper" road I encounter. On reaching my destination, the Caravan and Camping Club site at Canterbury, I almost wept with relief. 10 minutes later, with the tent up and a kettle boiling on the Trangia things were looking up.

I headed back into town and pay £2 for a guide to the city walls and a suggested walk around them. This was lovely and avoided most of the lovely old buildings that have had their bottom parts converted into Dorothy Perkins, Mcdonalds and the like. Having seen all that the city walls have to offer I headed for what turned out to be the worst Wetherspoons in Christendom for the worst burger in Christendom just in time to watch the closing minutes of the FA cup final. Arriving back at the site a short hilly ride later I wondered if 9pm was too early for bed. Just then the man in the tent opposite started playing his pan pipes - apparently there is a tricky bit of "yesterday" that must be practised over and over again. I gave up, lit some tea lights, and opened a bottle of wine. Mr Panpipes then sauntered over and suggests I brought my bottle over and come and sit in his porch as it was now raining pretty hard. He offered some red but, as every fool knows, I do not touch the stuff and so I finished my white. Some time later we headed off into town together and have a few bevys in a pub which promises live music - sadly Saturday night is Trad Jazz Night and it took a lot of vodkas to drown my sorrows. We headed back up the hill to the site where I put paid to his half a bottle of red while he rubbished my lovely tent for having no porch and told me that his weighs about 3g and cost in excess of £150. I know this is not true and so, moderately irritated and chronically drunk I stumbled off to mine and bed - ignoring all the while the still small voice that tells me to take a couple of aspirins and a lot of water.

The next morning I got up early to ride the Crab and Winkle Way. The Crab and Winkle Way is a 7 mile cycle ride between Canterbury and Whitstable and is not to be confused with riding the hangover way which mostly entails fighting nausea, getting lost along the more than adequately signposted route, and getting off to push up hills. I knew I was in trouble when a small boy on stabilisers overtook me. I called a friendly Yakfarmer, a man of some experience in these matters, for sympathy but was merely told that the first 10 miles are the worst. Whitstable is a nice harbour town and I was much restored after large chips and a double Hair Of The Dog at a beachside pub.

Returning back to the campsite at around 8pm I decided to snuggle up in my sleeping bag with my book for an hour or so, waking at 9am the next day just in time to pack up the tent and head off for home. On my return I looked up Mr Panpipe's tent. T'was as I suspected - £14.99 from Millets and weighing in at a massive 5.3kgs - Knobend