Day 7 and 8: Swale and homeward

The final chapter of my mini touring adventure has been a long time coming. On my return I was waylaid with work, email, and planning other adventures; the latter always seems more pressing than mulling over what’s been and gone.

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Day 7: Herne to Chatham (~75m)

“The route home tomorrow is familiar, at least in part. I’m looking forward to my own bed and giving my knees a rest. The navigation has been exhausting but I am quite happy that only once or twice have I felt completely lost. Home tomorrow.”

Another cold and lonely night at a strange campsite. This one was clearly for caravans – thankfully I wasn’t wedged between two of them, as I had the campsite to myself. I awoke to another wet morning and packed as quickly as possible, before heading out into the morning Kentish traffic. After a failed attempt to find a bridleway, I plodded my way uphill through Blean woods, shedding layers as the cloud cleared and the heat finally returned.  After a couple of hilly miles, I gradually descended until the hills of Kent receded, still visible to my left, the flatlands and marshes stretching away to my right.

Here I picked up a ‘National cycle trail’ through some quiet lanes and occasional bridleways. It felt quite remote, winding my way along miles of raised banks through fields of sheep, with sleepy villages and hamlets wedged into the banks of tidal estuaries and boats lodged in the mud. My national route turned to singletrack and I had to cross a narrow bridge across a tributary. It was all rather Dickensian. Eventually I emerged onto a road and into Faversham, where the high street was closed to traffic for a market day. I stopped for coffee, feeling smug after the morning’s exploits. I bought some fudge from a man from Catford. (The fudge wasn’t very good…)

More quiet lanes followed through fragrant fruit orchards. The sun came out and my mood lifted: fair-weather cyclist 4life.  At this point I began to question the wisdom of using an OS map printed in 1990 as I followed a non-existent bridleway until some construction workers pointed me in the right direction. Apparently the gypsies were to blame for the closure of the bridleways. I left quickly, past the gypsies, and into Sittingbourne, which looked unavoidable. If I’d have known how abominable Sittingbourne was I would have made it avoidable, and as I sauntered my way around the town’s delightfully large gyratory system I suspected I was not the first cyclist to christen the town “Shittingbourne.” It seemed to consist of a four-lane traffic jam in all directions. Eventually I escaped via a country park (deserted, no parking I guess) and a newly built bridge – neither marked on my map – and after directing a bewildered cycling couple into Sittingbourne (I gave them fair warning) I made my way towards the Isle of Sheppey.

My bars were too wide for this bridge…

The great artery of Sheppey

The approach was quite exciting, down a long straight road with views of a spectacular bridge, built to pump the denizens of Kent onto this small patch of farmland at maximum speed. Thankfully the old B-road remains, wide and quiet, leaving me to ponder what horrors awaited me further in land. I took a spontaneous turn into Elmley nature reserve, a large bird sanctuary that occupies most of the southern half of the isle. It was a good choice. It was pancake flat, wide open, and peaceful. The sun beat down. I trundled slowly along a couple of miles of gravel track until I came to the bird huts, then turned back, and onto the road into Sheppey proper.

My conclusion is that Sheppey is a strange place and I am not in a hurry to go back. The old high street is dead, although nearby a huge Tesco was throbbing with activity. I made my way there on a path that I’d seen two cyclists use. I asked them about it, they said it was fine. As I bumbled along the concrete concourse along the shoreline, it was fine. Soon enough, though, a high wire fence surrounded me, bordering what must be the largest car park outside of Heathrow. It went on for a good mile or so. I found the shoreline again and spent some time bumbling along the sea wall, amidst the typically pasty day-trippers. Growing weary of being lost on a sun-baked, traffic-infested island I decided to make haste towards my hostel for the night. Back on the mainland and away from the delightful town of Sittingbourne I rolled through reliably lumpy Kent (or was it Swale?) up wooded valleys and potholed roads towards the outskirts of Chatham. I was rather fatigued by this point, and rode past the hostel, before realising my error and riding back up the hill. A German family beamed and looked at me as if they’d seen a furtive wild animal.

Day 8: Chatham to Meopham (~20m)

Another hot day. Instead of going directly through Chatham and Rochester I decided to take a long loop around via the Pilgrims way. I decided to take one last bridleway, whereupon a couple of short bog sections rendered my brakes useless. I stopped and cleaned my wheels and pads with leaves which seemed to work. After discovering a delightfully cheap bakery I ploughed over the M2 bridge and up the long and scenic drag to Lullingstone, and back into vaguely familiar territory. I noticed my rear wheel was wobbling somewhat, and shortly afterwards I had my first puncture of the trip. I repaired it. Just as I was about to set off I noticed part of the tyre had torn from it’s beading. It looked a bit fucked, basically. I rode on a short way, but the bulge made it quite difficult to control. Being so close to home and without any bright ideas for a quick repair, I wobbled about a mile down the road to the train station at Meopham.

Moar Kent.

The fatal (if puny) blow

Back in Nunhead, I stopped off at a local bike shop to get an expert’s opinion. He recommended replacing the tyre. “I have one at home,” I said, and wobbled off slowly up the hill. About 150 yards from home the tube exploded, so my final journey home was on foot.

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So that’s it. Perhaps for the next tour I won’t do such a bloated write-up. Having taken numerous photos and kept a little diary, however, it is all thoroughly committed to memory; a very strange set of memories, from  a week in my life which I spent almost entirely by myself wandering around a populous and sometimes rural part of the country – as my mother has often insinuated, not unlike a homeless person. Travelling alone didn’t bother me, and other than the occasional incidence of palpable social stigma, most people were very friendly, if a little suspicious. My real gripe with doing it solo was that it was hard work doing all the navigating, planning, packing and cooking. The pedalling bit was, on the whole, rather fun. The camping side of things was disappointing, with the odd exception. Clearly cyclists and walkers aren’t campers anymore – perhaps the only place they ever were was in my head. Or perhaps they are just greatly outnumbered. In any case, it’s a pity we seem to have so few good campsites which aren’t just grass car parks with shower facilities. 

I don’t have another camping trip lined up. I’d like to get away on a couple of short weekend trips if I can. I’m thinking about Scotland next year too, mostly so I can get away from our terrible campsites, and just pitch up wherever I like.

I’m off to Wales next week with Pete (who takes better pictures), travelling as light as possible on the trusty Bottecchia, and breaking out of my typical riding haunts. It should be fun.

• chatham
• faversham
• homeless
• punctures
• sheppey
• sittingbourne
• swale
• touring