15 September 2020
After the elementary errors that blighted last week’s trip to the country, we decide to have another go. It’s the same principle as riding a bike (or is it something more dangerous like a horse?). If you fall off the first time, you need to get back in the saddle straight away and see if you’ve learned from the experience.
Very light clothing for a warm day? Check. Plenty of water this time? Check. Route map copied and placed safely in same rucksack as plentiful water? Check. Route more or less memorised just in case? Sort of. What could possibly go wrong? Ah, it soon turns into the hottest sunny day known to man in mid-September. Perfect conditions for a three hour walk without any shade or protective headgear? No, not really.
Walking is also meant to be one of the more environmentally friendly pursuits. Not today, as the prospect of a sea view persuades us that a 160 mile round trip by car is a sensible idea. Our destination is Sandwich on the Kent coast, one of the original Cinque Ports but now situated a couple of miles inland and only accessible to boats via the River Stour. Formed over a thousand years ago, the Cinque Ports confederation (or “Cradle of the Navy”, as it likes to be called) has its own website these days, which informs me there are 14 towns that are members. This is linguistically implausible, but it seems various modern pretenders have been added to the original five ports over the years. And the correct pronunciation is “sink” rather than “sank”. Why? Because the British way of saying it, probably in a loud voice so foreigners can understand better, is clearly superior to the French. The Kent Coast isn’t called Brexit-on-Sea for nothing. In addition to Sandwich, the original ports are Dover, Hastings, Hythe and New Romney, with other ancient towns like Rye and so-called “limbs” such as Ramsgate and Folkestone being co-opted into the club much later.
We park at the Quay and set off southwards along the banks of the Stour. Although Sandwich only boasts around 5,000 inhabitants today, its port ensured it was a prosperous and strategic town in Anglo-Saxon and Norman times, earning its first historical mention in the year 851. Its name means, quite simply, a market town in a sandy place. We read of the strange fate of its neighbour, Stonar, then an even larger town on the other side of the Stour, which “disappeared without trace” in the 14th century, never to reappear. Looking northwards across the Stour we search for any clue to this mystery, but see only the Pfizer office park in the distance, a major employer in this area for over 50 years until it made two thousand jobs disappear without trace, most likely never to reappear. With usual corporate sensitivity, they probably called this “Project Stonar”. To be fair, Pfizer eventually pulled back from its plan for total closure of the site in favour of one that maintains an important research presence of around 500 people. This is, after all, where Viagra was originally developed and it’s surprising that there’s no durable erection in Sandwich, such as a statue or obelisk, to commemorate this scientific feat (ok, I admit I may have had something to drink).
A major plus point of our walk today is that there is no height gain at all. Crossing parched dry and completely flat terrain, we soon reach the pathway between the two golf courses for which Sandwich is most famous today. To our right is Royal St. George’s, which hosts The British Open Championship every ten years and would have done so again this summer but for coronavirus. Its time will come again soon, we hope, in 2021.
To the left is Princes, also an international standard course, which last staged The Open in 1932 and is today a venue for its final qualifying rounds. Princes remains the only major course where I have played golf, if you exclude Seaford pitch 'n' putt. Now, I’m not a golfer at all but I did manage to score a par on the final hole as a packed clubhouse balcony looked on and cheered. Sadly the cheering can only have been ironic, as this just sealed the deal on my round of 100 over par. Though almost 40 years ago, I’m sure I went out to play just after lunch and it was starting to get dark as I finished. Maybe it was the lunch that was to blame, being substantially liquid, rather than my chronic lack of golfing ability. The first hole certainly set the scene nicely, as I already collected four shots in gaining just 30 yards (three air shots and a topped drive that just about persuaded the ball to topple off the tee on the fourth swing). No, I’m firmly in the Mark Twain camp on this one: “golf is a good walk spoiled”.
Ignorant of this backstory, a client at work decided a few years ago to entrust me with a project involving a golfing equipment brand. Sensibly, given my lack of knowledge or much interest in the topic, I selected my colleague Jack (not his real name) to run the project for me. Jack comes from a golfing family and nearly turned professional himself, only veering towards accountancy at the last minute for the thrills and excitement. A modest and self-effacing type, Jack was duly introduced to the client as a keen golfer but without revealing the true extent of his credentials. The first project call went something like this:
Client: So the first thing we need to do is form a view on how the market works. Like, how often can the company bring out a new set of clubs that is technically superior to the previous one? Our investment thesis is: every 12-18 months.
Jack: That’ll be very difficult.
Client: We think it should be doable. We’ve seen in other industries that you can continuously improve the technology of any product.
Jack: I would normally agree, but golf is different.
Client: You’re being very negative here, Jack, this is not helpful. What makes you say that?
Jack: The technology behind golf clubs developed so quickly in a short space of time that rules have been put in place to limit future changes. All proposals by the equipment makers are now subject to intense scrutiny and approval. In practice, this makes it very hard to make any real changes to what we have now.
Client: That’s… interesting. How do you know this?
Jack: I sit on the committee that sets the equipment rules for golf globally.
Client: Ah…. [Silence]
Client: Maybe put your pens down for now, while we have another think about this deal.
Client: [Tumbleweed]
That’s enough golf for now. Beyond the car parks we reach the beach at Sandwich Bay, which, contrary to any logic, is pebbled. Maybe its 9th century equivalent, two miles further inland, had been a little sandier when the town’s name was coined. But it’s pleasant enough as the coastline glistens in the bright September sun, throwing off a panorama of colour that wouldn’t look out of place on the Côte d’Azur, yet flatters to deceive in autumnal Kent. We stroll languidly along the mile-long stretch of coast, deserted except for the occasional camper van, its side awning extended to cast shadow over matching deckchairs. Comforted by the slight sea breeze, we fail to register the rising temperature until we turn inland again to join the public footpath back across the Royal St. George’s course.
We spot a bench placed temptingly on a hillock between two cavernous bunkers, which offers panoramic views of any golfing action (not much) while we pause for a much-needed water break. As we see the next group heading for a nearby tee, we clamber down again and rejoin the path. This is just as well, as we overhear the advice of one of the caddies, resplendent in his club issue long socks and shorts: “If you try and aim your drive a couple of feet over that bench, that’ll be just perfect”. Oh, you mean right where our heads were half a minute ago?
Caught up in the stress of this near miss, we take the wrong path (surprise!) but only realise ten minutes later when we find ourselves about to walk up a fairway in the direction of the clubhouse. Also, a young man in a buggy is making a beeline for us. Under the circumstances, he’s very polite about the fact we’re now trespassing deep in private land and assures us of safe passage through the clubhouse - without the need to fork out for a year’s membership fee - if we just explain that we're incompetent at reading maps. Or, in case Jayne reads this, that the incompetence is all mine. (Actually, I think he is secretly impressed by my explanation that we’re trying to find the bird observatory, a phrase I never expected to utter in my lifetime). In the event, we retrace our steps to find out how and where we stumbled off the public right of way, during which time we are inspected at close quarters by two more club buggies on intruder reconnaissance missions. We finally locate the right path, which turns out to have been very clearly signposted, even for the navigationally-challenged.
But no matter, it’s only 28⁰C by now and the cooling breeze of the beach already a distant memory. We decide not to dither, after all, at the Sandwich Bay Bird Observatory, even though it was inaugurated by Bill Oddie. Or at least, only long enough to ensure golf-buggy man is not checking out my cunning alibi. We embark on the final stretch of our walk, which turns out to be longer and much hotter than we were anticipating. Aside from the occasional bramble-lined trail, this mainly involves gravel paths through recently harvested farmland and an absence of shade.
By the time we reach Sandwich town centre, almost three hours after setting off, Jayne’s face has turned a similar shade to when she gets back from the gym. Lunch - and a large cold coke - become urgent and we take up residence on the front terrace of the Quayside pub. The drinks and starters (olives and homemade crab pâté) arrive straight away and are delicious, so we think the immediate crisis has passed. Then comes the pièce de résistance of the lunch experience: a sandwich in Sandwich - in this case the fish finger variety, always a touch of decadence compared to run-of-the-mill ham or cheese.
Unfortunately, it’s at this moment that the lack of shade takes its toll on Jayne and she looks distinctly queasy. She even passes out for a few seconds in her seat, which she hasn’t done for years but had been quite a regular occurrence back in the early years of our relationship. The trick was always to manoeuvre her feet into a position where they were above her head, then all was well again (we even managed this once on a long-haul flight while sitting in economy, which provided everyone with far better entertainment than the in-flight movies). Luckily, Jayne comes round quickly this time, sparing the good burghers of Sandwich from athletic atrocity. After that episode it's no surprise she can’t face the local signature dish, meaning I end up with double sandwich portions. So it’s not all bad news. The Fourth Earl of Sandwich, after whom this meal was named during the 18th century, would have been proud.
Jayne feels well enough to walk back to the car, in which she recovers fully during the air-conditioned ride back to Chislehurst Towers. It’s not exactly the end to our seaside trip we had in mind, but completely our fault for choosing this very hot day for a six mile trek across open countryside - while not wearing a cap. On next week's walk we may finally get it right - maybe once or twice round the garden and we'll see how we're doing.
Acknowledgements: Jayne and Richard were following Walk 8, Sandwich and Sandwich Bay, from the Ordnance Survey’s “Kent - Outstanding Circular Walks”, published by Crimson Publishing (reprinted version 2018). Photos mainly by Jayne as usual, except for a couple by me when she was indisposed.
As ever, you’re very kind, Brian. I’m working on my Germany book at the moment, so progress of sorts!
Hi Richard. This made me laugh :) Brilliantly written. I know I am beginning to sound like a broken record but it would be a shame if you didn't have these writings published.