Whitstable

It's a Sunday morning and rather overcast, so I'd thought I'd treat my reader(s) to an account of my recent trip to the seaside resort of Whitstable.

To those in the know, Whitstable was once a major Oyster port on the North Kent coast and until about 10 years ago or so, was a fairly quiet resort, faintly smelling of fiah, rancid chip fat and boasting a connection with Peter Cushing, a resident of the town in his later years. Unfortunately (or fortunately if you were a property owner...) the place became better known as 'Islington by the Sea', which meant that the moneyed classes snapped up property, opened up art galleries and generally gave the area a bohemian vibe.

My parents and I travelled there on market day (which is basically a rag bag of stalls selling old tat) and had to park a long way away and walk in. We perused the small shops which line Habour Street which sell 'expensive tat' (Mother's words, not mine) and I bought a book about dolphin song from the remaindered bookshop. We had a short visit to the museum, which houses the usual collection of maritime cornucopia such as the figurehead of a ship, some fishing nets and a picture of a giant squid.

To avoid the extortionate prices charged by the various tea shops and cafes, Mother had packed the Thermos flask, which is rather old and smells of old coffee and plastic, so we inched ourselves down onto the pebbly beach and enjoyed our refreshment.

I wonder what the Isle of Sheppey's like?