by Nick Corble
My diagonal line sat pretty much bang-on the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge, as the Dartford Crossing is properly known, and pedestrians were about as welcome there as recreational walkers were in Staffordshire. However, a bus, the X80, crossed the bridge for fifty pence more than the toll for a private car. It was just as well, as it avoided a long detour away from the diagonal (probably to the Blackwall foot tunnel to the west), or the use of a taxi or Uber, which seemed less in the spirit of things than a bus.
Rain was forecast, so I wanted to get swiftly on my way. Lakeside felt a bit intimidating. It was a cathedral, or more accurately, a theme park, requiring its own map. Besides, why would I want to go shopping? It would only add weight to my already cumbersome rucksack. Bizarrely, the X80 linked Lakeside with its rival south of the river, the equally massive Bluewater shopping centre in Kent. I couldn’t imagine the logic in this. Was it so people could comparison shop? What was certain, was that passage between the two was the main purpose for most people on the bus, as I was required to press the request button to get the driver to stop on the other side, where, somewhat disconcertingly, he asked me where the bus stop actually was.
Crossing the river had felt a bit like my own private Rubicon. Being from ‘the south’, the Thames is iconic to me, a wide, vibrant artery, busy with river traffic as the bus crossed over it. It was also iconic for the walk, as from the other side I would be entering the route’s final county: Kent. I’d started in Lancashire, passed through Cheshire, struggled through Staffordshire, passed in and out of Warwickshire and Leicestershire, cut straight through Northamptonshire, skimmed Buckinghamshire, endured Bedfordshire, gone home in Hertfordshire and enjoyed Essex. I’d also passed through the unitary authorities of Stoke on Trent, Luton and Milton Keynes, and the London boroughs of Enfield, Waltham Forest, Barking and Dagenham, Havering and Thurrock. And now I’d arrived in Kent. It should have felt like an accomplishment, but it actually felt more of a let-down. My time on the road wasn’t so much edging towards the end, it was dashing madly, like a demented lemming.
As my dad used to say, ‘If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have joined.’ So, reconciled that it was an emotion of my own making, and in fact a positive one, I pressed on into Dartford, or more accurately, Stone and Swanscombe via Greenhithe. I was now walking along the southern shore of the Thames, heading east, out to sea; although the water was still very much an estuary here. There was still a bit further to go before I saw the sea again.
After passing through a business park, a stretch of pleasant riverside walking followed. New flats have been built overlooking the surprisingly busy river, their bins out for collection. I couldn’t help but notice that the bin designated for rubbish unsuitable for recycling was green. What kind of idiot bureaucrat came up with that, I wondered? Surely, the one thing everyone can agree on when it comes to waste is that green is the one colour associated with recycling? The promised rain began an hour early. I had a telephone interview scheduled with the local paper, so I found a nearby bench to begin the dreaded waterproof trousers and cagoule-donning routine. For the first time on the walk, I was having to tog up for a second consecutive day.
Later, having headed inland at Swanscombe, I came across that rare thing, a closed footpath. Luckily, the authorities offered a helpful alternative on a clearly marked map, so the only frustration was having to track back the way I’d come, which meant repeating a short hill. Diversion safely negotiated, I stopped for a coffee and a leak in a local leisure centre and passed to the west of Ebbsfleet International railway station. Opened in 2007 as a Channel Tunnel station, this was a visible output of the Thames Gateway initiative, as well as a highly tangible link to the rest of Europe.
The Ebbsfleet name was initially rejected by the operators of the Channel Tunnel, it being a seventeenth-century construct. Was it only in England that a seventeenth-century construct could be seen as parvenu? The name stuck however and, as I was about to find out, to gain traction. As if from nowhere, a massive housing development appeared: Ebbsfleet Garden City. Another Garden City! One so young it hadn’t celebrated any anniversaries, and was actually being built, now, before my eyes. Numerous developers were busy building houses of different designs and sizes on an area called Castle Hill.
This was a project to build 15,000 homes, as well as supporting infrastructure, on previously unused land, including one of the many disused chalk quarries in the area. Nearby Swanscombe had been the first place in the world to make Portland Cement on a commercial scale, using the plentiful local chalk. There were even plans to use old tunnels dug through the quarries to link residents in the new Garden City with, you’ve guessed it, the Bluewater shopping centre. Part of the planned infrastructure, a school, was already in place, and I could see that some of the homes were already occupied. The development was billed as where ‘London meets the Garden of England’, with a lot of emphasis placed upon the station and the jobs clustering around it. The obvious question was how secure these jobs might be post-Brexit, which given Kent’s high level of support (59 per cent) for leaving the EU, may, in theory at least, have posed a dilemma for some.
All this development had had the effect of applying a giant eraser to the local footpaths, and following what I thought was the route on the map I hit a dead end at the bottom of the old quarry. For the second time inside an hour, I was retracing my steps uphill, eventually finding what I presumed to be my path just after a new roundabout. Trudging back up the hill on the hidden footpath, I gained spectacular views out over the lake at the bottom of the quarry, destined to become a local leisure resource for those living in the new houses.
As with Milton Keynes and WGC, it would be interesting to return at some point to see how the whole thing bedded in. More building work revealed itself to my left as I walked along a ridgetop path. For the next few hundred yards it felt as if I’d wandered onto the set of the old TV series The Prisoner, as CCTV cameras followed my every move, mounted on high telegraph poles, a bullhorn attached to each pole. With every step, I expected to be suddenly shouted at, with no obvious means to reply. I gave a little wave to the cameras, but instantly regretted it. Convinced my features were now being analysed by face recognition software I pressed on.
The path petered out, leading into my first overgrown footpath since before London. Luckily this was only for a hundred yards or so, although enough to adhere sufficient seeds to satisfy Kew Gardens to my damp trousers. Some steps appeared and I rose up them willingly, only to be confronted with the mega-busy three-lane A2. The map showed a footpath on the other side, but closer inspection revealed that there wasn’t actually a bridge connecting where I was to where I wanted to be. Unlike its contemporary over the M25, this footpath had lost out to the more modern route.
There was, however, a pavement on the side of the road which led up to a footbridge half a mile to the west, and there was no other option but to take it, accompanied by the roar of traffic and, it goes without saying (but I’ll say it anyway), an absolute humdinger of a downpour – just as I was out in the open with nowhere to take shelter. On reaching the other side, I started to retrace my steps. Looking at the map, there was, in theory at least, a route taking me to my final destination for the day. The problem was, there was a short stretch through woods lacking a marked footpath. Although I suspected I could probably blag it, it seemed a shame to take this just because I was fed up, to say nothing of spoiling the integrity of my mission to stick to footpaths and other rights of way.
Instead, I picked up my path, a mere six lanes of traffic away, checking first to see if there was an underpass. There wasn’t. This was clearly an unpopular route, and I only just caught the Kent County Council footpath sign sending me across a recently harvested open field. I hadn’t walked through fields for a while and I was glad I’d resisted the temptation to take the shortcut, a decision further vindicated by the fact that the rain stopped miraculously, and all of a sudden, totally out of char
acter, the sun made a brief appearance.
Immediately before me stood a Kentish oast house, my first but, I was sure, not my last, of these. Converted into a home, the building sported the characteristic tiled pyramid, complete with a pointed metal cowl vane on top, which would have turned in the wind to bring air in when the buildings were used to dry hops. As I crossed the field, a stray horse, white and emaciated, was wandering amongst the hedgerow. I wondered if anyone knew it was there. Seconds later, I stepped over a dead fox, a buzz of flies around its fanged mouth.
On the other side of the field, my route followed roads, the second of which, Sandy Lane, took me into the delightfully named Bean where I was due to spend the night. I later found out there’s also a place called Grain in Kent. I don’t know if they’re related. If the scorched banks and trees and remnants of rusty old springs lining Sandy Lane were anything to go by, it appeared the main recreational activity around Bean was the torching of old mattresses. On entering the village I got directions to my B&B from the local shop and, finding the key left for me, let myself in to an empty house.
I conducted my ritual shower and got changed. The local pub didn’t serve food, so, having missed out on the delights of Lakeside, I decided to opt for the choice offered by its rival and bus buddy, Bluewater. I whistled up a taxi and waited. Meanwhile, Kim turned up. She was the B&B’s housekeeper, although her precise status remained uncertain throughout my stay. She was keen to know about my walk, so I told her. Although I’d mentioned it only in passing, she picked up on the Brexit angle, one of the very few people I met prepared to discuss it. She asked me where I stood, so I told her and asked her how she’d voted. On revealing she was a Leaver (something which, as we know, put her in the substantial majority in Kent), I asked her why she’d voted the way she had.
‘Largely because of the things I heard from guests who come here,’ she told me. I’d have loved to have delved deeper, but unfortunately, a text on my phone told me my taxi was looking for me. There was just time to ask her if she’d vote the same way again, given everything that had happened since.
She was clear. ‘Yes.’
I asked if there was any reason why.
‘I think I’d have to stick with my original position,’ she replied.
As I put my shoes on, I suspected she wasn’t alone in this. She didn’t strike me as clear on her stance – she was eager to know more about my side of the argument (or, at least, I interpreted her questions as this) – but felt she and the country had made a decision, and should therefore stick with it, almost despite any consequences. I was sure we could have talked for longer, but I had an appointment with a shopping centre. It was only a couple of miles down the road, but the clouds had started to gather again, and I wasn’t confident of avoiding another soaking. Besides, I’d done enough trekking for the day.
If the high streets of England are wondering where all their trade has gone, I can tell them. Laid out in a triangle on yet another old quarry, Bluewater sits in its own dip in the firmament, like a partially hidden El Dorado. It has every conceivable retail outlet, and then some. It also has a cinema and a whole room devoted to trampolines and climbing walls. What isn’t there to like, if you are that way inclined? It’s impressive, even if I was left a little cold. As with Lakeside, it all felt a bit overwhelming. Perhaps I was too habituated to the solitary life on the road? Anyway, as we’ve already established, I wasn’t in the market for more stuff to carry, although I was very much in the market for stuffing my belly. It was still early, though, around four. I didn’t want to eat that early and wake up in the middle of the night in a deserted B&B feeling hungry, so I went for a wander.
My overriding impression was of hordes of bored children running around. Although the school holidays were only three weeks old these children were clearly bored witless, trampolines or no trampolines. Strangely enough, this observation coincided with my reading an article about the length of school holidays – and if you’re a teacher or schoolchild, you might want to look away now.
The article suggested that school holidays are just too darned long. It described a phenomenon called ‘learning loss’ or ‘unlearning’, with pupils forgetting much of what they learn at the end of an academic year and having to spend the start of the following one catching up. The article also highlighted how long school holidays fuel social disparity, with better-off parents able to afford to give extra tutoring for their children, or access to other learning (musical instruments, sports, or just job placements), not so available to the less well off. It was a thought-provoking argument, and I recalled the conversation I’d had with Jacqui back in Liverpool about the inadequacies of the current schooling system, and how, like many other parts of ‘the system’ it could allow itself to get stuck in traditional mindsets. We did tradition well in England, and while this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, it wasn’t always the best template for the future.
I ended up having a perfectly acceptable meal before locating the taxi rank. Just as I did so the threatened storm clouds gathered over the top of the complex. That day, it had been announced that the assets of the dying House of Fraser department store chain, one of whose stores was one of the three anchors in the complex, had been bought by the budget sports retailer Sports Direct. Perhaps the weather was trying to say something.
14
From Bean to Fruit
Two more guests turned up in the B&B overnight. They were Dutch cyclists, a couple touring the south-east of England on two wheels. They’d booked into the B&B at the last minute and like me had been defeated by the rain. We exchanged pleasantries, and they were kind enough to express sufficient interest in my walk to request a card. I duly obliged.
My breakfast finished, I felt as if Kim and I had some unfinished business, and I asked if she’d consent to be interviewed for a podcast. My interest had been piqued the previous day when she’d said her views on Brexit were informed by comments she’d heard from guests. This might be an opportunity to plug into the mindset of a whole group of people (namely those who B&B in Kent), rather than tuning into individuals one at a time.
She wasn’t keen, but shared some of what she’d picked up from her guests anyway. She told me how they often spoke of job losses and barriers to trade put down to EU legislation, and when I asked if she could remember any specific examples she mentioned the steel and sugar industries. She was firmly of the view that we could survive on our own.
I listened to what she said. After all, this was part of the point of my walk, to listen. Kim admitted she was speaking from the heart, she didn’t have any real evidence to support her views, and agreed that the Referendum campaign itself had been a disgrace. Once again, she pressed me on my view. She really did come across as genuinely interested in hearing the opposing argument. Her reward was a fifteen-minute rant. Sorry, I mean a fifteen-minute intelligent articulation of the issues, possibly a little more grounded in fact than sentiment. Neither of us was right or wrong, we each had our own view, and we each held it as tight as a child in peril, so we agreed to differ. Somewhat embarrassed with myself, I paid up and left.
Bean is a compact little village, with a doctor’s surgery, community hall, foodless pub, school and a recycling point, which is probably just as well as it’s part of Dartford. After the storms overnight it was sunny again, but not the scorching sweat-inducing heat of earlier in the year, which came as a relief. It looked like the waterproofs could stay stashed away. On finding the footpath out of the village I immediately came across a man wearing a short haircut, a camouflage shirt and very dark sunglasses. Oh, and he was also toting a gun. A friend in a similar get up joined him, although this one looked older and possibly friendlier. I decided to break the ice.
‘What you after?’
‘Anything, really,’ he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders.
‘I’d better get going quick then!’
‘You’re all right. We don�
�t do that any more now. It’s illegal,’ he joked. At least, I think he was joking.
I set off down the footpath, which narrowed as it headed downhill, as if it wanted to demonstrate the concept of the vanishing point, accompanied by the soundtrack of Saturday Night in Basra from the ridge above. Wide views opened out over North Kent, incorporating pylons, wind turbines, fields and distant villages. A long, satisfyingly diagonal path opened out over a field of defeated, but not yet harvested, rape. I registered a small victory.
Nash Street marked the point at which my route was joined by the Wealdway, an 83-mile-long path through the Weald of Kent and Sussex, linking Gravesend in the north with Sussex on the southern coast. The path became a bridleway at this point and appropriately enough I met two women on horses. We stopped to exchange stories, but it was difficult to really engage in conversation with them so high up, looking down on me. Besides, one of the horses was preoccupied with stripping the hedge and its rider with stopping it. It was a classic Encounter of the First Kind.
The weather was such a contrast to the previous day that I treated myself to my traditional pint of shandy and pint of water at the Railway Inn at Sole Street, where there was also a rather fine five-lane, floodlit petanque court. Maybe it was something to do with being so close to France. I enquired as to whether they were serving food, but it was a foolish question, proffered more in hope that expectation. Instead, I took my pints out into the garden and snaffled the chicken pasty I’d bought in the local shop moments before in anticipation of their response.
Back on the path, violet-blue chicory lined the hedgerow, along with what looked and smelled like wild oregano. The recently shorn fields revealed sharp flints and the landscape became hilly, with electricity pylons stretching out in all directions like a deranged spider’s web. Standing at the top of a ridge, I could see a faint splash of blue in the distance that looked on first impression like a horse box, but turned out to be a bouncy castle, a fact revealed by the shrieks of the children on it. I decided to sit for a while and just enjoy the view and my situation, while also making a mental note to check when my last eye test had been.
