Microadventuring, mini tours etc

Another overlong trip report for a short trip.

Taking inspiration from the fact that Palace Farm seemed like a nice hostel (why do I find it so hard to find hostels that are within 50 miles of a 2 hour train journey from Cambridge? Please advise), last year I drew up a tentative plan to catch a train down to Margate and follow the coast and NCN 1 back towards that London, hoping to soak in some of the post-industrial architecture in the area, maybe eat chips on a promenade, maybe get my head kicked in. One year later (yes it takes me a year to plan, arrange, schedule and prepare for a basic BnB overnighter) I found myself staring down the barrel of a "free" weekend and in a frenzy booked myself a twin room, taking note of the generous cancellation policy. I'm an anxious scheduler and felt much better knowing I could give up on the tour up to three days before go time, and the miserable weather leading up to the weekend made me think that was going to be a real possibility. I messaged the two other members of my touring collective about my plans and found that they both wanted to come along, despite the depth of rain falling making it seem unlikely Kent would even be above water come the weekend. So we rebooked our room to a family-sized (N bagsied the double bed, JD and I took the bunks) and stayed glued to the weather report, which somehow shifted better and better as the week ended. By Friday late night packing lists were circulated, trains were picked and I had a small meltdown about my new oversized Klean Kanteen touching my frame pack. It was confirmed: we were going weekend touring in the mythiKal Kounty of Kent.

N goes riding all the time, has done big tours, and understands things like "planning for the wind" whereas I spend most of my time in a windless medium known as "indoors", so it made sense when I overruled her scepticism about doing this trip East -> West rather than West -> East. I wanted us to have the shorter train journey on the Sunday night and I also preferred the perversely inverted weekend away narrative. Starting from beautiful Kent countryside and heading East, towards the Greater London Built-up Area. As we left Curve Roasters in Margate and started powering along the coastal path, the wind in my face, ears and eyes made me wonder if this was another one of my famous Bad Decisions. Fortunately the wind doesn't show up on Instagram, so the pictures from this stretch look like another country. N said the coastline reminded her of the beachfront in Sydney, though she couldn't understand why British coastal towns have shit amusements on the seafront instead of really pleasant pavement cafes and restaurants. The wind whipped my words away so I couldn't explain to her that the British psyche isn't predicated towards things like pleasantness.

The blue ocean stretched away to our right as we stop started through NO CYCLING and MODERATE YOUR SPEED and GIVE PEDESTRIANS PRIORITY zones that were largely deserted except for one or two people who told us we were meant to dismount. Some of the most hostile-to-cycling cycling infrastructure I've ever ridden on almost made me long for a busy A-road. By the time we got to Herne Bay things were a lot more pleasant, though still quite windy. Herne Bay seems quite nice and apparently has a progressive ice cream scene. I recommend stopping, but we didn't. We also gave all the pleasant looking lunch stops in Whitstable a miss. Why is it that when touring all the best food options present themselves when you aren't really hungry? It felt like a great chance to stop was permanently round the corner, and then we got a really greater chance to stop when I got a spicy rear puncture. The sun was shining and whilst JD commented on the pneumatic set up of every hybrid, mobility scooter, unicycle and pram that went past us ("I bet she's using tubeless. I bet he's got tubeless. That baby probably has a tubeless set up. Have you heard of tubeless?") I set about cack-handedly applying a patch. I've never actually fixed a puncture on the road; I mostly just get punctures in town and walk them home or to a bike shop. But now that I've done it once I've sworn to get a colour matched Silca frame pump to go with every bike I own. N doesn't spend all her time memorising build specs from The Radavist so didn't know what a colour matched Silca was and interrupted my explanation to point out that I:

Shouldn't have removed both beads from the rim
and
Should have taken the tube out to patch it instead of leaving in situ.

Still, speed of repair wasn't a great concern. The sun was still shining and the sky was clear. She should have been swimming instead of pointing out my deficiencies. JD started listing popular tubeless sealants that he had heard about from GCN videos while I stroked my tyre into turgidity. It sounded like the only three people not running tubeless were JD, N and myself. We carried on along the coast, past beach huts, paranoid pensioners, slot machines and sunshine, the wind at times really annoying and at others just slightly annoying.

We were extremely underfed by the time we arrived at Faversham to find that everything was closing. The market was being dismantled and all the cafes were cleaning up their espresso machines. I hate the feeling of being in a town when the market is being closed, it reminds me of death, and Faversham's Tudor architecture and doll's house aesthetic made me think that dying here would be pretty excruciating. They would probably have to put up a blue plaque. We nailed an extremely affordable Linner (it's not quite lunch, not quite dinner) at the Moonlight Cafe, then went to a wine/tapas/coffee bar called Jittermugs for espresso and recuperation. It was nice. They had cake and a pleasant outside bench.

We were loathe to head out but there was nothing else to do once we'd finished our cake and refilled our water bottles. We started our final leg inland towards the hostel. The Southwesterly wind was now officially a headwind, the gradient was officially uphill. I began to feel like I officially wanted to die. N and I took a slight detour to see some shipwrecks by the Oare marshes. They were pretty far away. Bring binoculars if you really want to scrutinise them yourself. The return to JD was slightly arduous. The dappled light coming through the trees was pleasant but really it was getting towards the time of day when I wanted to arrive more than travel despite the beauty of the lanes around us. When we pulled into Palace Farm and were allowed to roll our bikes into the courtyard, have a cup of tea, shower and stretch our legs it felt like a balm. The Chequers Inn was a ten minute walk away and was easily the most welcoming country pub I've been in for a long time. We could have stayed longer if it wasn't for the fact that we were all basically comatose.

Next day, up early, complimentary breakfast of muesli, toast, croissants. It's a hostel-style BnB or a BnB-style hostel. Either way I set out to make the best cup of coffee its kitchen had ever seen. I had some well rested Burundi natural process beans, my pocket grinder, pocket scale, pocket thermometer, and a Youtube video of James Hoffman explaining his French Press technique. The coffee was pretty great, though the teachers we were sharing the kitchen with had some pretty bad takes and weren't worried about us overhearing them. Teachers should be paid more so that there can be some better ones. I fine-tuned the grind a little, made another batch for my flask and we were on our way, once the drizzle cleared up.

The swooping downhill lanes were a pleasant way to ease into the ride; with the wind behind us we made good time despite the strong consensus that we should make more stops during the day. We chilled for a while in a churchyard, “There's always benches in a churchyard” - N, and made polite conversation with the parishioners exiting Sunday service.

No gnar per se, but there were chalky gravel roads to come which cut straight through the apple and pear orchards. The uniform rows of compact trees, just beginning to fruit and months away from harvest, surrounded us. There was no one about, all the Kent roadies had probably finished their rides before we set out. We drank some water underneath a grey sky, feeling like interlopers. Surely we shouldn’t be allowed so close to the harvest? Precious fruit trees should be protected shouldn’t they? N said we could have been in Tuscany, amongst the vineyards there. We took some pictures. It was the most picturesque the ride would be for a little while.

We flew through Sittingbourne, expecting to find a lunch stop but instead finding bike paths and warehouses. I personally enjoy urban sprawl, but the traffic was wearing JD's nerves and the traffic lights were thwarting N's roadie instincts. It was one of those greasy, dispersed towns that seem to have no centre, no high street, no agora. Without warning we found ourselves transiting from ugly major approach road to ugly major exit road. We wondered what had happened to lunch but managed to find our way to the coast again for a little while. Pleasant shared use paths, slightly bumpy, many friendly dogs, the boats and skyscrapers of Chatham in the distance. Surely we would find somewhere to eat there? The map said there was a Nandos in the Marina. The coast road ended and we were alongside a gruesome dual carriageway, pushing uphill, upwind, in the rain. JD and I had previously floated the idea of Rapha doing a black and white photoshoot of this type of riding. Slogging past out of town McDonalds and DFS hangars on a shared use pavement, next to a major artery. The freedom of the open road gone and replaced by the claustrophobic feeling of traffic blurring past your shoulders on one side and high fences on the other. Corrugated plastic and brick walls, Buddleia growing out of untended grass verges, those galvanised steel fences with the warped spikes on top. Property entrances that only have gates for cars, not pedestrians. The type of place where the pavement suddenly stops and if you're walking you find yourself in a total dead end, unsure what whoever designed the system expected you to do. We swerved round drop curbs and waited at toucan crossings until we reached the marina.

Someone was clearly trying to regenerate the area. The dockside must have been a hub of industry once but it had almost all been torn down except for a huge skeletal structure, surrounded by temporary fencing and signs telling parents to keep their children away. The Nandos wasn't where it was supposed to be on the map and we circled, freewheeled, consulted menus, stopped, started, stared at the ocean, tried to cajole our phones into showing us somewhere pleasant to eat, made calls or tried to, worked hard to not seem like we were losing our tempers with each other whilst the wind threw tricksy gusts at our cooling bodies. We just wanted someone with adequate glycogen reserves to walk around the corner with a wifi hotspot, a usb battery and some gluten-free lunch recommendations. When we finally did find the Nandos, there was a sign on the door saying something that I honestly don't remember except that it meant they were closed due to unforeseen circumstances. There was a Pizza Hut next door. Did you know that Pizza Hut has violife vegan cheese as an option on all pizzas? Did you know that their gluten free base is actually very good? Something perfect aligned and our waitress was attentive and smart, noticing JD's pizza had actual cheese on, returning it for another one and taking it off the bill.

"Good thing she noticed," said JD as he waited for his replacement pizza to arrive, “I would have literally shit myself.”

N bought some kind of salad pizza that came with free salad. I got the pizza buffet and set out trying to beat it. If I was paying eleven pounds for pizza I wasn't going to pay for dinner too. I triumphed in the end, 13 slices subsumed, JD and N looking on with quiet fear and disgust.

Now that we'd all had some carbs it seemed like it was going to be OK. We pushed out of Chatham almost straight into Rochester, surely one of the weirdest towns I have ever been in. I don't know how to describe it. A ride in filled with odd tattooists, alternative therapy centres, a strip club (haven't seen one of those in years), micropubs in shop fronts, and then some kind of high street, filled with bunting, shops selling a mix of tourist tat and sincere looking vintage, the streets empty except for what appeared to be locals, no supermarkets that we could find, a vast cathedral. I didn't get it. JD said he'd been to Kent before and that Rochester was "peak Kent" but I didn't know what he was talking about. It seemed simultaneously on the up and on the down. Being gentrified whilst falling apart. I couldn't take my eyes off it. JD went into the newsagents and bought about 8 packets of Skittles. I solemnly accepted one. I would have stayed for hours but I only had a single espresso shot to bolt before we got out of there.

Did we ever get out of there? It's not clear. I remember an incline. I remember the sun coming out and not finding it pleasant at all. I remember a lot of cars, a lot of exhaust, the sound of diesel turbos whining as they went past. Cycle infrastructure that must have been developed by a suicidal cyclist, surrounded by drivers who I wished would kill themselves. The paths were overgrown at points, the vegetation was disgusting. I found myself thinking about how inhospitable the verges here must be. Shallow and caked in particulate. The things thriving in them couldn't be wholesome. Everything smelled like pollen. At one point we had to run across a 60 mile per hour road, not because of my route finding, but because that's just the route the cycle path took. JD looked like he was about to sit down on the curb and cry. He only just started wearing shoes with cleats and I'm sure he was picturing himself failing to clip in before getting ploughed by a people carrier. N seemed fine. I was enjoying the misery. The bramble ridden cycle paths outside Strood are as good a picture of life on this planet as any. As the world continues to get uglier I think there's a certain utility in appreciating the afternoon light above the A2.

Just as I mulled these thoughts over, thinking that we were heading into a messy, prolonged suburb that we would have to ride through until we reached London or died trying, we took a right up a steep hill into Ranscombe Nature Reserve. I'd forgotten that I'd routed us through it. I had found some trails marked on Trailforks and because I love to believe that I'm an 'all road' 'gravel rider' stuck them in. It did not begin promisingly. The footpath we were bouncing along became a bramble path that nipped at my high performance technical clothing. There was a terrifying set of steps down, a slippery walk, and then another set of steps up, with a stile at the top that clearly wasn't intended for people to lift bikes over. JD asked me if I had actually checked the route on google maps before plugging it into the GPX and I laughed nervously. Do people do that? Is that a thing? I definitely did not do that and allowed JD to carry his bike up the stairs and over the stile before me. Steel may well be real but having to hork it over head height does make you wonder.

Nothing about the path was getting easier but it was getting more picturesque. Picking a line through a flowered meadow of rock-hard compacted soil with scattered fist-sized lumps of chalk, I let some air out of my tyres for the added compliance. Though N was riding 25cs and seemed faster than both JD and I (JD piped in with the technical commentary and pointed out that the last 4 Dirty Kanzas have been won on 28s, or something to that effect, I don't know. I certainly wouldn't have been able to hack it on 28s).

"Why would anyone do cyclocross if it’s like that, but in the mud?" asked JD as we entered the cover of some trees and began doing the same thing, but in the mud, and uphill. Within a few minutes I was in my lowest gear and trying to maintain enough speed to avoid my rear wheel spinning out. The humidity had risen with my heart rate. My cardiovascular system felt like it was redlining. There was nowhere to go: pedal slower and the rear wheel would slip, pedal faster and my heart would explode. It was time to face the indignity of walking. All three of us hiked bikes to the top of the hill and collapsed at the top. I drank some more of the coffee but frankly it tasted like crap. All of the florals had collapsed into bitterness. I dumped it into the local fauna as a pair of teenagers in tracksuits flew past on mountain bikes. They looked slightly embarrassed to be associated with us as we sat around, soaking up the greenery, consulting the GPS and eventually descending a grass track which was definitely not exactly the right route. Another sharp incline and we made it back onto the path which seemed all the sweeter for the exhaustion. I felt like I'd grown an extra pair of legs, perhaps my lunchtime pizza was being digested, or maybe dumping the 200ml of coffee I still been carrying was the weight saving I'd needed. Probably it was just because the road had tilted downhill and we had a tailwind.

We shot out of Ranscombe and into Jeskyns, maybe just another km or two but it seemed like a blessed reward for the hillside slogging we'd been suffering an hour or so ago. We crossed the A2 again on the Rabbit Bridge and aside from our late arrival at the Cyclopark in Gravesend everything seemed to be coming up. We could have stayed on the (suddenly stunningly wide, sunny and smooth) NCN into Dartmouth but checking our various onward journeys it seemed like it was prudent to cut the trip short here. A brief run through Gravesend to the train station and we were safely all on the wrong train, facing an evening of further travel and for N and I a short blast through London to Kings X, but this is already a long enough post considering we only travelled a hundred miles so I'll cut it short. It’s enough to say that we had a great time and are already planning our next trip out.

Some of the stuff I consulted before the trip:
https://www.palacefarm.com/
https://ridewithgps.com/routes/2706283

https://www.lfgss.com/comments/14447023/
https://strava.app.link/OJVg7B2FNQ
https://www.komoot.com/tour/71274537