By Lucy

Days in England: 18

I spent two whole days in bed, having finally crashed from the go-go-go. Friday evening I felt well enough to haul myself out of bed and throw a roast in the oven. With butter beans, I’ve never had them before. They’re nice.

Saturday, after we sorted breakfast, the couch next to me strewn with tissues, I declared “I wish I could go to the sea!”. Going home to Nova Scotia always cleared me right up. Rich pointed out we were a half-hour train ride from the sea, so we made hasty plans to go to Whitstable for the day. When we got to the train station I noticed the cherry trees outside were blossoming – it’s spring already!

Whitstable is the quintessential British vacation town. If you’ve read any classic English literature, there’s usually at least one reference to going to the seaside for a healing holiday, and Whitstable is one of the first ports of call, being not even an hour outside London. We walked from the train station right to the heart of the Harbour Market. A bougie little open air craft market, packed to the gills with Londoners looking for a little fresh air. Also oysters – everyone comes here for fresh oysters. Motorcycles loudly ripped up and down Main Street and my heart leapt!

We stopped for lunch at the most famous place around, the Old Neptune. I got the fish box; fried calamari rings, tempura prawns, scampi and whitebait. The calamari rings were good, just what you’d expect. The tempura prawns were also nice (note: everyone thinks they call shrimps ‘prawns’ in Britain. They’re wrong. Prawns are different from shrimp). Scampi is new to me, basically crayfish or small prawns, minced into a ball and deep fried, also delicious. Whitebait is also new, because we don’t have a word for it in North America. They’re basically any fish too small to bother boning and fileting. In this case, it’s small herrings, battered and fried whole. They were yummy and reminded me of when my grandfather brought us smelt he caught. I’d stand by the sink for an hour, gutting them for dinner, while he sat at the table with a beer and told us stories. He passed away quite a few years ago, sadly.

After lunch, we walked down the rocky beach, half comprised of crushed shells, and found some small oyster shells. Mementoes of the trip. We sat on the seawall for a bit, watching the tide come in. I turned the shell over and over in my fingers, thinking of the shell from Mexico the Vagabond gave me. Things I’d said, things I wish I had said. Two weeks until I can possibly see him again.

Before I could get too melancholy, we walked down the road to the Whitstable museum. It was a good tour, but I will say – it’s run by a bunch of train nerds who are somewhat baffled when they have visitors.

No matter how many museums I go in, I always get shivers when I see something like the “pudding pots”. Two thousand years old and they look brand new! Some Roman lady waited in vain for her dishes to show up, when they were resting at the bottom of the channel. Someone shaped them with their hands, now dead and forgotten. They had no idea they would displayed in a glass case for people to pay to gawp at. Can you imagine your own belongings in a case, as archaeologists puzzle the meaning for their existence?

The Thames Estuary forts also amuse me; most of them were abandoned and still stand in the ocean. Isn’t that in the way of shipping? Why not tear them down? Rich says some people are trying to convert them to hotels. You know, for the authentic “oil rig” experience.

We took a different route back to the train station and passed some graffiti you can see from the train.

Not sure how to break the rest of this. After we got back to the apartment, me and Rich got into a fight that basically ended our friendship. Longtime readers (such as it is) will notice I’ve removed his content from the blog. We might patch things up, but I’ll not be adding it back.