First night in the tent and not the greatest night sleep ever, although not terrible either.
Getting up and packing everything took a couple of hours, not helped by the fact the interior of my tent was an omnishambles and definitely a need for some sort of routine to be established. It also didn’t help that I was ravenous and there was no shop or facilities nearby for food, although Alex, one of the campsite owners, very kindly came over with a couple of hard-boiled eggs. Each one savoured as though it were an ortolan songbird itself.
I was also offered a brew by the very gorgeous Christine, originally from Ilkley but who lived in Brixton with her energetic Jack Russell terrier, Jagger. She was an artist, looked extremely distinctive with a whiff of an eighties wedge haircut and was blessed with a honeyed authentic and friendly tone when she spoke. She explained that she rented out her flat to Air Bnb most weekends during summer and stayed at various campsites dotted around the vicinity, which helped with her rent, gave the chance to be out of the city with Jagger and to meet people. She also advised me that as it was high season, the weekend and perfect weather, most campsites would be fully booked up so it was worth it to ring ahead and book a space at a campsite, even if just a single pitch such as myself. Which turned out to be a great bit of advice.
I had already decided that after the long 60 miles yesterday I would not make the trip to Dover, take a ferry and find a campsite in France all in one go today and anyway my PCR test, mercifully negative, was valid for a further 48 hours so all good. Besides, it was looking out to be a stunner of a day, sunshine all the way and nothing beats the English countryside at its finest, especially when in the middle of Kent, The Garden of England with its beautiful villages, Tudor timbered thatched cottages, oast houses, picturesque churches with lynchgates, fields of wheat and hops, apple orchards and windy country lanes. Bucolic bliss.
I made a few calls to various campsites, left messages and set off in the direction of Canterbury and food. Slightly alarmed as a couple of sites rang back to say they were full, but I was sure there would be somewhere with a space for one person and if not, there was always wild camping although I wanted to ease myself into that one. Then I got a call from a from Hawthorn Farm, about 30 miles away and more importantly, only 4 miles from the port of Dover. I had to be there by 5.15 though, which shouldn’t be an issue although everything seems to take longer than I expect when you are loaded down with panniers full of stuff. The bumpy roads and my concern about getting a puncture, and more importantly the time it would take to change the inner tube, didn’t help either.
I was so happy to get to Canterbury, which I knew well from my tour guiding work. Straight to Morrisons supermarket, slight concern as I had to leave my panniers on my bike whilst I went in for supplies. But given they were pretty cumbersome and the car park at Canterbury didn’t look too much like a major crime spot, I didn’t worry too much. With the help of a sales assistant, I found these great packets of flavoured rice which looked super easy to cook.
I had started to become aware of possible chafing in my nether regions and chanced my luck that they sold chamois cream. When I asked the sales girl, she brought me to the car maintenance section and I declined to explain further the kind of chamois product I was looking for and why. Somehow, she didn’t look like she was ready for that kind of a conversation early on a Sunday morning.
I arrived at Hawthorn Farm around half four. It was vast, sprawling fields with all manner of caravans, mobile homes, tents of all shapes and sizes and all of humankind there. I went for a spot at the furthest end of the furthest field in the shade. I got the tent up pretty sharpish and chucked everything inside, grabbed my toiletries stuff and went off for a shower. It took me about 5 minutes to get to the nearest shower block and on my way back, a smallish group of friends had returned and cranked up the drum and bass so the tuneless aberration that passes for music jarred at my senses. Grim. Still, at least I was clean, refreshed and nobody had nicked anything whilst I was in the shower. Result.
I cycled down to the campsite shop where they sold ice cold beer. In the queue was an older guy in full unforgiving lycra that was telling anyone in molecular detail who would listen about how he had cycled 40 miles that day. I kept quiet and cycled back to my tent. Music still blaring, but decided it was mind over matter and anyway, I live just by Portobello Road in London and am used to noise. Those beers were amazing, although it made it quite hard to focus on making a huge meal of rice, onion and tuna.
Evening was a bit muddled, formless as I am tired and the magnitude of this endeavour begins to hit me. One day at a time, that's how I need to tackle it. I am worried about so much, what to do if my bike breaks, whether I can do this. But I think I just need to get to France and just start cycling and it will get better. One thing to get right, to avoid my usual negative thought patterns and reverting to getting angry about everything. Reread an article about a woman who did the same trip and how all her worries left her as she progressed though the journey. I wonder if it will be the same for me. I had read it before, but now I noticed she was promoting a book she had written about the experience.
Thankfully the music switched off as darkness fell and one thing I have noticed; campsites, so far at least, have nice people with good intentions.
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