Sandwich — The Sort-of Sequel
Five years ago I cycled to Sandwich for a sandwich. Hilarity ensued.
Now I’m back in London and on Friday I was expecting a phone call with a job offer. Such an adventure would be the perfect way to celebrate! This time, I thought, I would go on foot. And ideally avoid run-ins with law enforcement.
On Friday morning, my phone rang and the woman said, “So everyone really enjoyed meeting you but…” And I wondered if I should just stay at home over the weekend, live off of the miscellaneous grains in the cupboard, and do more job hunting.
But I had already booked a hostel in Dover and told Lynn and Frank (of Sandwich Couchsurfing Adventure 2014) that I would be in town. So I spent Friday afternoon blinking back the welling pools in my eyelids and lasering all of my attention into an annotated map of the route I would take from Canterbury to Dover, along the North Downs Way. I decided to bail on the Sandwich route so I could run on footpaths rather than motorways. Because I am thirty and sensible.
The North Downs Way is sign posted about every mile. And I had the route on Strava. And I would bring a spare charger for my phone. But I should have this annotated map as well because… one can never be too careful these days. Always have a Plan B. And C, D, E, F. Just in case everything you’ve worked for and planned around and been excited about goes to shit. As it is wont to do.
On Saturday morning I had my usual banana almond oatmeal for breakfast. Then I polished a small tray of the leftover butter flapjacks Iain made for his mountain marathon. I packed a granola bar, a clementine and some high calorie sweeties in my rucksack because… there’s always a chance of bonking! Even when there are villages with pubs ever two kilometers. Better safe than sorry.
I jammed Bertrand Russel’s book on happiness and some loo roll into my pack, hopped on the train from Kings Cross to Canterbury, and off I set! No music, no podcast, no Strava. Just a girl and her map and the distant sounds of the river (of traffic on the A2) as my guide to the west.
Two miles in I was lost and had to chuck my pride and No Phone rule out the window. Eight miles in I was bonking, realising that the one thing I did not pack in my hydration pack was hydration — other than the juice of the clementine. Fortunately I was, according to my map, only a thumb width away from Shepherdswell.
There was the classic creaking-of-necks as I walked into the pub. My eyes took several seconds to adjust to the room which, despite having windows, seemed primarily lit by the flashing jukebox.
“Bon- Jor -No,” said one of the men in the corner, giving me the ol’ up-and-down, perhaps assuming that anyone not from Shepherswell must be European?
“Hiya,” I nodded as I shuffled my way down the bar.
The lady bartender wiped her hands on a towel and raised her eyebrows as I said — debating in real time whether or not to put on a British accent — “I wondered if I might trouble you for a glass of water.”
“Corse y’can luv.”
If it weren’t for Bon Jovi playing on the jukebox over the silence of stalled conversation, you might have heard each individual gulp.
“Ar — revwar,” said the man as I pushed the door to leave.
I ran through the corn field out of town while a not-too-distant ice cream truck played a hyper-speed jingle version of What Child Is This, with the effect of the warbled clown’s song playing over an abandoned carnival ground.
Eight miles and at least as many bird carcasses later, I arrived to Dover and the dot on the map Google seemed to think was my hostel. From the outside it looked very much like an abandoned pub. I peered with open hand goggles into the window and realised there was a man in a t-shirt at the corner table a few inches from my face, sitting in the dark, staring into space.
I was still thirsty. The clementine of four miles previous had a counter-satiating effect and the sides of my mouth were sticky with salt and breath and citrus. So I pushed the door open and scanned the room for an employee. The t-shirt man stood up and nodded at me without a word.
“Hiya. I was wondering if I might trouble you for a glass of water?”
Take My Breath Away was playing on the jukebox in the corner.
He nodded again silently and retreated to a back room — despite there being plenty of glasses and a tap at the bar. He returned with a lime green plastic cup, only half full with lukewarm water.
“Cheers,” I said and drank it down with genuine gratitude and pleasure, having decided not to ask about checking in to the “hostel.”
I picked up the most expensive bottle of wine I could find at the SPAR gas station and texted Frank to ask if I could stay at theirs again.
