Tag Archives: seaside


Barmouth Bridge, by Eifion. Picture used under Creative Commons licence, click pic for link to photo

Barmouth Bridge, by Eifion. Picture used under Creative Commons licence, click pic for link to photo

Cue the standard blogger apologies for delays in posting – I have all sorts of reasons/excuses that I shan’t bore you with. One of them at least was a short break in North Wales (our first proper YHA break which was, let’s say, an interesting experience), and here we are. I don’t really know what normal people do on holiday. In our heads, we pack waterproofs and walking boots and stay at the foot of Snowdon, and spend all our time driving miles and miles through the awesome countryside between tiddly towns, visiting their charity shops. It’s not a bad lot, and it’s definitely something of a treat these days – once upon a time, in car ownership days, this was our weekends: it was no big to drive 100 miles in a day visiting our favourite towns. Nowadays, we’re all eco and that, and getting rid of the car has been a big help in saving us money, precisely for that reason. 

But, that means that a holiday spent roving the towns of a fresh part of the country is a grand treat, and we definitely made as much of it as possible this time round, revisting Porthmadog and Beaumaris as well as a number of other places that we visited last time we were in Snowdonia. One of these, perhaps the furthest flung, was Barmouth. According to Wikipedia, Barmouth is geographically one of the closest seaside resorts to the West Midlands “and a large proportion of its tourist visitors, as well as its permanent residents, are from Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Dudley and other parts of the Black Country, and Telford, Shropshire.” As a geographer that makes me twitch – closest is not as straightforward a term as you might like it to be. If we’re talking crows a-flying (82 miles) or caravans a-towing (109 miles), Barmouth is pretty much the first big patch of wet that your average yam yam will hit if he heads due West. You’ll see what I mean though: Weston-super-Mare is further as the crow flies (89 miles) but closer on the road (104 miles).

Academic arguments aside, there was certainly a preponderance of Midlands accents in Barmouth, although not in quite the density of Scousers in Llandudno. There’s plenty to attract them for their hols from the big city though, not least the wonderful journey to get there. A visitor by rail will get used to the rolling Welsh names of the stations they pass: Caersws, Machynlleth, Llwyngwril, Morfa Mawddach, then Barmouth; the train ride through the Dovey valley and along the Cardigan Bay coast has got to rank as one of the finest in these isles. A visitor on the roads can take their pick of equally lovely routes: the most direct has its fair share of Welsh as the driver passes through Llanfair Caereinion, Dinas Mawddwy and Dolgellau, before following the Mawddach estuary through the cliffs to Barmouth, loomed over by Cadair Idris on the southern banks. Beware the caravaner after Dinas Mawddwy mind – I’ve been there myself, pedal to the metal in second gear, attempting to coax an old Escort into dragging a little ‘van up the Ochr y Bwlch.

When you get to Barmouth, most will be heading for the extensive beach. Not us, of course. You can park in town and have a wander. There’s a fair selection of kiss-me-quick hat shops and the like, but actually there’s a wider range of boutique than most equivalent seaside resorts, including actual ethnic restaurants beside chippies and pubs, and some vast, crowded antiques shops. This time, we came away with a pair of school tins for catering-sized baking, and at a steal; but not all goodies are so reasonable. The charity shops are, in fact, not all that spectacular. Save The Children is fine but fairly uninspiring; close by, Tenovus is the same. Freshfields is probably the pick of the bunch – maps make this man happy, but it’s more of an emporium feel than some of today’s bland chain stores.

Charity shop-wise, Barmouth doesn’t score highly. There’s nothing here to mark it out in distinction to any other seaside town, or in fact anywhere else. The charity shops are fine, neither good nor bad, just un-memorable. Tourism-wise, Barmouth pretty much has the lot: mountains, seaside, boat trips, miniature railways, cliffs, seagulls, chips on the harbour, ice cream. Wordsworth, that incurable romantic, felt the same: “With a fine sea view in front, the mountains behind, the glorious estuary running eight miles inland, and Cadair Idris within compass of a day’s walk, Barmouth can always hold its own against any rival.” That’s all I ask for, too.

Find: Barmouth @ Google Maps
Get there: I’d recommend coming on the train: a wonderful route in with the station bang in the middle of town.
Consume with: we’ve ended up eating chips on the harbour, under the shadow of the viaduct, both times we’ve been here now. Can’t go wrong, really.
Visit: Barmouth’s shipbuilding history heads back a couple of hundred years, but Barmouth has been a port for way longer than that even. Plenty of heritage-y visitor things: try Ty Gwyn, Round House and Lifeboat Museum.
Overall rating: three sheep mugs


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Filed under 3/5, Gwynedd


Ffordd Caergybi (Holyhead Road), 2010, by Jeff Carson. Image used under Creative Commons licence, click pick for link.

Ffordd Caergybi (Holyhead Road), 2010, by Jeff Carson. Image used under Creative Commons licence, click pick for link.

There are times when the charity shop tourist seeks out the most picturesque, the quaintest, the cutest place to visit; the most historically enthralling, the most scenic arrival. But the professional knows that there are also times when it is just as worthwhile to seek out the less glamorous locations; those forgotten by the brochures, the dusty, windswept high streets, the endless 1960s architectural horror, those spots where describing the local character as colourful is definitely a euphemism rather than a selling point.  We’ve had plenty of success on the unloved precincts of, for instance, Waltham Cross, Newton Abbot, Letchworth or Kidderminster; we even had fun in Basildon. The little we knew about Holyhead before arriving was nothing to do with its architecture or general quaintness levels – probably about the same as you do, that Holyhead is a port. That’s about it – wasn’t sure if it was going to be quaint harbour town like Whitstable, or bleak industrial seaside town like, say, Sheerness in Kent.

The approach to Holyhead (or Caergybi if you like) is not particularly inspiring; or at least it wasn’t on the grey, drizzly day we arrived. This followed the obligatory drive through Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (disappointingly this turns out to be a fake name invented as a Victorian publicity stunt; the village is likewise a bit on the disappointing side) and a very worthwhile stop for excellent chips on the beach at Rhosneigr. From there, you take either the traditional post road, the A5; or the newer (2001) A55, the Anglesey extension of the North Wales coast road that’s such fine to drive on the mainland. I don’t know if it was the weather, or the fairly featureless expanse of Anglesey, but we didn’t leave with any misgivings – the island seems a particularly dull place. Holyhead actually isn’t on the island of Anglesey at all: the two main roads and the railway cross over on or parallel to the Cobb causeway onto Holy Island.

If the approach to the town doesn’t instill much confidence, the town itself won’t let you down on that front. First, the positives though. One of my most frequent grumbles in life is ticket machines in car parks. If I were to buy a coke or a bar of chocolate from a vending machine, I’d be extremely cross if it decided not to give me any change – probably to the point of the traditional tilt, shake and kick. But in a council-run car park it’s apparently OK to just not give change as standard. Here Holyhead made me happy – not only did the machine in the Hill Street car park issue my ticket for free, but it kept giving me change well beyond what I put in. This I like. 

Holyhead probably has plenty to sea if you’re a boat-y type. It has an epic breakwater and marina, and therefore some sort of Irish Sea-front promenade. But really, the town’s dominated by its massive container/ferry port (proud of its “first-class stevedoring skills”), its very prominent railway line and station, and a series of drab little shopping streets on the side of a hill. The other positive is that there is a fair smattering of charity shops of various types here. It has to be said that the majority of these are only half-removed from a church hall jumble sale in style and layout (there’s even a charity shop dedicated to Caergybi Parish Church). On balance, I think that’s probably a good thing – it feels more like a rummage for a bargain than the pristine shopping experience you’d get in say, Oxfam; but the bargains were few and far between, so you have to be in a certain sort of dedicated mood to get the most out of this sort of shop. The pinnacle of these was the massive A Team shop – I remain unsure if it’s a Dwight Schulz benefit or something else, but it was a huge rabbit run of rails, shelves and stacks. Not easy to navigate, and imbued with a certain sort of odour, but worth a look. 

The other shops fit somewhere in between normal shop and jumble sale: you’ll find TenovusRSPCA, Gwynedd Hospice At Home, and a massive YMCA. Our bargains on the day were limited to some melamine storage to go in the caravan (now sadly departed 😦 ), which matched what we had already. Other than this, the run-down feel of the town centre pervaded the mood even of the normally chirpy charity shop sector on a grey summer afternoon. Google Maps suggests a shop for African Orphans, but locates it firmly within a Chinese takeaway, so we didn’t see anything

Run down is the only expression, really. As always, perhaps we missed the scenic delights of Holyhead; we didn’t visit the marina or walk on the wacky bendy bridge, for instance. But some things you can’t patch up with a strategic bit of public art. Holyhead is stuck right on the edge of the country, and the town centre is sufficiently bleak to match it. The hilly geography of the town centre and its undoubted history mean that Holyhead was probably once both interesting and attractive – today it’s neither of those things, and most will have little motivation to drive past the massive warehouse retail outlets on the edge of town. The same problem is found in so, so many towns we visit (cf. everything within a ten-mile radius of Merry Hill): what’s the attraction of the town centre? More thought required.

Find: Holyhead @ Google Maps
Get there: all the options: trains and roads come here, as does the ferry from Dublin or Dun Laoghaire.
Consume with: if you do want to hang around, you’ll find a few locally coffee shops and caffs – we didn’t stay long enough to check them out.
Visit: how about Ireland?
Overall rating: two melon ballers

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Filed under 2/5, Anglesey


Beaumaris 0022, used under Creative Commons licence, by Denis Egan. Click pic for link.

Beaumaris 0022, used under Creative Commons licence, by Denis Egan. Click pic for link.

Despite being in about as Welsh-speaking a part of the British Isles as it’s possible to be, Beaumaris comes with a somewhat Gallic name and a location to match – no Provençal hills or quite so azure sea here, but the approach to Beaumaris is none-the-less a beautiful, cliff-top drive along the south coast of Anglesey. On a fine day there are wonderful views down the Menai Straits to Telford’s grand suspension bridge; the sparkling waters of the Irish sea dotted with little boats; the steep and slightly perplexing streets of Bangor on the mainland shore; and most impressively, a panoramic view of the Northern Snowdonian mountains as they sweep down to the sea.

The unusual name has its roots in the Savoyard architects brought in by the francophile Edward I to build a string of castles in the area. The Hammer of the Scots was apparently no more smitten with the then kingdom of Gwynedd, and built fortifications in Caernarfon, Conwy, Harlech and here, on beautiful marshes south of Llanfaes – hence beaux marais – to keep those pesky Welsh in order. The castle still dominates the town; the walls built by Henry IV to keep Owain Glyndŵr out have all but gone, the pier has been rebuilt after storms, and just a few buildings remain from the town’s Tudor industrial heyday, but the concentric castle remains undiminished – very impressive business, I love a good castle me.

It sits at the end of Castle Street (funnily enough), Beaumaris’ main drag. Along here is all the bustle of a quaint seaside town, with narrow side streets, ice cream parlours, expensive fish and chip shops and bunting everywhere – it’s really very attractive, and far removed from the grim realities of Holyhead for example, on the far side of the island. There’s not a great deal of charity shop action, sadly. We found the tiny St Davids Hospice shop on Church Street just before it closed, but didn’t come away with any purchases (just the usual wracking guilt at keeping a volunteer at work longer than they expected). The other to be visited is Beau Annies – although with even less joy here, as it was closed both times we pootled out to Beaumaris.

Don’t be deterred though. There’s plenty of other stuff that makes Beaumaris worth a visit, whether you fancy some local arts’n’crafts shops, fancy chippies, ice cream parlours, that castle or a trip out on the waves. Sitting eating our chips overlooking the Straits and on to Snowdon was one of the highlights of a highlight-packed holiday in Wales, and the fact that there are charity shops in this lovely little spot is really just the icing on a very charming cake.

Find: Beaumaris Google Maps
Get there: If you don’t fancy a substantial hike over the Menai Bridge, then you’ll need a bus from Bangor or Llangefni.
Consume with: I’m not sure I could go without getting chips overlooking the sea. We also tried a slightly odd tea shop near the castle, but only because the wonderful Red Boat Ice Cream Parlour was full.
Visit: well, the castle of course.
Overall rating: four strings of bunting


Filed under 4/5, Anglesey


Ramsgate, used under Creative Commons, by Adrian Baxter. Click Pic for Link.

Ramsgate, used under Creative Commons, by Adrian Baxter. Click Pic for Link.

“Thanet is an island in the Ocean in the Gallic channel, separated from Britannia by a narrow estuary, with fruitful fields and rich soil. It is name Thanet (tanatos) from the death of serpents. Although the island itself is unacquainted with serpents, if soil from it is carried away and brought to any other nation, it kills snakes there.”

That’s flipping brilliant that is. Imagine the soil where you live being capable of killing snakes. It beggars belief and fairly so, being the fanciful suggestion of one St Isidore of Seville. In fact, the whole description falls short these days: the Isle of Thanet (home to Ramsgate, Margate and Broadstairs) is in fact no such thing, the river Wantsum having receded in the last 500 years or so. Slightly more recently, the area was hamlets and villages and arable land, characterised by “people dirty, poor-looking, but particularly dirty” (so said William Cobbett). That all changed starting in 1749 when construction began on Britain’s only Royal Harbour – being the closest port to Europe, Ramsgate became a favoured departure point for grand tours and the like, and became particularly prominent when Napoleon was sticking his diddy French head above the parapet. When the Harbour was finally completed in 1850 the whole Northern Kent coastline became the great Victorian coastal destination, whether for convalescence (as in the huge sea-bathing hospital in Margate) or general tourism. Ramsgate’s beaches, harbour and railway became a magnet for hotels, magnificent Regency crescents and well-to-do Victorian types.

Today, the town is less select than once it was, though by no means run down. We stayed overnight looking out over the harbour at a disneyfied pirate ship and tinkling pleasure cruisers, then attacked the charity shops in the morning. The shopping district has taken on a less impressive air than the rest of the town would seem to suggest: while the backstreets are quaint, winding, narrow harbourside affairs with windowboxes and difficult parking, the pedestrianised high street is dominated by a windswept market and big, red-brick Wilkinsons-type shops.

Nevertheless: charity shops are here in abundance, and the first evidence is in the market itself, where a raggedy Cats in Crisis stall stands cheerfully between Debra and a large British Red Cross shop. These are located just off the central crossroads of Harbour, High, King and Queen Streets – on Harbour you’ll also find a small-ish Kidney Research Trust shop (when we entered, Dark Side of the Moon was bursting out of the little stereo – it’s fairly disconcerting to be greeted by the wobbly psychedelia of On The Run) and a vast British Heart Foundation that the wife had spotted the night before, filled with all sorts of tat over two shops worth of stuff. We got a shoe expander thing which looks like a medieval torture device.

Head up Queen Street, meanwhile, and you’ll find a Cancer Research discount store, no less (sadly, lacking in anything worth buying), then as you progress up the hill a plethora of tatty little shops: Sense, Shelter, an actual, physical Cats in Crisis shop which is the most hilariously tatty place in the town, and a big RSPCA. That’s… nine and a market stall? Not bad going.

Find: Ramsgate @ Google Maps
Get there: Ramsgate station
Consume with: pie and chips from Pete’s Fish Factory
Visit: a wander around the Harbour or to the beach is a good idea, or get out to Tracy Emin territory – Margate’s just up the road.
Overall rating: four wee teapots


Filed under 4/5, Kent


Book here, under creative commons, by Andreas-photography. Click pic for link.

Book here, under creative commons, by Andreas-photography. Click pic for link.

Driving to Torquay makes it very clear what this part of Devon is all about. Whereas Totnes and Kingsbridge are happy, self-sufficient little towns, the acres of chalet parks and campsites, the signs declaring entrance to the English Riviera, the model villages, all cry out what Torquay is for: it’s all about the tourist. The continental climate of the Devon coast, the palm trees lining the seafronts, the hotels lining the harbour mark out Torquay as a poor man’s Cote d’Azur, and on a wet, grey, cold December day, you’d have to be a poor man indeed to mistake the gaudy ethnic restaurants and chain stores of Fleet Street for the vieux ville of Nice or the art deco exaggerations of Cannes.

Nevertheless, it’s not without its charms. Some people must think so at least: the unitary authority of Torbay (comprising the adjoining Torquay, Torbay and Paignton) are campaigning for city status, giving it a population of 64,000, just shy of Brighton. But you can’t get away from the tourists: in peak season, the population swells to around 200,000. It’s difficult for me to comment then on what makes Torquay what it is, without seeing it at its peak (something tells me I wouldn’t really like it: l’enfer, c’est les autres).

I panic slightly on entering a new town, mostly due to parking. This time it meant finding a space in the first car park we saw, which turned out to be the slightly gaudy multi-storey for the Union Square shopping precinct. This means that most signs of Torquay as a centre of civilisation are a hike downhill from here, and a hike uphill to get back. Nevertheless, we press on, only to find that the charity shops we were searching for were actually very close to Union Square, just in the opposite direction. No matter: TK Maxx duly yielded its desired pair of gloves, and the trip downhill was worth it.

This trip to Devon seemed to be spent mostly in department stores. Like Austins in Newton Abbot and Pearsons in Enfield Town, we stopped for some lunch at a self-service restaurant on the third floor, and looked out at the lowering skies over the harbour and out into the English Channel. I’m starting to feel a real fondness for these places: like a little world unto themselves, the Grace Bros comparisons come thick and fast.

The charity shops here are a mixed bag: an Oxfam is really the best equipped and obviously appropriated the best of the local donations, but Scope, PDSA, Rowcroft Hospice and British Heart Foundation all mean that the town is definitely worth popping into – for an hour or two, and probably not in season if you value your sanity.

Find: Torquay @ Google Maps
Consume with: Lunch at Hoopers on the Strand. Not quite Simpsons in the Strand, but not too bad.
I’m still trying to convince my better half to go to the model village in Beaconsfield, so Babbacombe is a non-starter. Nevertheless, if you fancy recreating Hot Fuzz, here’s a good place to try.
Overall rating: three brand new sleepsuits.

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Filed under 3/5, Devon

Herne Bay

Herne bay kent by karen cb, under creative commons. Click pic for link.

Herne bay kent by karen cb, under creative commons. Click pic for link.

This part of Kent is absolutely lovely, as has already been established just down the coast. Sun-kissed grassy banks leading down to the most hospitable part of the North Sea span between pretty coastal towns with oyster shacks and narrow alleys. Whitstable, Margate, Ramsgate, Deal, Sandwich, Dover, all with their charms, and Herne Bay right in the midst of them, as good as attached (via Tankerton) to Whitstable.

Sadly, Herne Bay lets the side down a little. True, we probably judged it unfairly: arriving on a Bank Holiday weekend Saturday we wound through the busy (and charming) residential streets into the town centre to be faced by several of those nervous tic-inducing circuits around the narrow, crowded streets looking for somewhere to park. We were not successful, so our return visit was later in the afternoon when the crowds had departed, the sun had peaked and the late afternoon heat was less unbearable. Our excursion around the town’s charity shops was less amenable – most had closed, the few that remained open offered up little if anything worth purchasing. So, our opinion tainted, we poked around anyway.

Before the Victorians swooped in with their grandiose villas and the world’s first freestanding purpose-built clock tower, this was a little shipping village, on the goods route between London and Canterbury. Then the builders came in and built up a holiday destination to rival any their peers built. Its trade declining since the advent of package holidays, Herne Bay today is a seaside strip of sea-walls, ice-cream stands, tatty arcades and overweight, tattooed, shirtless men with tinnies.

This is not my idea of a holiday destination, I have to be honest. The more people, the less good a place is a rule that works in almost situation, and there’s plenty of people being all there at Herne Bay, at least at the sea front. As we disappear into the wide Victorian shopping streets the people disperse, but the experience hardly improves. As I mentioned, most places were closed, and the various attempts at redesign and modification has led to a slightly bleak, new-town look. There’s a problem I have when places are half-closed – there’s little to tempt me to come back and visit another time to find out what I’m missing. Which might be a shame: there’s actually a reasonable number of charity shops here: two Demelza shops, Action for Children, Cancer Research, Dogs Trust, an olde-style Oxfam, and a couple of new ones on me: Seaside Charity Shop and Strode Park Foundation. I’ll be honest here: I can’t remember which ones I went into: there was only a maybe three open (I know Oxfam and Cancer Research were available).

Anyway, the whole experience was hardly overwhelming, but at least the sun was shining and we got to sit on the beach with an ice cream. I shouldn’t think I’ll return, but, y’know, any afternoon spent pootling in the charity shops isn’t half bad.

Find: Herne Bay @ Google Maps
Consume with: ice cream on the seafront, what else?
Visit: Roman ruins at Reculver
Overall rating: two Stephen Kings

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Filed under 2/5, Kent



Oyster shop Whitstable, under Creative Commons from fast eddie 42s Flickr photostream. Click pic for link.

Oyster shop Whitstable, under Creative Commons from fast eddie 42's Flickr photostream. Click pic for link.

The Pearl of Kent set on the coast of the Garden of England, Whitstable is a small town that thrives on assignations such as these. A traditional English seaside town in every sense, the town actually has every right to be proud of itself – it’s one of those classic destinations of yore that is again experiencing a resurgence in its own trademark industry (oysters) as well as benefitting from the homegrown tourism of the last year or two. At about 90 minutes drive from me, Whitstable is a destination well worth taking the day out to, and is near a whole stack of pleasant towns ripe for wandering, munching and charity shop ransacking. 


We ended up entering the town from the East coming through the small suburb of Tankerton (relatives of mine had a family home here, I’ve recently discovered – I should get in touch with Heir Hunters) after a disastrous attempt at finding parking in the next town along, Herne Bay) and ended up driving right through the centre of town. It should be pointed out that Tankerton itself hosts a fair number of charity shops, and while it’s hardly a destination in itself, it would be a good stop if you had half an hour spare in the locality. The town of Whitstable though, is quite the destination and after a drive-by perusal, we stopped in a charity car park and headed off.

First stop was British Red Cross, right at the southernmost end of the high street. A small shop this, but with four rooms which keep revealing themselves: women’s clothes, mens clothes, odds’n’ends, books. Nothing purchased this time, but there’s plenty here. Wandering up the main road into the town centre itself, it’s possible to begin to get a feel for the place. We pass fish restaurants, mostly tarted up pubs or chippies; we pass numerous small alleys leading off towards the seafront; we pass refreshingly few fancy sailor type clothes shops – I may have forgotten, but I can’t remember seeing any sign of White Stuff or Fat Face, even.

Next up was Demelza House, a new one on me, a children’s home in Sittingbourne. Their shop was fairly charming, featuring a little snug for books and pepper plants for sale along with the promise that tomato plants would be ready soon. Next up was Sense, again well stocked but a pretty standard shop – the same could be said for Cancer Research. It’s nice to see these attractive, friendly little shops though: they’re all clearly part of the community and as important to some as the chippie, the caf, the pub.

That leaves just two more, the first of which is plain old The Hospice Shop. A small shop this, but some interesting things, most notably a tray full of some nice looking packets of seeds, and one of my purchases for the day, Mason & Dixon which looks to be typically in the near-impenetrable style of its author, Thomas Pynchon. I’ve just started reading this: we’ll see if it’s worth it, or whether it’s just going to make the bookshelf look impressive.

Finally, the jewel here is Relate. This is a massive shop, more like a hoarder’s fantasy than any sort of organised sales room, but nevertheless with it’s baby clothes (plus a very tempting caterpillar-themed play mat), books, cd’s, cheap clothes and baskets pouring out onto the High Street, you wouldn’t want to miss out this shop. It’s also conveniently located opposite Wheeler’s Oyster Bar and around a number of the other more popular restaurants, boutiques and shops: there’s a second hand bookshop here that’s ostensibly something charity-related, but I can’t find evidence for it.

If you’ve the time, which you really should make, your final move should be through one of the wending alleyways to the seafront. You’ve a large, groyne-strafed shingle beach and a working harbour, full of rowing boats and quaint beach huts. There’s places to drink and eat, including a lovely little coffee cart, and you’ll certainly find places to eat your fish and chips lunch looking out into the North Sea (look out for the massive windfarm, and on a clear day, the fascinating Shivering Sands. It’s a very English bit of England, and well worth your visit.

Find: Whitstable @ Google Maps
Consume with: If the queue onto the street at Wheelers is too much for you, fish and chips on the front is perfect for this sort of town. Otherwise, the street-side menu promising Granny’s Steak and Kidney Pudding (In Cloth) was mighty tempting.
Visit: There’s plenty to do in and around Whitstable, but if you want a really bizarre experience, go back up the A2 and cross the looping bridge to the Isle of Sheppey – a bizarre amalgamation of heavy industry and shipping, huge sea walls and industrial views, and spooky, unnerving nothingness.
Overall rating: four Penguin paperbacks


Filed under 4/5, Kent