The ups and downs

Thanks to my overnight hosts, Sarah and Paul, I left Rochester loaded with tuna and cucumber sandwiches, fruit and banana cake. Like pilgrims have for hundreds of years, my goal was to ride to Canterbury, some 50 km away.

For a time, I followed a pleasant path along the Medway River estuary. The low tide had revealed the river’s muddy bottom. Small boats left stranded until the next tide. I came to a small town, and after navigating a roundabout, the cycle path narrowed.

“Go ahead, you’re probably faster,” another cyclist said to me.

“You go. You probably know your way around this area better than me,” I replied.

“I detect an accent. What brings you through Kent?”, he asked.

“I’m going to Rome. Tomorrow, I will take the ferry to France.”

“You’ll like it there. The cycling is better; they like push bikes.”

His name was Mike, and he wore a gray beard that gave him the look of a mariner. I guessed him to be in his late sixties. We cycled for a short while before we said goodbye when he stopped to wait for a friend to catch up.     

Keeping me away from the busy A2 rode, my cycle map routed me in a zigzag of smaller roads through Lower Rainham, Otterham Quay, and Kemsley. At one point, I got turned around, and it seemed I was cycling back the way I had come. My wife would say: of course he got turned around. Admittedly, it wasn’t the first time this day.

My response to my wife is always: I may get lost, but I always find my way home.  

I stopped to look at the map on my phone.

“You’re not lost, are you?” someone standing next to me asked. I turned, and it was Mike, who I had left almost an hour ago.

“You ARE going the wrong way,” he said pointing me in the right direction.

I continued through several small villages, including Milton, where I stopped for lunch. Just as I fished the tuna sandwich out of my bag, it started raining. I went across the street and sought shelter under the narrow overhang of someone’s house.

When the rain stopped, I got back on my bike, but the rain clouds continued to threaten. I felt like my progress was slow. With the twisting route, I couldn’t get into a cycling rhythm. I was feeling my mood change.

Across from the tiny Teynham railway station, the bright yellow sign of R&A Lucky Store was the perfect place for a chocolate pick-me-up. It worked. Just as I finished the sweet treat, the sun came out and I continued to Canterbury.

I entered Canterbury by the town’s West Gate and was surprised by the crowds of people streaming along St. Peter’s Street. Not even in London did I see this many people in one place. During the Middle Ages, roughly the years 500 to 1500, thousands of pilgrims came to Canterbury to visit the shrine of Thomas Becket or passed through on their way to the Continent. Today, pilgrims of the tourist type come to Canterbury. The Subway sandwich shop looked oddly out of place next to the 1500s-era Old Weavers store. With the cathedral charging 17 pounds, or 30 dollars, Canterbury had become a tourist attraction. Perhaps, it would have felt the same way hundreds of years ago. It wasn’t for me, so I decided to push on to Dover, which would get me on a ferry to France earlier the next day.

It wasn’t long before I found the Pilgrims Way and left the crowds and city behind. I was alone on a narrow bridleway, with fields of brightly coloured rapeseed on either side. It was as if someone had brushed the land yellow. I was feeling good, but every time I zipped down a hill, I was met by another one going up. The scenery was beautiful, but I was tiring of the ups and down. I had been on my bike for nine hours, my bike computer was showing 93km, I just wanted to be done for the day. Then, I came around the corner and spotted the ocean—the English Channel—in the distance and knew it wasn’t far.