Seaside

The grey cloud hangs heavy over the beach. It’s warm but threatening to rain. We walk along the promenade, above us, at the top of a grassy hill, a fairground hangs precariously on the edge, blaring out chart hits from 10 years ago. People are lounging around and cooking food from blue beach huts, a candy striped beach hut and other brightly coloured ones built into the hill. Below them people are scattered on the beach, a couple are even swimming. Two old people on old people vehices glide past. The fellow is smoking a fag, neither of them look particularly happy. Above us a plane dives and loops around.

We started off with breakfast at The Golden Globe in Chertsey, which is the pub at the end of Keith Moon’s drive, when he lived here at the start of the 70s. It was reputed he’d bring in a shotgun and fire it at the ceiling to get served quicker. There’s a picture of Keith in the corner by the pool table. He used to live in a pyramid shaped house, which sadly has been knocked down and replaced with an even more space-age looking round house, the top of which you can just about see over the huge wall. It’s 11am and even though we’ve brought our shotguns, there’s no queue at the bar.

We continue the wrong way round the M25 for 3 hours, in a bid to outwit the grey cloud which seems to have followed us from London, until we reach Whitstable, a small town on the Kent coast. I had this idea to go swimming but the lack of blue sky has changed my mind, so now we’re walking along people watching. I’m always convinced I’ll see someone I know, despite the fact I don’t know anyone who even lives anywhere near here. I scour the faces but don’t recognise a soul.

The thing with English seaside towns is you have to deal with the fickleness of English summer. Although warm, it’s too cloudy and there’re not enough people for it to feel like a real beach day out. You need the sky blue and the smell of salt sea air to overpower your senses. Sometimes you’re desperate to get out of the self-possessed charge of London for the slow dancing of English towns, but when it finally happens it doesn’t quite feel right.

We go for food at 5 o’clock, but the pubs have stopped serving. The shops are closing and everyone is packing up and going home. The suburban streets are empty, it’s like Day of the Triffids but neater, someone hasn’t bothered overturning the buses, they’ve just been left in the bus lock-up from teatime till morning.

We go the right way round the M25 and get back home within an hour and a half. The next sunny day we’ll sneak out early and try again.