Lydd to Folkestone – Beam Me Up, Scotty

I made the mistake of having a pint in the hotel bar last night after a long boozy session by the locals. One bloke was holding forth about the merits of ‘the white man’ and the demerits of ‘the black man’. His wife supported him by shouting that ‘they even call it the ca-rib-Ian. It’s not it’s the carry- bee-Ann.’ Another old bag was studying her iPad and showing her mates a real-time radar screen on which she was tracking a migrant boat. She announced that she was off to the beach to shout abuse at them on their arrival. Have I entered a time warp somewhere between Camber Sands and Lydd? Or have I been transported to 1850 in Mississippi? They should rename it Lykkk. Okkk Scotty, beam me up.

I slept long and late, getting up at 9.45 this morning and setting straight off after a rapid rampage with the toothbrush and a swig of water. It was cloudier and much cooler than yesterday.

Lydd All Saints church looked sombre with the sudden chill. How old do you reckon the oldest part of this church is? 1675? 1275? 875? Answer below.

Around 475AD! More than 1,500 years old. Incredible. If my ancestors reproduced at age 33 then my great (44 times) grandparents could have worshipped here.

Just down the road was Lydd airport. It is actually named London Ashford Airport, obvious really being closer to France than London!

From here I cut across the marshes again, heading for New Romney.

And the path of righteousness opened up before me, carrying my soul forward towards the church of St Nicholas (a paltry 800 years old).

I can strongly recommend the fantastic breakfast at the Coach House cafe, which was followed by a quick dash to the coast. From here it was going to be mostly tarmac and concrete all the way to Folkestone.

It was high tide and this old lad was pulling in dogfish on sand eels on a rounded Japanese hook. He was delightful to talk to.

Just before Hythe the coast path was blocked by an MOD shooting range, around which the road was diverted inland. The racket from coppers shooting handguns, and some other blokes hidden in the dunes firing machine guns, was dreadful for locals. Particularly for any poor buggers on night shifts.

There is a 30 mile canal and raised embankment running from Rye to Folkestone. It was dug out during the Napoleonic wars to protect the southeast from attack if the Froggies tried to do a 1066 again. ‘Froggies’ is ok still int it? If anybody feels upset they should spend a weekend in Lykkk.

It’s called the Royal Military Canal and it is pretty impressive.

The weather was brightening up by the time the road returned to the sea.

With the end in my sights I rattled on at a pace. And when it arrived, Folkestone was a pleasant surprise.

17 miles today and only 7 miles to go to Dover. Then next week I invade France, if they haven’t dug a canal to keep me out.

Night night,