There was a point on this hike, The Walking Idiots twentieth organised shuffle through the south of England, where I watched plasma flares five times the size of the Earth pulse on the sun’s surface and I thought, “I wasn’t expecting to see that this weekend.”

(To clarify, I’d only had two pints by this point, but we’ll come back to the details later. I was also not on mushrooms, in case you were worried).

One of the main stresses with long distance hiking is getting lost. As much as you want to keep an eye on the route, if you do it too much you end up missing out on where you’re actually walking. Admittedly it’s not most of the crew’s headache, just those organising it, but from our experience if it can go wrong, it probably will.

So we couldn’t really go wrong with a coastal route: just keep the sea on your left. Fool. Proof. It was all part of our plan to reinvigorate the hikes, which have had a rocky time of it lately in terms of morale, enthusiasm and conflicting priorities. This was an alternative to our well-established and still unfinished attempt to trek the entirety of the North Downs Way, which although worthwhile, wasn’t something we wanted to be stuck doing. We’d already done a stretch of the Kentish coastline with Sittingbourne to Whitstable and it turned out to be one of our favourite hikes, so continuing that route seemed natural. If you kept going from Whitstable, in under twenty miles you’d reach Margate: it was ideal.

As the date of the hike snuck ever-closer and we went through the inevitable dance with attendees dropping out or enlisting last minute we kept a close eye on the weather, more so than normal. While our route was shorter and flatter than many previous ones, the UK was in the midst of a heatwave, with London and much of the south experiencing 30+ degree temperatures, not something you want to expose yourself to for eight or nine continuous hours, without shade, while drinking. Concerns were expressed by attendees and loved ones alike (hi Caroline!) but mercifully the coastal weather was forecast to be a bearable and possibly even overcast 21 degrees.

Unlike Rochester or many of the other locations we’ve started from, Margate’s hotel offering was both slim and expensive so I (via Jen, who I’d recommend for all your travel needs) sourced an airbnb for five of us to stay in. Five quickly became six and finally seven as other accommodation plans dried up, but we all fit in there well enough.

Those of us staying there foolishly decided to go for a few beers the night before, which was fine in principle, except we were unable to find food until we left, so we wound up being approximately six pints deep on an empty stomach before we sourced volcano-temperature food from Pizza-GoGo at midnight.

We were perhaps not our best selves the morning of the hike, our trek to the station through Margate’s streets reinforcing the initial impression it made the night before of sort of trendy/hipster, a bit shabby chic, and in some parts, seaside crack den.

The crew convened in Whitstable at The Peter Cushing, a stunning Wetherspoon pub (honest) decorated in an art deco fashion, having been a bingo hall and most likely a cinema in a past life.

The Peter Cushing is full of film posters, coloured glass and film paraphernalia, and offers a treat for the eyes as you power through your five pound fry up. Apparently Peter Cushing was a resident of Whitstable in his latter years, leaving me to wonder what the odds would be that he would move to town bearing his own name. Was he aware? Did he know?! How did he react?!?! The mind boggles.

After breakfast we took our standard issue pre-departure picture and set off. Presenting your Idiots for the day:

And when I say set off, of course I mean the hike standard of walking to the nearest Little [Insert name of supermarket here] to buy our packed lunches. We took delight in watching John wander round the Sainsburys with a basket, wondering if he was doing his weekly shop.

As mentioned above, and probably will be later, the mantra for the day was keep the sea on the left, so it was near impossible to get lost. Most of this was on a coastal promenade, which was of course incredibly convenient and enabled us to keep a good pace but on occasion grew a bit monotonous, the pavement pounding threatening blisters.

Our first milestone on the coastal path was Herne Bay seafront, complete with pier, which in the interests of time we sensibly abstained from.

On the other side of the road we were treated to a DJ in a rather industrial looking space blasting out tunes at impressive volume at 11am. Said DJ used incredibly colourful (and incomprehensible) language while also releasing masses of bubbles, leading us to wonder who his audience was meant to be. Or had we misunderstood? Could this mystery simply be resolved if we concluded he was still going from the night before, like some Flying Dutchman of Dance?

Beyond the Damned DJ, Herne Bay abruptly turned beautiful with a gorgeous terrace of colourful houses, which only served to confuse us further.

Continuing on, the route offered us some variety as the coastal route moved in land and we opted to take the beach on the way to Reculver, where we tiptoed over masses of seaweed and hopped over rocks, the ruins of Reculver monastery looming in the distance with more than a fleeting resemblance to Castle Greyskull.

A moment of drama emerged on the way up off the beach when Flora, Nick’s faithful hound suddenly lifted a back paw in pain, having torn the skin on her pad on a sharp rock. A subset of the group convened to help, and soon enough they had fashioned something to cover her paw until we could get somewhere to take a better look and clean it up. Fortunately for us the first pub, the improbably named King Ethelbert Inn, was just beside Reculver, so we were able to assess it while we took a break and got a drink.

The pub was nice. Lunches had, beers sunk, bit of hike lore discussed as standard. Perhaps most importantly for a Walking Idiots hike pub, they refilled water bottles and my rather annoying to fill bladder without fuss.

We could’ve stayed longer but another drink would’ve been our undoing, so Max made his one mature decision of the day and declared we should depart, so depart we did!

… for about five minutes, because we had Reculver to explore.

At a glance, Reculver is pleasant and interesting enough. An Anglo Saxon monastery built on the site of a Roman fort, its ruins basically consist of the front and back wall, with two towers on the sea facing wall.

Where it gets interesting however, is that one of the towers are open to the public, so of course we had to go up it!

As we descended, Alex noticed that the tower staircase ran anti-clockwise, which would be inconvenient for defence. We questioned this with the two very nice English Heritage volunteers who were posted at the base of the tower, and they explained that the tower was anti-clockwise because the stairway to heaven is anti-clockwise. Despite never hearing Robert Plant tell me this, we took it at face value and moved on, only realising we had no idea what this meant until it was too late to go back and ask. Suggestions in the comments section, please.

The route from Reculver east was another coastal path, but this one was refreshingly positioned between the beach and the marsh lands, giving us a flat, clear view of landscape to the south.

More importantly, it provided Rob with an opportunity for some nonsense, and let me capture my hike staple photo that I can no longer stop doing under weight of precedent.

The only downside of this glorious coastal path is that here more than anywhere we’re prone to having to move out of the way of cyclists. Oh well, you can’t have everything. It doesn’t stop John and I from divulging ten years of hike mythology to welcome newcomer James, who is polite enough to act like he’s enjoying it.

Pub number two is only four miles from our first, but we’re having a lovely time and are in no hurry, so we decide to stop for a quick pint at our next stop, The Minnis Bay.

While King Ethelbert was a traditional English pub that happened to be near the coast, The Minnis Bay is a proper open plan seaside bar with more picnic benches and outdoor space than indoor seats. The Minnis is like a transition from coastal path to promenade, and as soon as we leave it we notice a marked increase in families and people in general.

In case anyone wonders how I write these things, I tend to make notes as I go, and for the next stretch I’ve just written “Lots of promenade,” and this is indeed our landscape for the foreseeable future.

Our route continues like this for a while, the sun shining on us as we experience a range of seafront walkways, some more industrial than others. Our progress is paused for a while when Max drops a wine glass (one of two, purchased along with a bottle of red from the Minnis) and we rally together to pick up the remnants. Fortunately for us we find a pan and brush from someone nearby and leave no trace.

A short while later we pause at the West Bay Cafe and Beach Bar. John kindly gets a load of beers in – in plastic cups, intended for carrying, we’re not stopping – however we end up stopping for far longer than intended because just outside the cafe are two men from an astronomy society (I can’t remember which one but I’m pretty sure it was not NASA) who have an enormous telescope trained on the Sun.

Given what it was trained on, this telescope is configured differently to ones for nighttime, blocking out something like 99% of the light and 100% of the UV (note the tinfoil over the lens). These astronomers are of course very enthusiastic to share their fancy toy with outsiders, and several of us lined up politely like school kids to have a turn.

Some of us have success, some don’t. It took me a while for my eyes to adjust but eventually I noticed on this great white circle small black squiggly shapes pulsing, reminding me of the patterns lugworms make on the beach. Or maybe it was just eye floaters, who knows.

We bid our new stargazing friends farewell, take our walking beers and shuffle on, it can’t be far to Margate now. We get to leave the promenade and go down on the beach, everyone grateful to be off the pavement, especially Flora who has a fantastic time rolling on the sand and generally acting like a puppy in the best way possible.

Amongst visual highlights on the beach we see plenty of jellyfish in one patch. I say highlight, it didn’t exactly make anyone happy, but whatever, it happened, I documented it, you’re reading it, you know the dynamic by now.

The closer we get to Margate the busier the beach becomes, but after a peaceful day wandering we don’t mind a few more people about. Not to mention walking on the beach itself was great fun.

Where was Alan? Along with Tristram and Jack we couldn’t see them about, and we knew they’d stayed at the cafe to finish their drinks, but hoped they had caught up by now. A rule in the Walking Idiots manifesto is we finish as a group, but if we can’t find them, it’s not happening. We decide to wait for a bit and enjoy the beach, while Nick and Flora decide to head home, which is totally fair – we’re not far from Margate now and they owe us nothing.

Rejoining the promenade for the last time, we find a worthwhile way to pass the time waiting for Alan and the others when Max accidentally drops his and Matti’s bottle of tequila. It of course shatters, and a handful of us spend ages carefully picking up every bit of broken glass we can.

Many swear words are groaned in exasperation when, having nearly finished, a wine glass slips from Max’s belt, causing us to start over.

Feeling quite pleased with our efforts to correct our inadvertent antisocial behaviour, we dispose of the glass responsibly, noticing more broken glass nearby. Ah well, at least we left no trace.

As our final mile takes us along the Margate seafront I am trying to find a better word to describe it as than carnage.

It’s an early Saturday evening in a heatwave in July, there are people everywhere and the noise coming from some of the bars is pounding (the only acceptable volume for ABBA is mute). Forget what I said earlier about not minding more people, this is ridiculous.

We crack on, our hopes of finding somewhere relatively quiet for a drink diminishing as we go. There is some debate about where to finish, but I for one remain undeterred that we need to finish at the Harbour Arms, located on the harbour wall on the other side of the beach. Not only was it our original end point, and we hate changing it, but it’s far enough from all this Margate madness that it might actually be quiet enough to get a beer and rest legs that are getting a little weary after 19 miles.

As we leave the seafront and reach the start of the stone pier, Alan, Jack and Tristram appear on the beach with perfect timing, and as a unit the group finishes as a team.

We stop for our obligatory end of hike picture before claiming our victory pint(s).

As always, after a couple of drinks the group disbands, bonded by Fellowship, etc etc. The Margate contingent return to the pub from Friday to actually get food this time and we are successful.

So there you go. Twenty hikes. Over 400 miles. More than ten years of long walks with good friends, scintillating banter and haphazard documenting of them. They’ve been great and we’ll keep doing them for as long as we’re able.

I’ll sign off with the only photo Tristram took of the day, which articulates how we feel about Margate nicely I think. Always good to see the best in everything where you can.

Until next time!