August 2013: camping in Kent: marshmallows, cornfields, and near-death experiences – part 2

The next day we fuelled up on coffee and baked beans, in preparation for our renewed mission to find a shop. While washing the dishes, the sunshine was suddenly disappeared, and out came an intense downpour of huge hailstones. Poor Paul was caught in this and had to hurriedly rush for shelter, much to our amusement. The weather continued in this unpredictable manner for the rest of the day.

Armed with sunblock and raincoats, off we headed optimistically in search of the next village along. Data on our phones was pretty much non-existent, and the only map we had to work from was severely lacking in detail, so we relied on this and rough directions given to us at the pub. Keen to avoid a repeat of yesterday’s hair-raising walks along busy roads, we were pleased to find several ‘public walkways’ signposted.

These public walkways however were often not particularly helpful however, with no idea of where the walkway led, we often discovered ourselves in the opposite direction to what we intended. We also ended up crunching our way through a farmer’s cornfields, gaining a few cuts and scratches in the process.

What we were promised was a mere half an hour’s stroll from the first village soon turned into a few hours. We were getting increasingly hungry and fed up with our ridiculous situation. Finally we found our way to civilisation and were keen to have a hearty lunch, which ended up being in yet another pub.

We asked the waiter about the village shop, explaining that we needed some groceries. Perhaps by the word ‘groceries’ meant something grander to him as he said that there was only a very small shop and he didn’t think it would have what we needed. He explained that there was a bus which left from just down the road every hour or so and could take us into the metropolis of Tunbridge Wells where we could get everything we needed.

Suitably sated, we rolled our eyes and headed off to wait for the bus. Finally off we rolled. Two minutes later we saw the infamous shop, which looked like it would have had everything we needed to feed ourselves for the next few meals.

Nevertheless, we found ourselves in Tunbridge Wells and walked around a cute little centre before finding the huge Morrisons. We started stocking up, and then realised that we still had to figure out how to make our way back to camp. By this time we had had plenty enough of trekking our way through paddocks, cornfields, over stiles, and turning ourselves around in circles, and so we decided we would taxi back to the campsite. Fearing an outrageous sum, we enquired with a driver as to the estimated fare, and he guessed a mere £10. Not having to worry about lugging our supplies back over countless miles, we added some cold beers into the trolley.

Our chatty taxi driver was amused by our story, and keen to check out what the camping area was like, drove us all the way to our tent. 

The journey was only twenty minutes.

August 2013: Camping in Kent: marshmallows, cornfields, and near-death experiences – part 1

In August four of us ventured out into the lush countryside of Kent for a spot of relaxing camping, but what in actual fact ended up being a comedy of errors. We took a train south to Ashurst, laden with newly purchased tents of varying quality, one pot, a bag of marshmallows, instant coffee and some tins of baked beans.

After finding our bearings, off we plodded in the direction of the campsite, only to realise that the country roads were bordered right to the very edge with thick hedgerows. Meanwhile the roads themselves were full of rather large cars and trucks hurtling past at breakneck speed, and honking their horns at us fools who clearly shouldn’t have been there. A sweaty and stressful trek later, we arrived at the campsite.

To say we were underprepared would be an understatement. We claimed our patch of grass and pitched our tents. It soon transpired that the advertised on-site farm shop which we had been counting on for dinner that night and beyond was only open on Saturdays. It was a Thursday.

We were assured there was a shop in the next village, a short walk away. Using the unreliable maps on our phones, we eventually navigated our way to said village, by way of some slightly quieter roads. Once we arrived however, we were informed the shop was closed.

We were left with no other option than dinner in the pub – about as far from camping as you could get. Asking about the shop for tomorrow’s expedition, we were told that we would need to go to the next village again. We sighed and headed back to camp to comfort ourselves with toasted marshmallows.

A lack of foam mats, mattresses, or any form of cushioning and being unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground meant a long and relatively sleepless night for us city slickers.