03-August-2026
Steps: 36,716
Miles: 15.1
One would think that all roads lead to the sea. Having got the train back to Birchingham-on-Sea in the morning so our walk is continuous we headed in general direction of the sea thinking it would be easy. It was striking how many times we saw the sea but the way was blocked with a fence to protect private properties and not creating run-throughs. Eventually though we reached the cliff tops and picked up the Coastal Path.
First beach of the day, West Bay, where Geoff, Kim’s dad, went on holiday as a child. His main memory was having to walk out a long way before the sea rose sufficiently to swim. Today at low tide this becomes abundantly clear. I was a lovely big (empty) beach though, we spoke to one lady setting up camp outside her beach hut for the day. It was a switch over day, as one set of grandchildren vacated from last weekend and she wanted to ensure it was shipshape and seaworthy for the next set of grandchildren who we coming later in the week. She had the classic design with curtained shelves, but told us that these beach huts had to be removed in the winter by order of the council as the storms came right up and damaged them. When looking out to sea which was 150m away this was hard to imagine. Happily beachcombing for shells we made our way on through St Mildred’s Bay and West Brook Bay and we arrived in Margate. Below is a photo of my first shells laid out nicely to admire over breakfast
Margate was wonderful, Kim and I both agreed we would like to go back for a weekend to take in the Turner Gallery and a concert at Dreamland. As a walker the town was seeped in history, from the 1791 Royal Sea Bathing Hospital where treatments included imbibing the local sea water to cure any number of ailments through to Dreamland. It lured us in and was fantastic to see the roller coasters, swings and carrousels outside and inside the roller disco arena that would tempt me to don skates again, Geoff’s Pinball arcadian and the creepy “Laughing Jack” puppet behind glass show. The only note of concern was the number of security guards on duty at 11am so not sure just how feral the kids arriving were expected to be.
Along the front were the obligatory pubs, arcades and greasy spoon cafes. I really fancied the £8.50 full English but Kim was far from impressed so we moved on. Luckily Europe’s biggest, best and maybe only Crab Museum was closed on Mondays as I would of felt it my duty to go in. Less fortunate though was that the Turner Gallery was also shut so we were left to admire Anthony Gormley’s statue of a man wading in the sea.
The harbour was completely devoid of people, the Tourist Information was in a wonderful old building, maybe the Harbour Masters but after that we started up and out of Margate but not before seeing the rather decrepit sad sight of the Winter Gardens and Lido with its wonderful Art Deco statue. We stopped for breakfast at Forts, and after walking the food tastes so much better but the folded scrambled eggs on sough dour and whatever else they adorned it with was wonderful and completely hit the spot.
FORTS CAFE, Margate – 2026 Reviews & Information
We then walked the promenade along Cliftonville which on viewing old postcards has not changed much in layout since Victorian holiday makers swarmed her in the 20s and 30s with regal hotels, band stands, ornate shelters, a fantastic walled lido stretching out to sea and rose gardens all of which look down on the sea below. Eventually we arrived at Foreness Point, which is a headland characterised by flower meadows and a sewage station. Again, although the flowers were hanging in there, the butterflies and moths were abundant. Spots here were:
- Six-spot Burnet Moth
- A white moth yet to be identified from my bad photo
- Meadow brown butterflies everywhere
- Common Blues
It was on Foreness Point that we got the message from home that Peter had passed his driving test with a lovely photo of him looking joyous. We should go away more often as Bethan must of done a good job getting him there.
Then we reached Botany Bay, a quick surveyance from the cliff tops, like the day before, indicated something was not quite right with the bathers below, they were naturists. Male naturists at that. Further to the south things returned to normality below.
The beach apparently got its name from where its associated smugglers would end up on the other side of the world. It is a very picturesque beach with the white cliffs wrapping it at both ends. Past the southern end cliffs to get to Kingsgate Bay and the very popular Joss Bay where we stopped for raspberry ice-lollies. We then entered a bizarre gated community of large houses, some could even be described as castles that provided private accommodation. Things were by now starting to become a slog, I had a blister that was taking some of the joy off walking so above Stone Bay we stopped to lie on benches, apply under-sized blister plasters and have kip only to me half-awoken by a large school class of Spaniards.
It was a short walk from here to Broadstairs where my need for a drink was greater than walking the full circumference of the jetty wall, so needs must and we popped into the first seaside pub we found had fruity cider to restore our energy and rest my weary feet but dressed up as an immediate celebratory drink to toast Pete’s success. Broadstairs was quaint, tight little streets with Bohemian shops. Again it being a Monday the Charles Dickens’ museum, in a house he stayed in, was shut so had to be happy with a photo of the plaque. The only other stop was Boots for blister plasters and Cuprofen.
It was not a long walk from Broadstairs to Ramsgate. Mainly along paths and promenade above the beach. As per yesterday though, along way from where everyone else was were Orthodox Jewish families enjoying time on the beach. It is a chicken and the egg question as to why they are on the fringes of society so brazenly here on the edges of beaches keeping their own company.
Ramsgate arrived, grand buildings high on East Cliff, the hotels, gardens and bandstands of yesteryear. There was even an old toll booth, now selling ice creams that would charge people to walk the promenade to strut and be seen. By the time we arrived in the harbour I was exhausted and there was no ceremony, we just jumped on the first bus we saw to get to a train station which took us back to Broadstairs. There was 20 minutes to kill before the train so an excuse for another red fruit cider to replace missing electrolytes before heading back to Whitstable. Unbelievably for Kent, the Garden of England, home of the hops the bar we went to did not serve any bitter or ale on tap. They had some bottles of Doombar in the fridge but the barmaid explained they sell one or two per month as a crisp IPA or Pale Ale would have been my go to at the end of the day.
Back in Whitstable we managed to hobble down to the front again to enjoy posh fish and chips watching the sun go down which was a fitting end to the day.