Coming Home to Maidstone

On Thursday evening, the last in August, I clanked and bumped down Dulles runway, the pilot testing the flaps on the wings as we coasted before takeoff. The racket likely put the fear of God into some of the passengers, sounding like a new invention from a hundred years ago rather than a modern Virgin Atlantic plane. But I'm a trusting soul and wasn't the slightest bit perturbed, just very happy to be going home for a couple of weeks.
It was early Friday morning when I landed and after picking up my small rental car, a Renault Cleo, I then headed for the M25, which was still in a terrible condition, its tarmac lumpy and bumpy under my wheels. Yet nothing could faze me today, I was home, driving to Kent on a sunny warm day without a hint of humidity in the air. On my way to my home town, Maidstone, I was stopping first at Beltring Hop Farm, a place we'd visited as teenagers, loving the huge Shire horses, their massive heads nodding over tall stable doors and the many white oast house tips pointing skywards. It had been owned by Whitbread back then and had been a working farm occasionally open to the public. But since 1997 it has become an attraction, now geared towards children.

They currently only have 2 Shires, who were being groomed when I saw them, later to be released into the fields. The place is now extremely commercialized and it proved impossible to get a good photo of the oast houses without the gaudy childrens rides that filled the grounds. The farm is over 450 years old with the largest collection of oast houses in the world. I was dismayed to see how the farm had been transformed into a kids playground but later on reflection was glad that the buildings had been saved and not left to become derelict. Many oast houses have been restored around Kent by transforming them into houses, cafes or small businesses; they are dotted throughout the Kentish countryside.

On the way to Maidstone I stopped to photograph St Lawrence's Church in Mereworth, a building I'd always admired as a young adult and then I stopped at Wateringbury mill pond. My brother and I used to walk down to here or cycle, enjoying the sound of water as it ran under the road and past the old pottery. Today it was still silent except for the rushing of water and doves cooing. The scene has not changed at all in 40 years. The old footpath we used also looked exactly the same. And then it was on to Maidstone and to pick up Malcolm, to take him to visit his brother, Dad Derrick. As we were getting out of the car, I heard an exclamation,"Oh,it's Debby!" and looking round saw my long time bestie Sally sitting at an outside table with Trev, Derrick's other brother. It was a wonderful afternoon, everyone talking at once,with hugs and kisses aplenty. Dad Derrick looked smaller and thinner, thanks to the Big C but otherwise looked well. We chatted and laughed over memories before finally having to leave, promising to meet up again in the next few days.

I had booked a room in a hotel next door to St Michael's and All Angels' Church, where I had been christened. After dragging my suitcase up 3 flights of stairs, I was finally beat. I'd not slept for over 24 hours but was determined to have an English pint before I went to bed. It seemed rather surreal to sit outside in the cool evening air, drinking Fremlin's Best Bitter, and staring up at a church that I'd last visited as a babe in arms. I'd never noticed those gargoyles before either...

Saturday morning I was up early, eager to get downtown and see the river Medway before meeting another best friend for breakfast. All Saints Church has stood here since 1395, one of the finest perpendicular style churches in England. As I walked across the dewy grass the clock rang the Westminster Chimes, eight o'clock pealing across the town. A few people were walking along the river or through the graveyard, nearly all nodding or exchanging a 'Good Morning" with me.

The Carriage Museum across the road. This had nearly been closed down a year ago but thanks to a public outcry has remained open.

The Arch Bishop's Palace and gardens. This small area of old stone buildings is beautiful to walk around and all have been well maintained. I saw no vandalism or graffiti at all. Time had stood still here. I spent nearly an hour walking the grounds of these buildings, nodding or saying hello to people who passed me, enjoying the friendliness of strangers, not something that's experienced in NoVA or DC. It felt good to be home.

The old Rootes building still looked magnificent reflecting on the river in the morning sun. Built in 1938 as a car show room, filling station and repair shop for Rootes,who were back then the largest car manufacturing company in England. Currently owned by Peugot, who plan on moving to a new building,it will be up for redevelopment. Hopefully as it is a listed building it won't lose its character.

The High Street was still quiet as I walked up towards The Stoneborough Centre, as it used to be called. I noticed a few shops from many years ago were still here. I made a beeline for Rooks where I bought a Cornish Pasty for later. I used to buy these from here on my way home from school, along with their cherry pies.
And then I walked back to the High Street to meet Cathy. As it always is with old friends, the years slipped away with no feelings of awkwardness that absence can sometimes bring. Cathy and her then husband had taken me when my parents had kicked me out of the house at 17. They were my stepping stones to adulthood and showed nothing but love and generosity, welcoming me into their huge family. I don't think Cathy realizes how much I owe her, she kept me on the straight and narrow when I could have flailed wildly into oblivion.

We had a sumptuous breakfast, my first proper breakfast in years and I relished every mouthful. I had earned it, likely having walked about 4 miles that morning before meeting Cathy. We continued walking about town but all too soon our time was up as I had to go see Dad Derrick again. With big hugs we parted until my next visit.

Dad Derrick was on his own when I arrived and I was glad to have him to myself for a while. He was wearing one of the t-shirts I'd designed and printed for him and had even found old photos of his actual truck, before and after its paint job. He showed me photos of old girlfriends and had me howling with laughter at what a ladies man he'd been in his younger days. He'd also started work as a young lad on a farm, which I'd never known. His learning to drive a tractor had led to his long distance lorry driving. But before the tractors he'd worked with a plough horse called Dolly, who when turning over the soil between rows of turnips had never trampled a single vegetable. Derrick had milked the cows by hand and worked from dawn to dusk. Derrick has always worked hard and been gentle and generous for as long as I've known him. I told him how much I'd loved him and Gill, his wife. They had been surrogate parents throughout the years, always offering me a roof over my head and delicious meals. Our biker group used to converge at their house on Saturday afternoons, where we'd all sit and patiently wait for Gill to finish baking. Mouthwatering aromas would permeate through the house and we'd scurry into the kitchen as she pulled sausage rolls, jam tarts and lemon meringues from the oven. She would make my favorite cheese straws with Marmite inside. On every visit she'd slap our hands as we tried to snatch a pie, yelling, "Let them cool!" They never did, we juggle the goodies from hand to hand as we hungrily nibbled the edges.
I reluctantly said goodbye to Dad Derrick, promising another visit the next day, then went to get ready for the grand reunion.

I walked to The Style and Winch where I'd be attending The London Tavern Reunion. I was a little apprehensive as the last time I'd drunk with Mouse he had ensured every pint I'd consumed had been Kenny's Double Vision cider. The next morning had been torture. Thankfully I'd stayed with Dad Derrick who had tried his best to alleviate my thumping head. I was not repeating that experience but Mouse, over the past few weeks, had been plotting my demise. But tonight I was elated to arrive and discover that the Kenny's and Mouse had not yet arrived so I ordered a pint of the very fine bitter from Musket Brewery.
The evening passed far too quickly. I had not seen most of the group for over 30 years yet as soon as I met with them the years dissolved and it felt like another Friday night down the Tavern as though only a week had passed since we'd last seen each other. Everybody was instantly recognizable, maybe with a few additional pounds, wrinkles and grey hairs, but no one had really changed. Everyone was hugging and chatting, talking of lives lived with old or new partners, of health issues, which we all had, of countries visited or lived, but we also talked of memories. Wonderful, fun, carefree days when we had all partied for solid weekends, gone to motorbike rallies and pretty much lived in each others pockets. The London Tavern had been like a second home but we had all partied at each others houses too, my house being a regular after-the-pub-closed-party-house. We had laughed and laughed, and drank and drank, and lived to tell the tales.

I was pretty careful and managed to evade the Kennys all evening but Mouse partook in the amber liquid voraciously. I photobombed Mouse and Steve here; poor Mouse consumed 9 pints of Kennys! And yes, he paid for it dearly the next day.

It was a testament to our ages as the evening ended. Apart from dear Mouse everyone was standing upright and folks left to go home with promises to meet again for future reunion. Unlike our old days, there was no staggering to the kebab shop for kebabs with chips and mayonnaise, or finding a dark corner outside to empty the stomach. No bikes roaring up the road, and that wonderful 2 stroke exhaust scent as engines pinged while revving, or thundering 4 strokes. We all said goodbye with more hugs and found our way safely home. I managed to walk back to the hotel and get up early the next morning. I was glad, not a minute of my time in Maidstone could be wasted.