Rochester

I went from Lewisham, Gerry from St Pancras and we met on the platform at Rochester. He immediately started to inveigh against the station. 

'It's tawdry,' he declared. 

'Well, it's new,' I countered. 

By the time we got off the concourse and were trying to cross the main road to the tourist office he was fulminating, 

'Where's the pedestrian crossing? What if we had children or a buggy?'  I shivered. Their absence was one thing for which I was grateful.  The tourist information officer defused his wrath by replying mildly that lots of people had complained about the absence of a crossing but there was nothing she could do about it. She deflected further discussion by handed him a complaints form, then recommended visiting the castle, warning us it was a ruin, in case we thought the place would be stuffed with oriental carpets and French ormolu clocks.

We explored the high street, mostly local shops interspersed with mandatory estate agents and I looked at property prices. Gerry filmed pigeons shredding a lump of bread by tossing it. We wondered why they didn't hold it with their feet and peck instead. Tempted by the hill, we climbed to the higher reaches and were rewarded with sweeping river views. Reclaimed land, covered by housing and a park, separate the steep hillside and castle from the river, still a respectable width after the encroachment. The stone balustrade from the old bridge had been transplanted and is now the embankment wall. Two new bridges accommodate road and rail links to Strood on the opposite bank.  A parade of white motor boats, nose to tail like a traffic jam, spoke of affluence. Thirty five minutes from St Pancras, Rochester is commutable and not moribund like Margate.

The Coopers Arms menu enticed us for lunch. We had scarcely crossed the threshold before the barmaid said hello and smiled broadly. A good start, I thought.  Gerry couldn't resist the Kent sausages and mash, while I succumbed to the Brie, bacon and cranberry baguette and a naughty glass of Shiraz. It was delicious. We lounged, amused by the twee placemats offering an embroidered history of the oldest pub in Kent, doubtless one of many making that claim.

At the cathedral entrance, a churchy woman roused herself from a puzzle book.

'Have you visited us before,' she intoned.

'Not for a while,' I equivocated, hoping to deter the lecture she was about to commence.  The place comprised two buildings, one several centuries older than the other, she explained. I've never really seen the appeal of cathedrals and when she announced proudly that there would be a concert at the weekend I wondered why they didn't simply demolish the place and build a decent concert hall instead.

We skirted the castle grounds and wandered back to the high street. Gerry gravitated to one of the many second-hand bookshops.

'Might as well give up selling books, make more money on these,' muttered the proprietor.

'Bric-à-brac?' I queried. He looked disapproving. Clearly he positioned himself differently in the market. He waved towards several large wooden cutouts of historic racing cars, complete with racing drivers' profiles.

 'Just sold these, he'll be taking them to Beaulieu next week for the event and sell them for £100 each.' He didn't seem to begrudge his customer scooping the profit.

'Be getting rid of these art books next week. Most'll go on the skip.' I was surprised. 

'No one wants them now, except the biographies. If it's not on the telly, they're not interested.' 

'So the new Dickens series must be boosting trade,' I said, catching on. 

'Hasn't made any difference.'  He stomped off. 

Being on a 'wenture' we were permitted cake, so in deference to the faux Dickens heritage we headed for Peggotty's Parlour cafe. The place was deserted; Miss Havisham's cafe would have been more apt a name, but we were assured they'd just recovered from a lunch time rush. Gerry ordered tea for two and we each selected a portion of carrot cake, massive lumps which could have sustained us all weekend. I poured the tea, tipping the pot periodically as I'd seen my father do. Gerry explained that was only necessary for loose tea leaves and I realised this was an example of behavioural skeuomorphism.

I'd planned to take the return train to St Pancras with Gerry, but on learning that the javelin trains don't accept freedom passes, I decided to go back via Lewisham. These days, a tenner is worth saving.

© David Thompson 2016