The Pilgrims' Way: Aylesford to Harrietsham

Some days are easier than others. Some challenge your endurance, others challenge your mind. Today was the worst since the long march from Oxted to Otford, and I felt challenged in both ways.

While the breakfast at the Friar’s was large enough for me to fill up, it was hurried, and I was out of the door barely 15 minutes before sitting down. I was happy to be leaving Aylesford if only for a change of scenery. I was also growing impatient about moving forward towards Canterbury, anxious about how near I now was to the end.

From the start, I had the expectation that there would be lots of time spent on roads as opposed to paths, and this was indeed the case for a large portion of the day. I had to contend with traffic at various speeds for most of the day, which wasn’t particularly pleasant. Additionally, very soon after starting, I realised that I had pain in my feet. My little toe in my right foot seemed to be rubbing quite a lot, and I would need to stop to check soon.

Not before visiting two more neolithic burial chambers however! Kitt’s Coty House and Little Kit’s Coty House are both falsely named after a legendary British warrior called Caratus who died defending against the Saxons at Aylesford. Little Kitt’s Coty House is a more modest grouping of stones that would not look out of place at any landslip near the coast. However, the ground beneath the soil is so hard that you can sense the real extent of the site that is hidden only just underground.

The more impressive site, in my opinion, Kitt’s Coty House, is very reminiscent of Stonehenge; by which I mean it is still upright and has a rock balanced on top. I found it fun that people in the 1800s had added graffiti to the stone before it was fenced off for protection; truly, humanity is incapable of not writing their name on any surface of significance. I enjoyed the chance to visit the oldest of landmarks, but for now, I am satisfied with big old stones. 

Unfortunately, when I checked my toe, I realised I’d already tended to it, so there was nothing more I could do; I would simply have to grin and bear it for the next four hours. When the roads did turn into bridleways and farms, the ground was either covered in gravel, or as hard as the roads themselves, which was agonising. When I made a wrong turn, I despaired that I had walked too far, and that I would now have to walk further to return to the correct path. 

There were things to distract me from it at times. For instance, I really had no idea how many vineyards there are in Kent, but they were in exceptional abundance today. I got to watch the workers in the field picking the grapes (Spanish-speaking, interestingly enough) and see just how many get harvested at once. Unfortunately, there were too many eyes on me to try a grape for myself, so I’ll need to pay six pounds in the shop instead another time. 

By the time I reached the church in Thurnham (which was closed but had the passport stamp in the porch), I was very excited to take a break. I sat in the cemetery for so long that I ended up behind schedule after leaving ahead of schedule in the morning. Now I was in the position of having acute pain and needing to hurry too. 

Fortunately for me, the road was at least straight, so I had to think very little about anything other than walking. The bushes at the sides of the road were tall too, so there was very little to look at. It really did feel like the long march from Oxted to Otford all over again.

The Dirty Habit in Hollingbourne was a welcome stop to replenish my water and take another break before the final hour into Harrietsham. It used to be called The Pilgrim’s Rest, and the new name is a pun on the habits of abbots. It has plenty of decoration inside and out alluding to the PIlgrims’ Way, which continues directly behind it.

The final hour was excruciating. Each time I stopped, including at The Dirty Habit, it reset my pain tolerance. Therefore, each time I started walking again it was miserable until I could regain my rhythm. As I passed the last of the fields and watched the farmers work in their machines, I finally had to slow down my pace to compensate for the pain. I convinced myself that stopping altogether would be a poor decision, and that any step forward was one step less to take. 30 minutes; 25 minutes; 20 minutes; 15 minutes; I was so close to the end. I hobbled down the hill and saw, to my immense relief, the church at Harrietsham.

It was locked, predictably, so I sat in the shade of a wall and took off my shoes with a wince. I was waiting for Paul, a church warden, to let me in, as the church was to be my room for the night. I’m actually writing this from inside the church right now, and I can say it is surreal to be using it as an office. I have a full view from the back of the pews all the way down to the chancel and the altar. I have all the lights on, too, just to avoid any spooky feelings before I go to sleep. Apparently, there are mice and bats here which I hopefully will avoid encountering during the night.

When Paul arrived, we went inside and had some tea. Paul seemed a sweet man; very eager to help, very easy to talk to. His father was a German prisoner of war who deliberately got himself caught to avoid fighting for the Nazis. His wife was a playwright and someone he clearly loved deeply. He mentioned how thieves had stolen everything of value from the church, and vandals had broken some of the windows with catapults and pellet guns previously. 

We talked for quite a long time and freely flowed between different topics; my writings, his history with the theatre, relationships. We even had a brush with Israel, as he mentioned visiting Bethelehem, and the awful treatment they recieved from the border guards. One of his friends (you must remember they are elderly) was led off the bus and strip searched!

I hadn’t managed to do anything wrong during the day, so we went to get some fish and chips for dinner, that I may order incorrectly. I was confused why one sausage, one fishcake, and one chips was a huge as it appeared, until I opened them and saw I had half a field of potatoes in a bag. I never thought I would have the experience of eating a battered sausage in a church, but that is why life is best lived to its fullest! 

I’ve done my best to care for my feet, so I hope they feel a little better by the morning. In the meantime, I’m trying to write as much as possible to stall going to bed, so I won’t be in the church by myself in the dark with mice and bats around me. Although, this is God’s house, so maybe He can watch out for them instead. I doubt He gets much sleep anyway.

Only three days left now. I’ve run out of money in my Hong Kong account as of yesterday. I’m glad to be raising money for charity, but I may need a handout myself soon.