Up the Creek

A silvery tongue of tide clambers eagerly over the marshy mud banks and slithers silently inland up Faversham Creek.

Past sedge topped shores, on which heavy boughed trees embrace pastel painted cottages, it flows.

The pooling waters release waiting craft from their mud berths; lap at the gnarled wooden feet of jetties; glide beneath Faversham bridge.

This far upriver the windswept wildness of the seaward reaches has been tamed. Gentrified. Once working wharves replaced by desirable modern housing. The Thames Barge Reperator a living testament to a bygone way of life for the town.

Ashore, a rain shower releases a rich loamy smell of fertility. Vibrant hollyhocks nod their approval, clambering skyward in a riot of red. 

I shelter beneath the dense drooping canopy of a tree - outside the covid-closed doors of The Albion pub. Whisps of steam rise from the path as the warm drizzle clears.

 I press on up the hill, into town. The tall tower and soaring masonry of the church gates speak of Faversham’s historic trading fortunes - as one of the Cinque Ports. Today its gates and doors are covid-chained shut.

Nearby, the Faversham brewers, Shepherd Neame, (creators of my favourite tipple, Spitfire amber ale) are bustling busy. A bitter sweet aroma, of wort mingled with fragrant Kentish hops, scents the air.

The broad High Street - half timbered, bow fronted and stone flagged - tells the tale of both Faversham’s historic mercantile fortune and its path to a new prosperity.

The tide is fully made now. About to ebb - to return to the sea. 

Back aboard Stargazer, moored off the mouth of the creek, I break out a celebratory Spitfire on news that the UK Covid alert status has been reduced from four to three - and that the French travel quarantine is therefore to be reviewed.