12
Ramsgate, Kent. The south coast of England. It's early when I step off the train. Way too early. The sun hasn't been up long as I exit the tinpot station.
Ramsgate is your typical seaside town. Cottages, bed and breakfasts, small shops and cafés. It's still off-season, so tourists are few.
I set off. A small plastic bag with a rope string on my back, with a bottle of water and a couple of CDs inside. It's only when you get out here, you remember what fresh air tastes and smells like. I hear the cry of gulls. Suck in the sea breeze.
Nothing like it.
If only there was a chippy open. Seaside food always tastes better.
I stride along tiny, quaint streets. I follow a set of directions handed to me by Randall at St Pancras. They're scribbled in black ballpoint on the back of a crumpled
