A Walk to Reculver.

I have walked to Reculver on many occasions. I love this walk because the coast has such a range of terrain, a lot of raw sky and tonnes of moving life. I like the air and the feeling of being meaningless that being an over-clothed person on and under ‘nature’ can bring. I like the sea’s sounds and the chaotic looping of wave patterns. I love the huge variations in blue and green. I love the clouds when they are so white as to be solid. I love the worn paths. I love the pornography thrown into the hedgerows and the dated crisp packets among the brambles: preservation of a different kind. The family tree of human design is exposed, pulling the questions into the foreground of your interiors, ‘where was I when they stopped producing Mega Monster Munch?’

The feeling of insects dying around you, the thrill of almost being run over by a pervert’s escape plan, the atmosphere of people who have to walk in groups for legal reasons. There is great comedy in this walk. Change encounters stoke the libido. Canines of rickety temperaments are kept in order with a gentle ‘oh, he’s alright’. Adventure rides a stolen bike. There are thousands of nature-squashing greeters teeming at the styles, smug to be ‘out doing something harmless’. Millions of pounds a year are spent on stickers that make a disgusting family tank into the vehicle of our considerate elders. Such pomposity is a walking stick that you don’t even need for show; you just like making holes where others just tread.



Reculver Towers stand dangerously close to their doom, meaning that one day there will be loads more stone in a tiny bit of sea on the South East coast. The former place of Roman worship [reform that at your liberty] is a grand stone vest drawn by on Sinclair Spectrum. When you reach it, having waded the sputum of Herne Bay and evaded the deadly webs of sheer boredom in Beltinge, you will find your eyes adjusting to the wonder of history falling to bits. One day another church will be gone. Even though it has not functioned as a fully operational House of God for a few years, it is never too late to celebrate. I suggest that we crucify anyone that writes in to the KM Extra.

Despite the flurry of human flaws, including the author, this scene has more to offer than anything else in the surrounding area. There may be a few car park tossers bass-raping the sea life into extinction, you may sense the occasional whiff of cyclist anus and you might just have your possessions borrowed into a mound of ash by the children of the caravan park, but at least there isn’t a fucking New Look.