TADS #24:Gravesend to Rochester (or Rochester, so much to answer for).

From the boarded up pubs, barbed wire fences, snack bars, and faded glamour of post-industrial Gravesend to the Dickensian delights and architectural set pieces of historic Rochester the seventh TADS trek of the year certainly gave us an insight into two, on the surface, very different faces of Kent. If this really is the garden of England then there are parts of it sorely in need of a good pruning.

Not that we had a bad day at all as we strolled amicably through Charles Dickens country from the Thames Estuary to the banks of the Medway. Quite the opposite. I, personally, had a lovely day - and much needed it was too after a pretty emotional couple of weeks which involved turning fifty (I had a party which was excellent but the recovery took some time), visiting my brother's grave on the day that would've been his 41st birthday, and having to cut loose a former friend after years of toxic abuse, theft, and violence. More to say that the problems that are very obvious in Gravesend (alcoholism, homelessness, masculinity, and over reliance on eyebrow sculpting) can all be observed very easily in Rochester too.

I'd met Pam at London Bridge station and we'd got the train (on time for once) down to Gravesend where Shep was already waiting for us. Soon we were joined by Kathy (who'd done wonders by suggesting we swap the planned September walk from Newhaven to Lewes for this one, which we'd pencilled in for October, due to problems with train strikes), Neil, Bee, and Eamon. Adam and Teresa had, sadly, cried off at the eleventh hour citing, understandably, health, family, and work commitments. They (and all other absent TADS) would be missed.

"A soulless redneck slum lacking character or charm, a world of pound shops and bookies. Nothing can prepare you for the disappointment of being there nor the joy of leaving" is how TripAdvisor contributor David G uncharitably describes Gravesend and though the town has clearly seen better days it's still a fascinating place. Not least St George's Parish Church, a Grade II listed Anglican affair part funded by the Commission for Building Fifty New Churches in 1710. This commission never resulted in the full fifty churches being built but did see some architectural wonders erected to meet the growing 'needs' of the rapidly expanding conurbation of London. Amongst them such gems as St Mary le Strand by James Gibbs, St.John's Smith Square, and all six of Nicholas Hawksmoor's still standing London churches (Christ Church, Spitalfields and St Alfege in Greenwich for example).

But it's not architectural afficionados who flock to St George's. In fact, on our visit, it would appear nobody flocks to St George's. But if they were to it would surely be to see the statue of Pocahontas that stands in the churchyard. Pocahontas (who went by many names, others being Matoaka, Amonute, and Rebecca) was born c1596 in Werewocomoco (now Gloucester County, VA) and died in Gravesend in 1617 after being captured by the English, held for ransom, and converting to Christianity.

In 1614 she married and had a son by tobacco planter John Rolfe. The cause of her untimely death remains unknown but she was buried under the chancel of the original church which burned down in 1727. The replacement was up four years later and it appears that in this confusion the exact location of Pocahontas's grave was lost.

Gravesend, which looks across the broad estuary to Tilbury Docks, has history that goes back much further than that, however. Stone Age implements have been found, there's evidence of an Iron Age settlement, and Roman remains are also situated nearby. Its charter dates from 1268 and it's host to one of the oldest markets in the country. Gravesend crops up in Dickens's Great Expectations, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, and Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. Other than Pocahontas and Dickens other Gravesend notables include Gemma Arterton, Admiral Sir Francis Beaufort (off the scale, that one), film director Paul Greengrass, fashion designer Katherine Hamnett, and, briefly, Russian composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.

These days it's not hard to get a feel of what it would've been like in busier times, Victorian times perhaps, when both workers and holiday makers came here far more often. Several pubs (some with curious names, The Mug and Meeple anyone?) have been converted into convenience stores or simply boarded up, huge hotels sit almost empty as the pastel paint slowly peels from their walls. It has the air of a resort out of a season and it seems likely that in the days of London's worst smog many Londoners would visit to 'take the air'.

Like Erith it acts very much as the engine room of the city. This is where the people who do the proper work do that proper work. Hidden away from the bulk of tourists, bankers, and fancy media types these are the people, and these are the industries, that provide much of the infrastructure for which the city depends. I'd jokingly referred to places like Gravesend and Erith as the arse end of London (I know Gravesend isn't really in London) but in truth they could equally be described as the backbone or, at a push, even the heart.

These days container ships quietly chug down the grey, still waters of the estuary as local drinkers relax in a park, the aptly named Fort Gardens, that celebrates artillery and military hardware in a very overt way. There was a bandstand there which would've been an ideal spot for me to read the spiel I'd prepared for the walk but I'd shot my bolt by already doing that on a bench near the Pocahontas statue so we passed by a tranquil lake, the first of the day's two obelisks, a few statues, another former pub (this time converted into an Indian restaurant), and a picturesque little pontoon where the masts of the boats silhouetted in the sky and reflected in the water caused us, the walkers, to reflect a while too.

We passed through a long, slightly run down, industrial estate. I'd eaten my egg and cress sandwich and cheese'n'onion crisps on the train and I was starting to get hungry again. But could I find a snack bar anywhere?

This guy stared down at us in a disquieting manner from above a speared fence. Elsewhere lines of barbed wire and poorly hand written signs lent the area a particularly down at heel air.

The industrial estate petered out and the railway line that had been flanking us for a few hundred metres was now joined by the start of the disused (quite obviously so) Thames and Medway Canal. The train tracks, the canal, the pathway (which is also part of National Cycle Route 1), and the rows of pylons would run parallel with each other for the best part of three miles. A long, flat, somewhat smelly section which nonetheless was not without interest. We saw a pear tree and people picking sloes and the fields to our north were populated with cows and horses. One thing we didn't see much of was waterfowl. The water in the canal was obviously too stagnant, or too filthy, to support enough fish to tempt in the coots, moorhens, ducks, and herons.

The Thames and Medway Canal was, originally, an 11k short cut between the two rivers so that boats travelling from the yards of Deptford and Woolwich to Chatham could shave nearly a seventh off the 76k journey around the sparsely populated Hoo Peninsula. Built between 1799 and 1824 it eventually passed into a tunnel which still carries the railway between Higham and Strood.

Some of the TADS stopped on a bench to have their sandwiches so I took some time out to study my OS map (Adam and Teresa had bought me an absolutely beautiful compass for my birthday and although I had it with me its services were not called on this time, they will be soon for sure). Shep and I wondered why people had gone to the effort to name mudbanks but we had to admire some of the names. Anyone for Bishop Ooze? Horrid Hill? Bedlams Bottom? Slede Ooze? Most alarmingly of all - Ladies Hole Point.

The path emptied out on to Canal Road where we saw a wild rabbit, a field of geese, and a mysterious obelisk that sat on the far, unreachable, side of the canal so that we could not read its inscription. It's a potentially beautiful area but it's been marred and scarred by horrendous levels of fly tipping. Cushions, cans, building materials, and the ubiquitous mattress lie by the side of the road alongside a fetching flamingo patterned duvet that must once have been someone's pride and joy.

As much as I have empathy for inanimate objetcs, perhaps erroneously believing them somehow to be imbued with the essence of their former owner, I find it very hard to sympathise with litterbugs. My proposal has long been for the companies who make the products to be forced to pay for their clean up. A proposal that would certainly hit both McDonalds and the makers of Tyskie beer and White Lightning cider in the wallet.

Both Higham and Lower Higham are pretty villages, with many of the houses and roads named after well known Dickens characters, but even they seem to have been hit hard in recent years. Both pubs and the railway station have closed down. It stands at odds with the wealth that must've been invested in the admittedly handsomely, and sympathetically, converted oast house that sat atop our first hill of the day.

Oast houses, fields, Martin Chuzzlewit, this is what people think of when they think of Kent. A couple of friendly dog walkers confirmed our route for us and told us a brief history of the area and its former pubs and we set off towards Higham Mill, Hermitage Road, and Stone House Farm with views of the broad expanse of the Thames Estuary and the Canvey Island oil refinery behind us.

As soon as we passed over the top of the hill the Thames disappeared from view and the Medway, for the first time, smiled at us. An equally welcome sight was a pub that was actually open. I'd been in The Stone Horse before some years ago with my friend Dan on a frankly ludicrous thirty mile walk from Erith to Rochester (we were retracing some, but not all, of those steps today) and though it was nothing special it would have to do.

I took a Doom Bar (why no Kentish ale available?) and we sat in the garden under an enormous Sharp's brewery umbrella resting our feet, chatting about my birthday party and Shep's experience of an excellent Wedding Present gig in Aldershot the night before. It was one of those pubs where the locals all sit at the bar and they made it so tricky to get served we decided against a 'two pint mistake'. It was fine, it was friendly, but we've seen better pubs and we will do again.

From The Stone Horse to Rochester we'd need to walk on, thankfully pavemented, roads. We followed the B2000 through Frindsbury which took us to Strood, Rochester's ramshackle brother on the opposite bank of the Medway, before, slowly, the cathedral and the castle of Rochester came into view. Wow. That was surprisingly quick.

The olive green painted and impressive iron Rochester Bridge that took us across the Medway into the city itself is the fifth, at least, crossing on this site and was initially built by the Romans as part of the London to Dover route known as Watling Street. There are no further bridges before the Medway, a river in its own right, not a tributary, empties out into the Thames Estuary near Sheerness but there is a tunnel.

The Medway rises in the High Weald and runs for seventy miles before snaking around Rochester and Chatham in a graceful meander and sliding between Sheppey and the Hoo Peninsula. It's an impressive sight and as only Neil and myself had visited Rochester before many remarked on their surprise as just how broad it is, and just how beautiful it is.

Even more remarked upon was Rochester Castle. It has the tallest keep in all England and one of the best preserved in England or France. If you asked a child to draw a picture of a castle then Rochester's is just the kind of thing they'd aim for. You could imagine a princess imprisoned in one of its fine towers.

Originally founded in the aftermath of the Norman conquest, it's seen action from the Rebellion of 1088 (when the sons of William the Conqueror fought over his succession) to the First Barons' War (barons vs King John, 1215-1217) and the Second Barons' War (the barons again, this time against both Henry III and Edward I). Many of us agreed we'd like to come back one day and have a proper look around the castle. It was closing in ten minutes by the time we arrived so hardly worth the admission fee.

The castle forms a breathtaking architectural set piece with Rochester Cathedral. Built by the excellently named Gundulf of Rochester (a former Saint Etienne monk) in the Norman/Gothic style between 1079 and 1238 we caught it in just the right light but impressive though the TADS are there have been more celebrated visitors. Elizabeth I attended service here on 19th September 1573 and from 1871 to 1877 George Gilbert Scott (Albert Memorial and St Pancras station in London) was entrusted to work on it. Scott also built the Martyrs Memorial in Oxford and, coincidentally enough, one of those martyrs, Nicholas Ridley, served as Bishop of Rochester in the sixteenth century.

He's not the only martyr to have associations with the city. St John Fisher was executed on the orders of Henry VIII for refusing to sanction his divorcing of Catherine of Aragon. It's no surprise that Rochester has a rich religious history as its the second oldest bishopric in England after Canterbury. This is said to have started in the seventh century when the Gregorian missionary Justus (later St Justus) became Rochester's first bishop after converting the pagans of southern England to Christianity.

Charles Dickens had wished to be buried in Rochester Cathedral but ended up interred in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey. He'd lived in the diocese at Gad's Hill Place, near Higham and the city had appeared, under the pseudonym Cloisterham, in such books as The Pickwick Papers, Great Expectations, and The Mystery of Edwin Drood. The city still hosts an annual Dickens festival. My cousin once lived there and though my nan visited her when she did I never had the pleasure. I missed out.

Over the centuries Rochester has been occupied by various different groups, among them Celts, Jutes, Saxons, and Romans. In Roman times Rochester had harder to pronounce names than Cloisterham. Try getting your lips around Durobrivae, Dorobrevis, or Durobrivis. In recent years the city has featured in Goldfinger and The War Game and whilst Dickens (born near Portsmouth) and Dame Sybil Thorndike (Lincolnshire) made it home FHM model Kelly Brook was born there.

As a wedding party had their photos taken at the foot of the castle we retired to Ye Arrow, which afforded wonderful views of both castle and cathedral, for a drink. Moving on to The Eagle we saw a sign marking the former Abdication House of the unfortunately named Sir Richard Head and some graffiti that was so utterly puerile that we couldn't help tittering like schoolboys and girls.

Kathy bade farewell and the remaining six of us piled into Cumin Club. Much debate was given as to the relative merits of vegetable shaslick and paneer mirch before many of us opted for the latter. The cubes of cheese were cut smaller than normal but there were more of them so it balanced out. It tasted good but it filled me up so much I hardly touched my chilli cheese naan. Needless to say the Cobra wasn't a problem.

Pam left us in the curry house, the Uxbridge lot departed at Rochester station, Shep left me at Dartford and I travelled home alone, swapping train for P4 bus at Lewisham. When I got home I had some Jacob's cream crackers with Bertolli spread and feta cheese and went to bed sighing contentedly and tiredly at another wonderful, beautiful, interesting, day full of love and laughter with friends.

The only thing more a fifty year old man could ask for is to do it all again. Next month, trains permitting, we'll be walking from Newhaven to Lewes in a little thing called Secret of the Ooze! See you there.