Letters from Whitstable
A Weekend of Oysters, Sunburn, and Slight Regret
Ghannouj Travels Dispatch No.1
We left London in the sort of Friday traffic that makes you question your optimism, your friendships, and whether this country needs that many roundabouts. There were five of us in the car, embarking on a spontaneous adventure. I was, of course, in the middle seat — spiritually and literally the middle child. We were playing every flavour of Arabic music under the sun, from Fairouz to full-blown shaabi wedding bangers. Poor James, at the wheel, was quietly enduring the soundtrack to someone else's childhood. He never stood a chance.
Three hours and several "should we have just gone to Margate?" comments later, we rolled into Whitstable: pastel-hued, sunshine-slicked, and positively heaving with people who had the same idea as us — get out of London while the sky is still blue. The thrill of discovering this charming town was palpable, and we were ready to explore.
The only things we had booked were accommodation and a table at The Sportsman for Sunday lunch. That was it: no dinner reservations, no master plan. Yet somehow, miraculously, we managed to snag a table for five at No.1 Whitstable that same night. The relief and satisfaction of this last-minute success added to the enjoyment of the evening. No oysters were ordered (a controversial choice, considering the postcode), but the mussels were top-tier, and the sea walk that followed was all about salty breezes and sun-fatigued joy.
Saturday began with Homam and me stumbling out of our chalet at 8 am in search of caffeine, not just because we were the early risers in the group, but because we weren't functional until we had had our fix — ask anyone. We walked to the harbour and grabbed a coffee that cost London prices but tasted like hot, beige liquid. Still, it got us to The Forge, where at 9 am, we began what would become an oyster marathon worthy of a trophy or medical attention.
Next came The Larder for a far superior coffee, then on to Wheelers Oyster Bar, the oldest in town and the sort of place that makes you want to buy a Breton shirt and lie about owning a boat. We ordered yuzu granita oysters (meh), Bloody Mary granita oysters (gimmick), and Guinness-battered fried oysters (finally, some joy). But honestly? Deep-fry anything, and it'll taste like a good idea.
Post-shellfish, we strolled the beach and browsed the Harbour Market, where we bravely branched out and tried whitebait. Progress. Lunch was at The Lobster Shack — more oysters (grilled, glorious), more lobster, and the moment I realised I had reached my mollusc limit.
We walked again. To Bear Ice Cream Imaginarium, because nothing says "I've just eaten eight oysters" like a cone of honeycomb and salted caramel. I promptly collapsed into a nap like a toddler in a pram. Dinner was pizza from The Wooden Kitchen, eaten while playing Cards Against Humanity, a game which revealed that our group's collective moral compass is truly broken.
Sunday came with clear skies and the scent of mild regret. We packed up, grabbed one last coffee, checked out and took a sleepy stroll along Seasalter Beach before making our pilgrimage to The Sportsman. It was everything we'd hoped: seasonal, spectacular, and enough food to feed a small army. At one point, I had to take a walking break mid-lunch and lie down on a bench outside the pub like a Victorian invalid.
On the drive back, we spared James the Arabic electro-folk and switched to 80s hits. Everyone sang. No one harmonised. It was perfect.
Whitstable Tips from Someone Who Now Knows Better:
- Book your dinners, especially in the summer, or prepare for mussel-based improvisation.
- You can eat oysters before 10 am, and don't ask if you should!
- Always pack stretchy trousers.
- And never underestimate the healing powers of a nap, a scoop of ice cream, or a bench outside The Sportsman.
* the map is an illustration by Stephen Beerling