Destination Tunbridge Wells

It’s a glorious morning - the best for ages. The sky is clear and there’s no wind. Kerry drops me at Waverley and I start my epic train journey to Madrid.

Today, I’m heading for Tim and Karen’s in Tunbridge Wells. I’m on the 9:30 LNER, with a seat in the buffet car. At first, it looks like it’s going to be a very busy service - all the seat lights are set to red, saying that they’re occupied from Edinburgh to Kings Cross. There must be a technical problem, because the carriage is never more than half full.

Anyway, I doze, look out the window, listen to podcasts, read. I’ve got a Boots meal deal to snack on, so I’m replete and ready to roll when we arrive.

I get a scant few minutes in the sun at Kings Cross before descending into the underground, emerging bleary eyed at London Bridge. There’s a few minutes to wait for a train to Tonbridge, but they say I’ll have to change there to get to Tunbridge Wells.

At Tonbridge it turns out that the line is closed due to engineering works. There are a few people milling about in hi-viz jackets, and there’s a feeling of organised chaos as passengers try to work out what the process is for the replacement bus service they’ve laid on instead.

So, a bus takes me to High Broom (extra), where Tim meets me. He’s smokes a sneaky cigarette (“it’s really difficult to smoke while the kids are at home revising”) and five minutes later I’m relaxing in his living room with a lager.

The sky has clouded over and there’s a chilly breeze, so we sit inside. Karen has a hangover, so she’s a bit subdued. Eva takes a break from revising and joins the chat. Sam pops his head in, but keeps himself to himself. Eventually I get a tour of the garden, although the main motivation might be Tim’s need for another ciggy

Tim and I head out without the family, destined for the silent wilderness of downtown Tunbridge Wells.

A pint of Harvey’s at the Prince of Wales, which handily has a beer garden, so Tim can indulge his habit. There’s a sign on the wall saying “hippies use back door - no exceptions” (extra). So, we do.

We continue to penetrate downtown, heading for Havet - a local chain of Turkish restaurants. It’s not busy, but perhaps this town only wakes up late at night. The food is excellent. We start with a mezze of aubergine dip, deep fried feta parcels, grilled Halloumi-like cheese (but with a Turkish name) and a beetroot/yogurt dip. Then we tuck into a lamb kofte and some Turkish sausages.

There’s an open window onto the grill and some funky extractor fan technology lets the smoke act as an impressive curtain without leaking into the main room. For Iain Banks fans it reminds me of the great contraflow smoke device described in Espedair Street. Tonight, no one dies.

Now Tim takes me on a nighttime walk through a park, past geological formations of interest (to geologists presumably) to a pub on a hill. Where we drink another pint in what seems to be an ancient cave (extra). I’m reclined on a sofa, flirting with unconsciousness and only manage half my beer before closing time is called.

We wander down the hill, arriving in the town centre again. Tim shows me the deeply unimpressive site of the famous weeks that give this town its name. I guess you just had to see it in the nineteenth century.

We pass one single, solitary pub that seems to be teeming with the local youth. Then it’s back into the silence of residential suburbs and home. The house is quiet. We chat in the kitchen and then it’s time to sleep.