Peter Cushing may live in Whitstable ...
... but he wasn't mentioned in this article from the New York Times ...
(excerpt)
A JOURNEY to Whitstable, about an hour and a half from London, is one that should ideally begin on an empty stomach. To come to this seaside town in the southeastern corner of England without a raging appetite would be a near-sacrilegious waste.
Soon after arriving on a recent visit, I trundled down High Street, a thin thoroughfare lined with shops that still bear the names of their founders. Among staggered rows of houses made of Victorian brick and white clapboard, I could see meat being hammered at Theobald Butchers, bread being shoveled out of the oven at Hubbard’s Bakery.
But they would have to wait. This is a town with a special relationship with seafood - in particular, oysters. They’ve been dredged, dissected and slurped there for centuries. Its most famous child, the Whitstable Oyster Company, has existed in various guises since 1574, when Queen Elizabeth I granted it free rein of the local beds.
Its entire geography is inescapably fixed on the sea. Whitstable’s center is laced with thin alleys, all leading to the water. One is called Squeeze Gut Alley, and comes with a rather tight bottleneck - boys used to pester portly police officers until they chased them into the trap. At the waterfront, wooden groins slice up the shingle beach, where boats are moored and, in the summer, determined sun-seekers congregate (and hope for the best).
(excerpt)
A JOURNEY to Whitstable, about an hour and a half from London, is one that should ideally begin on an empty stomach. To come to this seaside town in the southeastern corner of England without a raging appetite would be a near-sacrilegious waste.
Soon after arriving on a recent visit, I trundled down High Street, a thin thoroughfare lined with shops that still bear the names of their founders. Among staggered rows of houses made of Victorian brick and white clapboard, I could see meat being hammered at Theobald Butchers, bread being shoveled out of the oven at Hubbard’s Bakery.
But they would have to wait. This is a town with a special relationship with seafood - in particular, oysters. They’ve been dredged, dissected and slurped there for centuries. Its most famous child, the Whitstable Oyster Company, has existed in various guises since 1574, when Queen Elizabeth I granted it free rein of the local beds.
Its entire geography is inescapably fixed on the sea. Whitstable’s center is laced with thin alleys, all leading to the water. One is called Squeeze Gut Alley, and comes with a rather tight bottleneck - boys used to pester portly police officers until they chased them into the trap. At the waterfront, wooden groins slice up the shingle beach, where boats are moored and, in the summer, determined sun-seekers congregate (and hope for the best).