Now and again we come across a little oyster pearl from an old book and this is such a case. The book, titled Highways and Byways In Kent, was published in 1907, written by Walter Jerrold with illustrations by Hugh Thompson.
The topic of the book is a travel around Kent at the time, recording some of its history. Whilst having no mention of people’s names the piece on Whitstable recorded here details a story about Whitstable that few may have heard.
Origin of Whitstable.
Both Whitstable and Herne Bay have fallen into the hands of developers of sea-side resorts and flourish as holiday places within easy reach of London. The first of these places was used in Elizabeth’s time by those journeying from London to Canterbury and Dover. Paul Hentzner, in 1597, records that he came thither by water (via Queenborough) and walked hence to Canterbury.
Whitstable, just beyond the mouth of the Swale which cuts Sheppey from the mainland, is the more venerably picturesque with its small, old irregular dwellings along the front, its boat-building yards and its fleet of oyster dredging boats. It is of oysters that one thinks as soon as the place is mentioned and it is out here, in the wide estuary of the Thames, that the famous oyster beds are situated famous since the time of the Romans, though some of their bivalves were taken from the neighbourhood of Richhorough. There is yet the appearance of something of the unsophisticated fishing village about parts of Whitstable but villadom is invading it and on either side the cliffs are marked out for future roads – roads only known as such by the name-posts marking their limits. An anonymous writer in the ” Gentleman’s Magazine” half a century ago recovered an amusing legend as to the origin of Whitstable which may well be given as he set it forth:
“While strolling on the Kentish coast last summer I halted at a roadside inn, in what I found was styled ‘West end of Herne I inquired, among other matters, the distance to Whitstable, and received the desired information from the portly, goodnatured-looking mistress with the addition, ‘Ah, sir, that’s a queer place you’ll see all the houses stuck up and down the hill, just as the devil dropped ‘em, as folk say here.’ I naturally asked the particulars of this diabolical feat, and in answer was favoured with the following tale, which I do not give in the good lady’s own words, lest I should wound the amour propre of the respected citizens of Durovernum, for, according to her, ‘ it was all along of the wickedness of the Canterbury people,’ of which some instances were supplied.
Canterbury, as all the world of Kent knows, is ‘no mean city’ now, but six centuries ago, when it was the resort of thousands of pilgrims, it was so glorious that it excited the wrath of the foul fiend, and its inhabitants being as bad as Jerome describes the people of Jerusalem to have been when that city too was famous for pilgrimages he sought and obtained permission to cast it into the sea, if the service of prayer and praise usually performed by night and by day at the tomb of St. Thomas the Martyr should he once suspended. Long and eagerly did Satan watch, but though the people grew worse and worse daily, the religious were faithful to their duties, and he almost gave up the hope of submerging the proud city. At length, however, his time came. A great festival had been held at which the chaplains at the saint’s tomb had of course borne a prominent part, and when night came, utterly exhausted, they slept – all, and every one.
The glory of Canterbury was now gone for ever. Down pounced the fiend and endeavoured to grasp the city in his arms, but though provided with claws proverbially long, he was unable to embrace one half, so vast was its size. A portion, however, he seized, and having with a few strokes of his wings reached the open sea, he cast in his evil burden. Thrice he repeated his journey, portion after portion was sunk, and the city was all but annihilated, when the prayers of the neglected St. Thomas prevailed, and an angelic vision was sent to Brother Hubert the Sacristan, which roused and directed him what to do. He rushed into the church, and seizing the bell-rope, he pulled vigorously. The great bell, Harry, which gives its name to the centre tower of the minster, ordinarily required the exertions of ten men to set it in motion, but it now yielded to the touch of one, and a loud boom from its consecrated metal scared the fiend just as he reached the verge of the sea. In despair he dropped his prey and fled, and Canterbury has never since excited his envy by its splendour.
There was a remarkable difference in the fate of the different parts of Satan’s last armful, from which a great moral lesson was justly drawn by my informant. Those very few houses in which more good than bad were found were preserved from destruction by falling on the hill-side, and they thus gave rise to the thriving port of Whitstable while the majority, where the proportions were reversed, dropped into the sea a mile off, and there their remains are still to be seen, but antiquaries, if ignorant of the facts of the case, have mistaken them for the ruins of Roman edifices submerged by the encroaching ocean.”
Little more than four miles of cliff walk brings us to Herne Bay. The “cliffs” are mostly of clay and of but insignificant height after leaving the Tankerton suburb of Whitstable, where at low tide a long spit of land runs northward, and is known as Street Stones, marking, according to some conjectures, part of the village swallowed by the sea, or marking, if we accept the veritable history just quoted, part of the devil’s armful of Canterbury so unceremoniously dumped in the sea.
Illustrations.
The two illustrations of Whitstable are worthy of note. One showing the original Oyster Company headquarters and the other a view from Reeves Beach.
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Vessels can be seen moored in the harbour with a ship on the slipway at one of the boatyards, perhaps Collar Bros. A previously unknown gate is shown at the bottom of the steps to the balcony door on the building. This is the area now occupied by the new Horsebridge Centre. |
As for the story we leave you, the reader, to make your mind up about its validity. In modern terminology it could be suggesting that the only good thing that came out of Canterbury was Whitstable. Let’s hope the fiend never returns!
