The largest second-hand bookshop in England?

Five years ago my career seemed on the up. I won two awards at an Ottakar's managers' meeting in Amsterdam: one for events and marketing, the other for running the store with the best morale. I quite expected to stay with Ottakar's for many years to come.

Instead, five years on, I have been out of work for a year with no immediate prospect of employment.

I try to spend my time productively. I work as a part-time magistrate and am also studying web design, with further courses to follow, but nothing can alter the fact that being unemployed is grim.

It's not just the social stigma - those moments of awkwardness when people ask me what I do - but also the lack of a sense of purpose. Having young children is a distraction from moments of existential angst, but it's also important to experience new things, even if it is merely travelling to a different town.

It was in this spirit that I drove to Rochester yesterday. Although Kent is next to Sussex, I have only been there three or four times; usually either to Dungeness or Royal Tunbridge Wells. The rest of the county is completely alien to me and, ridiculously, I have spent more time in California .

I could have driven almost anywhere, but Rochester appealed because it has a second-hand bookshop that claims to be the largest in England.

Like many cathedral cities, Rochester is actually a small town. Sandwiched between two towns of unremitting ugliness - Strood and Chatham - and hugged by a busy A road and railway line, Rochester feels as if it is under siege. With its cathedral, castle and Charles Dickens connection, the town does attract some tourists, but I suspect that most drive past it on the way to Canterbury.

Before visiting England's largest bookshop, I went to one of its smallest:


This is not a shop for large people. The gap between the shelves is so narrow that it feels like a literary wall of death. I edged my way in slowly and was greeted by a greasy-haired man in his fifties who looked like a child molester. He had a Quilp-like manner of being menacingly ingratiating and spoke in a breathy, gurgling voice. I asked him where the paperback Penguins were. He led me to the back of the shop.

'I'll just move this ladder away for you sir. The Penguins are here and these ones underneath, sir, are what you might call, the racier books.' He pointed to a shelf of novels that ranged from the saucy to the pornographic:

'Of course' he gasped, 'These are mild by today's standards.' I could imagine him as a younger man, selling 'under the counter' publications for discerning gentlemen.

There were two tables outside the shop, one of which had a display case containing Roman coins and this rather strange wooden sign:


I asked the owner if he wasn't taking a risk leaving Roman coins outside the shop. 'Oh no sir. I'll go after 'em and if they try and attack me I've got a couple of ballbearings in each pocket. They're like bullets.' I almost felt as if I was being warned.

I bought two books, one by Max Beerbohm, which contained this bookplate with the motto Love Conquers All:


The other book was by an author I'd never heard of:

I left and walked toward Baggins Book Bazaar, but on the way there I was distracted by a plaque on the wall of a building:


Was there really a man called Sir Cloudsley Shovel? It seemed hard to believe.


With its deceptively narrow front, this didn't look as if it could possibly be the largest second-hand bookshop in England, but true to its claim, the inside seemed to go on forever:

This upstairs corridor led off to a number of rooms, each of which were packed from floor to ceiling with books. Unfortunately the stock was a little disappointing. There were, perhaps, too many titles that deserved to be out of print and although part of the pleasure of browsing is finding hidden gems, I didn't have much luck. However, this book caught my eye:


A truly awful cover, but the blurb on the back was intriguing, as was the author's biography:

I had to buy it.

A few doors along from Baggins I discovered Rochester's Guildhall Museum, which has to be one of the best small museums in the country. The first item on display was a 200,000 year-old axe which visitors can touch. This dramatic introduction set the tone for some really imaginative displays. There were the usual cabinets of Roman and medieval artifacts (which I always try to make myself interested in but never quite succeed), but there were also some excellent walk-through galleries.

One room had a mock-up of a ship and you could climb between decks and get a real feel for what life must have been like in a dingy, rat-infested hulk. Another gallery had a Victorian drawing room:

This room led to a staircase, which had beautiful Arts and Crafts wallpaper and some paintings by local Victorian artists:


But my favourite exhibit was a portrait of our old friend, Sir Cloudsley Shovel:


Apparently, Sir Shovel was one of the most respected naval commanders of his day. Unfortunately, in 1707, Admiral Sir Shovel met an untimely end when he wrecked his entire fleet off the Scilly Isles, after ignoring a warning from a junior officer. Poor Cloudsley actually survived the accident, but as he was lying on the beach he was beaten to death by an old lady who had taken a fancy to his rings.

During my visit to the museum I only saw two other people, one of whom was listening to death metal on his MP3 player.

If you're remotely misanthropic or just want to lose yourself in the atmosphere of an historic building, it makes sense to visit them in the depths of winter on a weekday (if they're open). I didn't even have to contend with groups of bored schoolchildren.

I left the museum and walked to Rochester Castle, which was a minute's walk away. There is a website published by the 'Friends' of Rochester Castle which, rather strangely, warns visitors that they might find it 'disappointing'. However, from the outside it looked pretty impressive and was bigger and better preserved than Lewes Castle. Some friends.

Suddenly, there was a loud roar and a helicopter landed next to the castle wall. It was an air ambulance. Had there been an accident, or had a 'disappointed' visitor jumped? I wondered whether it would be grossly insensitive to start taking pictures, but at that point the pilot climbed out and started taking photos of his helicopter in front of the castle:


I ended my visit to Rochester in the cathedral. Like the museum it was free and almost completely empty:

The 800-year-old crypt was particularly atmospheric, apart from the lightbulbs:


I wonder how many post-war buildings will inspire the same degree of awe in 800 years' time (if any of them are still standing):

I looked at my watch. There was an hour and a half left until sunset, so I decided to visit one more place. I noticed road signs pointing to somewhere called Grain. It was only 12 miles away and in the spirit of Sir Cloudsley Shovel, I decided to explore. Like Sir Shovel, I had erred.

The Isle of Grain (for it is an island, apparently) is unremittingly bleak: a desolate landscape of mudflats and heavy industry. This is probably why I was the only car on the road for the last four miles. After passing an oil tanker depot, a power station and a factory, I finally reached Grain, a coastal village of poorly-built new homes. I carried on driving until the road ended in a car park facing the North Sea:



At first sight, I saw what looked like a shingle beach, but on closer inspection it was made up of thousands of small shells:


In the background I could hear the continual hum of industry, punctuated by the rattling of lorries and the sound of dogs barking. Why the dogs? I wondered what it would be like to live with the constant drone of machinery.

By the beach, an elderly man with a port wine stain on his face sat in a car, staring at the sea through a pair of binoculars. His wife sat next to him, drinking a cup of tea from a flask. Travel to any desolate seaside town in England and you will see old people sitting in cars, staring out at the sea.

This was a lonely place and although I could hear the noise of human activity, I only saw one other person, walking in the distance.


I shall not be returning to the Isle of Grain.

At that point I drove home and thought that the day was over, but as I went through a village called Hadlow, something caught my eye:


I walked through the entrance and saw a sign that read 'Strictly Private'. I carried on walking and found this:


I later discovered that it is called May's Folly, a Gothic tower built in the early nineteenth century. It used to have a 40 foot octagonal lantern at the top, but this was destroyed during the Great Storm of 1987. Today, the tower is crumbling and needs at least £4,000,000 spent on it to preserve it. It is one of a number of historic buildings that are never mentioned in guidebooks or tourist brochures.

So in conclusion, although it is hard being out of work, I also have an opportunity to do things like this. Time is such a precious commodity and I suddenly have plenty of it. Until I find another job I intend to use it wisely.

If you've read this far, thank you for persevering. This is probably the longest post I've written and I apologise. I will ensure that future posts have a greater brevity.

NB - Richard at the superb Grey Area has posted some more Shovelrabilia in response to the post.