Having had some time at my disposal I had made a brief search about Whitstable on the internet. Its history as an Oyster fishery and film set for Dr Who was most prominent on line. I had also discussed the matter of the upcoming Biennale with some of my colleagues and gleaned some interesting information from them. One of them had stated, with some certainty, that Whitstable was the site of Dracula’s first landing in the British Isles. This fact had caused me some excitement as I have long held an interest in the tradition of the Vampire film. I had always been drawn to the certainties in its format: the mysterious aristocrat, the woman in danger, the dangerous woman (often the same woman), the persistent sunset anxiety and the final battle. Unfortunately in soon transpired that the Count had in fact alighted in Whitby a completely different kettle of fish.
I had written to Sue regarding the Whitstable – Whitby confusion and had jokingly suggested I go to Whitby instead; her reply tactfully ignored this suggestion.
Email from Sue Jones, 23rd June 2009
I’m not around on the 26th, or I’d suggest coming over to Whitstable to meet you. But you probably want to get to know Whitstable on your own anyway.
Yes, unfortunately Whitstable is not where Dracula landed, but fortunately it is where Peter Cushing lived who played Dracula’s arch-enemy Dr Van Helsing. Clearly Whitby and Whitstable are some weird mirror image of each other…..
I was extremely excited that Whitstable had this, albeit tenuous, Dracula connection and looked forward to finding more evidence of Van Helsing.
27 June. Whitstable. We left Ipswich just after 10 am on 26th June. I had tried to book in advance but had been unable to find cheaper tickets, so we bought ours from a machine at the station. As usual we saw little of London except that which could be glimpsed through the train windows. We noted the Olympic stadia under construction and the flats where my companion’s sister had once lived. The journey to London was enlivened by a discussion with a professor of art history who regaled us with tales of Walter Benjamin and “The Night of the Long Knives”. The connection should have been simple using the tube to transfer us across London from Liverpool Street to Victoria station. And it was, until we arrived. With only minutes to go we were hunting frantically for the slow train to Whitstable. Its imminent departure was not advertised on any of the many signal boards. My innate shyness was not helping as I consistently avoided asking for assistance. Luckily my companion does not suffer my inhibitions and she soon discovered that Victoria is split into two parts each having its own departure boards, platforms and destinations. On board the train we had a simple meal of noodles and wasabi peas an interesting dish which was simultaneously tasty, unpleasant and strangely addictive. The onward journey was indeed slow as we stopped at very regular intervals at stations with vaguely familiar names. Our approach was marred only by an embarrassing incident with the automatic toilet and my panic when it was announced that the train, like its mother station, would split in two and should we sit in the wrong seat we would end up in Dover rather than Whitstable.
Preface
In June I received an email from Sue Jones suggesting that we meet in a café in London to discuss my possible involvement in next year’s Whitstable biennale. I was very excited at the prospect and immediately agreed to meet her in a few weeks time.
As is usual I arrived far too early for our meeting, but not early enough to go somewhere else or do anything useful. Luckily the Pensammon is a delightful Italian run establishment, so undeterred, I filled my time drinking coffee and checking my emails until I realised that most London cafés don’t seem to have toilets. After that I moved on to tea. I had texted Sue and, although we had met before, I thought it best to use the blind date technique of telling her I would be wearing a red jumper. The cafe we had arranged our rendezvous was blisteringly hot and by the time she arrived I was sheeting sweat and attracting worried glances from the waiters. I was now suffering from imminent bladder failure coupled with severe dehydration but I don’t believe she noticed. My biggest fear (apart from an embarrassing accident) was that Sue would ask me to develop some sort of performance for Whitstable happily she didn’t. Our meeting went well and beyond writing an account of my experiences she had no preconceived ideas of what I should do.
Later in the new Whitechapel café I saw Sue again talking to two friends. Feeling embarrassed and not wanting to create a social faux pas, I sidled around the tables pretending not to see her.
