Ramsgate- seaside fun and Kentish charm.

Ramsgate - seaside fun and Kentish charm.

Oh yes, we knew it would eventually happen and it has. For the first time since, quite possibly, 1976 Britain has done it, re- connected with our favourite subject of all time. It's time to go back to the weather, that delightful topic of everyday discussion and one that Britain should be awarded some kind of Olympic medal for if only because we love to talk about, analyse it, despair over it and then pass comment on when Donald Trump isn't quite as controversial as he should be and Boris Johnson loses interest on his hobby horse known as Brexit.

Yesterday in the Garden of England it was hot, hot, hot, warmly pleasant although sporadically cloudy with just a hint of a seductive coastal breeze to cool everybody down. In fact for most of our day in Ramsgate my wife and I were confronted with what could be described as humid, muggy conditions, the type of weather that must have pleased some but then left others in a high state of discomfort and not  entirely at ease because this is not something Britain has become accustomed to for quite a while.

But deep in the heart of Kent we decided to do something absolutely spontaneous when quite clearly it was stuffy, sticky and oppressively hot in London. Hold on, this had to be the right time to celebrate warm weather and here we were in the county that continues to hold an enduring fascination for those just outside London who revel in the idyllic peace and tranquillity of the Kent seaside.

For as long as any of us can remember, Kent has always been synonymous with lovely hop picking fields, sedate oasthouses, rows and rows of decorative orchards overflowing with apples, oranges, strawberries, bananas, blueberries and blackberries, acres of well ordered vegetables such as the traditional carrots, cucumbers, mouth watering beetroots and a whole host of blossoming fauna and flora, bustling for attention, bristling with colour and richly tempting for the discerning palate.

And yet yesteryday Ramsgate gave us its annual street carnival, a yearly procession winding and steadily inching its way past deeply appreciate crowds, cheering and hollering for all their worth. This is something that Britain has always done exceptionally well, seasoned experts at times, brilliant organisers and proud of their rich heritage. Street processions are something the Brits have always excelled at and this should be never overlooked as one of our principal strengths.

It all started as we got off our train at Ramsgate station. I couldn't help but notice a lonely looking but enormous white gull standing patiently on the opposite platform, ticket quite probably tucked securely in its beak and ready to board the imminent train for London. How annoyingly slow British trains can be for those birds who desperately needed to reach their destination in time.

 For what seemed a couple of minutes or so, the said seagull glanced around at the human passengers with a look that suggested complete confusion. Maybe it had consulted the electronic timetable and found that its train had been delayed for some ridiculous reason. Then the gull found itself lost in a world of curiosity and puzzlement. Things didn't seem to be going well for our feathered friend.

Still, there were things to see and do in the laid back and dignified harbour town of Ramsgate. We ventured forth on one of the longest walks to the sea front any of us had ever experienced. It must have taken us at least three quarters of an hour to reach the bobbing and wealthy looking yachts dotted along the harbour. And then eventually, after what felt like the accomplishment of several walking marathons through the shopping centre and finally hitting the boating heartland we slumped onto our chairs in the loveliest of cafes, gently partook of some hummus and pita bread and soaked up the sunshine.

There is a comfortable respectability about Ramsgate, a serene contentment with Ramsgate life, a timeless sense of deeply rooted tradition and an air of familiarity. You see the point is that Ramsgate feels like the kind of seaside town you've been to a thousand times in a thousand summers before. The pubs look as though they've been there since the English Civil War or even, dare I say it, the Battle of Hastings, the cafes look appealingly trendy and attractive and the bed and breakfast hotels will never ever disappear.

As we took our place for the Ramsgate street procession, you couldn't help but notice the Port and Anchor, the Crows Nest and Royal pub, all immaculately welcoming and hospitable to hundreds of thirsty drinkers immediately intent on quenching their thirsts with several pints of lager. Hundreds of families with their passionately excited children lined the long, meandering roads, streets and esplanades, shining exuberance on their faces and ice creams close to hand.

Then it began eventually but very slowly and surely. In fact by the time the floats began to arrive near our vantage point some of us were yawning soporifically, restless perhaps but wondering what on earth was happening. There seemed a strange reluctance on the organisers part to allow the carnival to move at all. It occurred to us that there have been quicker tortoises or maybe we should have been more tolerant and understanding. After all, we'd only been waiting for at least two years for the floats to arrive and the last train to London would perhaps arrive in the capital city at midnight.

Seriously though it did seem that our friendly street carnival people were stopping and starting at roughly the same blistering pace of the average snail. To all intents and purposes the procession looked as though it had been caught up in some horrendous and imaginary traffic jam stretching back as far as Broadstairs. This had to be the slowest street carnival I'd certainly seen but none of us really cared because we were all basking in the constant heat of a British summer.

There were of course those jokey and jocular street entertainers all entrusted with the thankless responsibility of trying to keep the whole momentum of the day going without any hitches. There were the Mexican maracas shakers and mariachi players, the infectiously rhythmical steel drummers beating out their summery sounds, the Ambre Solaire sun tan cream floats dripping with orange and yellow slogans and last but not least the Kent beauty carnival queens, giggly but almost consumed by the simple joys and enjoyment of this sultry Sunday afternoon at the latter end of July.

Now this is one notable aspect of street carnival furniture that has never really changed. There they all were, assembled from the very regal Whitstable, Ramsgate of course and a whole variety of girls with tiaras from the Medway Towns. Somebody had told me that the Ramsgate street procession is one of the highlights of the British social calendar and you could only agree with them whole heartedly. How we loved just being there, absorbing the very essence of a typically English day in high summer.

Finally, there was something almost quirkily amusing about something we might have taken as granted at these kind of events. Suddenly and exhaustedly, there were the girl majorettes, those tireless cheerleaders with their twirling batons and beaming smiles. On careful reflection you had to feel immensely sorry for these experienced but now desperately tired girls. You could almost feel a wave of sympathy flooding over Ramsgate as the last of the majorettes wearily spun her baton for what seemed the 254th time.

On and on they trudged and traipsed, energy sapping out of their bodies and arms that must have felt like the thickest of rope. There was one girl who passed me whose body language suggested that she  didn't want to go any further and only a rousing edition of BBC One's Song of Praise would lift her sagging spirits.

So a Sunday afternoon at the end of another heavenly day of British heat had come to a close. This astonishing summer just seems to keep giving and giving. The almost incessant sun of both June and July may well take us comfortably into late August and maybe longer. The fans are whirling ecstatically in offices and homes across Britain, windows have been flung open with carefree abandon and some of us are reminiscing on 1976 when blue skies and  the Electric Light Orchestra, during the 1970s, struck up the most harmonious of pop songs. What perfection! England oh England!