Strood

One of these was the beacon by which the sailors steered, like an unhooped cask upon a pole, an ugly thing when you were near it, the other a gibbet with some chains hanging from it which had once held a pirate.

A visit to Cooling having been reluctantly on my part at least voted impracticable, we trudged on towards Strood, recalling as we went all the old stories about Gad's Hill that we had ever heard or read.

The road which we were travelling formerly ran between thick woods, the haunt of the robbers whose frequent depredations procured it the ill repute which it probably had in Shakespeare's time, and which it is known to have had for a century afterwards.

John Clavell, in his recantation of an ill-led life, published in 1634, mentions Gad's Hill and those red tops of mountains where good people lose their ill-kept purses.

Journeymen tailors they called themselves, and assured me they had never begged before, but were driven to it by hunger, not having yet broken their fast.

That I bestowed sixpence upon them, and they went their way invoking the blessing of Heaven upon me for my charity.

Returning to Gravesend a few hours afterwards, I saw the same men sitting at a table before the Sir John Falstaff with long pipes in their mouths and a quart of ale before them, which one of them lifted on recognizing me, calling in an impudent manner as I passed, "Will you drink, old man?" And at Gravesend I learned that these men lived during the summer by tramping backward and forward between that town and Strood, telling to unwary travelers the story they had told to me.

The gypsy tramp, whose tent and little tilted cart was formerly so constantly present a feature on the wastes of Kent and Surrey, is now an almost extinct variety of the nomad tribes who perambulate the roads of the southeastern counties during the summer.

Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, we recently adopted Pet Town 493, Chillingham in Kent, another one of the Medway towns.

This is three miles east of Strood.

Chillingham, of course, the original skinhead football scarf to have.

Was it? Yes, that's really keeping it real.

Recently adopted Pet Town 492.

Strood and Kent.

If you live in Strood, you'd like to be our Pet Town correspondent.

Text the show on 83936 or send me a WhatsApp through global...

You all right, Woodman? Yeah.

Remember, yeah, Woodman? Yep.

Okay, here we go.

Truth or false? Strood is one of five North Kent towns that form a larger conurbation known as the Sean Towns.

But most of all her imagination was touched by the leader of that expedition, the man who sometimes alone, sometimes in company, had made sixteen separate attacks upon that peak.

He stared from the pages of the volume, Gabriel Strood.

Something of his great reach of limb, of his activity, of his endurance she was able to realize.

Moreover, he had a particular blemish which gave to him a particular interest in her eyes, for it would have deterred most men altogether from his pursuit, and it greatly hampered him.

And yet in spite of it, he had apparently for some season stood prominent in the Alpine fraternity.

Gabriel Strood was afflicted with a weakness in the muscles of one thigh.

Sylvia, according to her custom, began to picture him, began to talk with him.

She wondered whether he was glad to have reached that summit, or whether he was not on the whole rather sorry, sorry for having lost out of his life a great and never-flagging interest.

A private sitting room, having been engaged, bedrooms inspected and dinner ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining neighbourhood.

We do not find from a careful perusal of Mr Pickwick's notes on the four towns of Strood, Rochester, Chatham and Brompton, that is, his impressions of their appearance, differ in any material point whatsoever.

from those of any other travellers who have gone over the same ground.

His general description is easily abridged.

One of these was the beacon by which the sailors steered, like an unhooped cask upon a pole, an ugly thing when you were near it, the other a gibbet with some chains hanging from it, which had once held a pirate.

A visit to Cooling having been reluctantly on my part at least voted impracticable, we trudged on towards Strood, recalling as we went all the old stories about Gad's Hill that we had ever heard or read.

The road which we were travelling formerly ran between thick woods, the haunt of the robbers, whose frequent depredations procured it the ill repute which it probably had in Shakespeare's time, and which it is known to have had for a century afterwards.

John Clavell, in his recantation of an ill-led life, published in 1634, mentions, Gad's Hill and those red tops of mountains where good people lose their ill-kept purses.

Twenty years ago I met on this road, while walking from Gravesend to Rochester, a brace of rascals, who, asking my pardon for arresting my progress, told such a doleful tale of destitution and distress.

Journeymen tailors they called themselves, and assured me they had never begged before, but were driven to it by hunger, not having yet broken their fast, that I bestowed sixpence upon them, and they went their way, invoking the blessing of heaven upon me for my charity.

Returning to Gravesend a few hours afterwards, I saw the same men sitting at a table before the Sir John Falstaff, with long pipes in their mouths, and a quart of ale before them, which one of them lifted on recognising me, calling in an impudent manner as I passed, Will you drink, old man? And at Gravesend I learned that these men lived during the summer by tramping backward and forward between that town and Strood, telling to unwary travellers the story they had told to me.

The gypsy tramp, whose tent and little tilted cart was formerly so constantly present a feature on the wastes of Kent and Surrey, is now an almost extinct variety of the nomad tribes who perambulate the roads of the southeastern counties during the summer.

One of these was the beacon by which the sailors steered, like an unhooped cask upon a pole, an ugly thing when you were near it, the other a gibbet with some chains hanging from it which had once held a pirate.

A visit to Cooling having been reluctantly on my part at least voted impracticable, we trudged on towards Strood, recalling as we went all the old stories about Gad's Hill that we had ever heard or read.

The road which we were travelling formerly ran between thick woods, the haunt of the robbers whose frequent depredations procured it the ill repute which it probably had in Shakespeare's time, and which it is known to have had for a century afterwards.

John Clavell, in his recantation of an ill-led life published in 1634, mentions Gad's Hill and those red tops of mountains where good people lose their ill-kept purses.

They have invariably either eaten nothing since yesterday or sold their waistcoat to buy a bit of bread for their breakfast.

Twenty years ago I met on this road, while walking from Gravesend to Rochester, a brace of rascals who, asking my pardon for arresting my progress, told such a doleful tale of destitution and distress—journeymen tailors they called themselves, and assured me they had never begged before, but were driven to it by hunger, not having yet broken their fast—that I bestowed sixpence upon them, and they went their way, invoking the blessing of heaven upon me for my charity.

Returning to Gravesend a few hours afterwards, I saw the same men sitting at a table before the Sir John Falstaff, with long pipes in their mouths and a quart of ale before them, which one of them lifted on recognising me, calling in an impudent manner as I passed, Will you drink, old man? And at Gravesend I learned that these men lived during the summer by tramping backward and forward between that town and Strood, telling to unwary travellers the story they had told to me.

The gypsy tramp, whose tent and little tilted cart was formerly so constantly present a feature on the wastes of Kent and Surrey, is now an almost extinct variety of the nomad tribes who perambulate the roads of the southeastern counties during the summer.

But most of all her imagination was touched by the leader of that expedition, the man who sometimes alone, sometimes in company, had made sixteen separate attacks upon that peak.

He stared from the pages of the volume, Gabriel Strood.

Something of his great reach of limb, of his activity, of his endurance, she was able to realize.

Moreover, he had a particular blemish which gave to him a particular interest in her eyes, for it would have deterred most men altogether from his pursuit, and it greatly hampered him.

And yet in spite of it, he had apparently for some season stood prominent in the Alpine fraternity.

Gabriel Strood was afflicted with a weakness in the muscles of one thigh.

Sylvia, according to her custom, began to picture him, began to talk with him.

She wondered whether he was glad to have reached that summit, or whether he was not on the whole rather sorry, sorry for having lost out of his life a great and never-flagging interest.