We leave the town, whose many narrow winding streets and alleyways constrain the space; its doors and windows, its stone and brick and wooden sides constructed upwards, creased and folded many times so all its faces concertina; the formal music of this place. However, a different scene awaits us on the creek, with houses gone its crenulations stretched and ironed out, and time which raced along in Faversham here slows to a lagging pace. The creek, its vast expanse, a flattened mass affords a gentler frequency were boundaries seem not to block the way.
However, unhindered though it appears, the contradictory ditches, soaked meadows; its submerged fields prevent the walker access to this scene, and only raised embankments keep ones shoes and socks from sinking in the bog. Looking around one spots the landscape’s countering assertions: That despite its flattened state, its water courses, challenged by little force in their traversing to the estuary have, like relaxed elastic bands begun to wind in snakelike paths. Then one sees as far as one can see a hundred little rivulets reflecting clouds, their criss-cross movements weaving water; a complex fluid tapestry.