I first visited Whitstable 2 years ago. I went for my pal Gita's hen do, and even through the blur of apple sours and prosecco drunk in pyjamas (not together, I don't think) I knew I wanted to live in that little Kentish coastal town when I became a fully fledged grown up. Ok, perhaps that feeling was in part because of the aforementioned apple sours and prosecco, but even the next morning as I got on a train to travel the 1 hour and 23 minutes back to London Victoria in a slightly delicate state, the feelings, unlike my hungover-and-about-to-get-on-public-transport face, had not paled.
