A New Beginning: Herne Bay and Home ownership
Herne Bay, a seaside town on the north coast of Kent, lies just six miles north of Canterbury. It had risen to prominence as a resort in the early 19th century after the construction of a pleasure pier and promenade and reached its heyday in the late Victorian era. For us, it represented the promise of a fresh start.
A Place of Our Own
The situation at Red Lion Cottages had become too volatile. Our small bubble had burst, and we needed to find somewhere else to live. I found myself in an awkward position, trying to keep the peace with Sheila while also securing accommodation we could actually afford. Rents in our previous area were exorbitantly high, leaving us with little choice but to widen our search.
Eventually, we found a rental within our budget in Herne Bay, right on the Kent coast. The next hurdle was arranging a transfer at the Post Office. I had to meet with my superiors and request a move to the depot nearest to Herne Bay. Their initial response was far from enthusiastic. They reminded me of the time and money invested in my training and questioned whether approving the transfer would be worthwhile.
About ten days later, I was summoned to the GPO offices. Reluctantly, they agreed to transfer me to the Canterbury depot, which meant starting over with a completely new gang of men. I admitted my hesitation but explained that our living situation had become untenable for Sheila and Paul. In the end, they understood.
As winter closed in, we moved. With the help of a removal man, we transported our modest belongings to a second-floor flat right on the seafront. The view was magnificent, though the relentless wind and cold meant we spent most of our time in the kitchen and bedroom. The lounge became an improvised food store; without a refrigerator, it was simply too cold to use for much else.
My daily routine now began early. I caught the 5:45 a.m. bus to ensure I reached the Canterbury depot by 7:30. Once again, I had to prove myself to a new team. It took time, but I eventually earned their acceptance — although my pay rate suffered a small reduction.
Despite the challenges, there were comforts. We attended Mass at the local Catholic church and often took Paul out in his pram along the promenade on clear days. Brother Lionel, who lived in Canterbury, visited regularly with his wife June, a schoolteacher. Not long after we had settled in, Sheila shared some wonderful news: she was pregnant, and we were expecting a child in May.
With our lease due to expire and the likelihood of a rent increase looming in the summer, we began thinking seriously about something more permanent. While browsing rental advertisements, I came across a scheme designed to help people buy their own homes. Canterbury City Council was offering approved loans to eligible applicants. For the first time, the idea of homeownership felt possible.
After working out what we could realistically afford, we found a terraced house at 2 Albion Place, just two streets from Canterbury Cathedral, priced at £19,000. Acting on the advice of the council representative, I offered £18,000 — and to our delight, it was accepted. With modest savings and a low-interest mortgage, we were able to buy our first home.
Number 2 Albion Place sat quietly in a small cul-de-sac near the heart of the city. Built in the 1890s, it had three bedrooms and a recently added bathroom. Downstairs there was a generous front room, a large kitchen with an adjoining scullery, and a small back garden with the customary outside toilet. It wasn’t perfect: the front bedroom needed work, and reaching the bathroom meant passing through the third bedroom. But these were small compromises.
At last, we had something we hadn’t known for a long time — stability. A place that was truly ours, and the sense that after years of reacting to circumstances, we were finally beginning to shape our own future.