Tunbridge Wells owes its existence to a rusty spring. In 1606 a young nobleman, Lord North, was resting in the woods here and noticed a pool with an orange scum; he tried the water, felt better and told the world. Within a few decades the court was coming down from London to drink it, and the Pantiles, a raised, colonnaded walk with trees along it, became the place to be seen taking the waters. The town was granted its Royal prefix in 1909 by Edward VII, and has been the butt of letters to the editor ever since, usually signed by someone disgusted.
None of that matters much on a motorbike, but the setting does. Tunbridge Wells sits on the High Weald, an old ridge-and-valley country of sandstone, ancient woodland and hedges so thick the lanes run in tunnels. Right on the edge of town at Rusthall is Toad Rock, a lump of weathered sandstone that does look like a toad if you are generous, and there are many more outcrops in the woods round about. The riding south and east is some of the best in the southeast: narrow, hump-backed B-roads and unclassified lanes with blind crests and wet leaves for six months of the year. North is Penshurst and the Medway valley, west is Ashdown Forest and the road to Sussex.
As a stop on the way back to London this is a place for sensible things. It is a proper town of nearly seventy thousand, with every fuel brand, plenty of cafés in the old Pantiles and along the high street, and public toilets by the common. If you have been out in the lanes since morning, it is a gentler re-entry than going straight onto the A21. Traffic into the town on a Friday evening is slow, so leave before four or accept the queue.
Remember that most of the lanes around here are signed for far lower speeds than a bike wants to travel, and farm vehicles, horses and cyclists use them in numbers. Assume there is a tractor round every bend, because eventually there is.