It is the same every year. We endure what feel like interminable months of grey skies and drizzle and then the moment the sun finally comes out, here it comes: the doom-laden ‘heat health warning’.

At the time of writing we are, according to Kent County Council, living under a “yellow level alert” for heat. But let’s use the more old-fashioned terminology and call it “summer”.

Because it is “summer” the council has issued a series of what it labels “top tips” for surviving the handful of days each year where on this chilly, rain-lashed island you don’t have to wear a jumper and carry an umbrella just in case.

We are informed, in appropriately solemn tones, that drinking water is a good idea. Strenuous midday exercise might be best avoided. You may also want to think twice about hitting the drink too hard. Oh, and given we spend most of the year indoors sheltering from the elements, you might think about slapping on some sunscreen if you’re going to whip your top off as soon as the mercury nudges the high 20s.

All crucial advice for those of us who had otherwise intended to spend the morning downing super-strength lager before hitting the streets at lunchtime for a topless crack at our 5K personal best.

Having taken on board these key health messages, which we once filed under basic common sense understood by anyone not a couple of sausages short of a barbecue, I decided to make the most of the yellow level alert – sorry, summer – and get outside in the sunshine while it lasts.

A seaside walk between the towns of Folkestone and Hythe appears to be a most agreeable way to enjoy the glorious weather and top up the old Vitamin D levels.

Suitably slathered in factor 50, armed with a sunhat and sunglasses, and carrying the requisite supply of water, I arrived at Folkestone West railway station shortly before 10am with the plan of catching a special free bus service that has been laid on for the summer holidays.

Soon enough I was joined by families laden with all the supplies needed for a day at the beach, and we all piled aboard for the 10-minute ride down to Folkestone harbour.

Hopping off the bus just yards from the start of the shingle beach where the much-loved Rotunda amusement park once stood, most of my fellow passengers turn left towards the harbour arm and the town’s sandy beach at Sunny Sands. I headed in the opposite direction, westward along the coast.

The first major landmark is the controversial Shoreline development of high-end apartments and beach-front townhouses, all sleek curves and glossy finishes. Let us just hope that someday soon we actually see some life on those balconies overlooking the Channel, because at present there do not appear to be too many people calling those pricey properties home.

Shoreline behind me, the path leads into the Lower Leas Coastal Park, a real gem tucked away at the foot of the cliffs below the Leas promenade above. The first part of the park is laid out in a formal style, with glimpses of the sea through the trees. They give a welcome shady cover from the sun, which will soon be left behind when I hit the sea wall and the path onwards to Sandgate past rows of colourfully-painted beach huts.

I decided to take this walk in part because of the recent news that Sandgate beach had been recognised by the The Times and Sunday Times as one of the top 50 seaside spots in the whole of the UK. Being local to this part of the world, that came as something of a surprise. No golden sands here, just a narrow bank of shingle, and it is certainly not stereotypically postcard-pretty either.

It appears the understated nature of this stretch of coast is part of its appeal, with Times writer Chris Haslam saying: “There is a cheerful nonchalance about Sandgate: the misleadingly named village just west of Folkestone. There is a lovely shingle beach running parallel to the high street but, apart from a new deck chair rental outlet, there has been little effort to monetise it.”

And why on earth should a beach be monetised? Part of the pleasure of a trip to the seaside is the fact we all get to share in the joys of being by the water’s edge without the need to part with a single penny to do so.

That said, I was happy to splash out £3 or so for a refreshing iced coffee at the Boat House cafe, set just back from the shingle, and take a seat at the only spare table going. I was also charmed by the cafe’s rack of sunglasses, free to borrow for those who forgot to come suitably attired.

It was still before lunchtime, but the promenade was already busy with walkers and cyclists, and the beach itself was dotted with families and people splashing about happily in the gently lapping waters of the Channel. I hadn’t brought anything resembling proper swimming gear, but knowing that the strong summer sun would dry out my shorts in no time anyway I still decided to take a cooling dip.

I would have swam for longer than a few minutes had it not been for the sight of jellyfish bobbing along around me. I’m no expert on our native coastal fauna, but I was certainly not going to risk a sting with a good few miles of my walk still to go.

Strolling along the sea wall a little further, I soon came to Seabrook and the start of the Royal Military Canal. I swerved inland a little to pick up the path on the northern bank of the canal, passing by a group of paddle boarders as I went. The path winds along behind Princes Parade, and soon I was approaching Hythe, looking up enviously at some of the impressive homes on the slopes to my right.

According to some recent research by Rightmove, this stretch is now home to some of the most expensive coastal real estate in the country, and on a day like this it is not hard to see the appeal of an expansive home with sea views out across the Channel.

On the edge of Hythe I turned further inland, walking up the hill past some of these very exclusive homes. We all know the old saying about mad dogs, Englishmen and the midday sun, so I had decided to seek some respite from the heat in one of the most unique and, some might say, morbid places in the county.

I approached St Leonard’s Church, perched on the slopes above Hythe, from behind and walked around the building until I reached the entrance to the crypt. Stepping inside the cool air of the stone-walled church, I was greeted by the sight of what is described as the largest and best-preserved collection of ancient human skulls and bones in Britain.

There have been plenty of theories as to the origins of the remains posited down through the years. Were they Danish pirates slain in battle, or men who fell in the Battle of Hastings in 1066? Or could they have been victims of the Black Death, which swept through Europe in the mid-14th century?

Modern research projects have broadly dismissed these theories, and now it is believed they are the remains of local people whose graves were dug up when the church was extended and other burial sites in the area fell out of use and were closed.

I fell into conversation with one of the volunteer stewards who welcome visitors to the crypt.

“There’s nothing morbid or macabre about this place,” he told me, “or I wouldn’t work here. They are treated with respect, it’s their final resting place.”

He told me a lot of people who visit ask if the site is haunted, but he has never had any experience of the supernatural while in the crypt. We joked that if he did, then perhaps that might give him cause to question carrying on in his voluntary capacity down here under the church.

Emerging into the bright sunshine outside, I continued my walk through the pretty centre of this fine market town, one of the members of the confederation of Cinque Ports dotted along the south east coast.

I had hoped to stop in for a pint at one of my favourite back-street pubs, the Three Mariners on Windmill Street, but to my disappointment I found it does not open at lunchtime every day so I headed onwards back to the sea.

The beach at Hythe looked to be proving even more popular than that at Sandgate a short distance away along the coast. The Waterfront restaurant and beach bar, at the end of Stade Street, was doing a brisk trade, so I decided to end the day’s explorations with a pot of prawns, a crisp, cold half of lager and some people-watching.

How nice it was to see so many people out enjoying themselves, making the most of what can often be little more than a fleeting glimpse of proper summer sunshine with the power to make it feel like you’ve swapped Kent for the Med.

Has The Times got it right, claiming this to be among the best stretches of coast in the land? It’s all subjective, of course, but on a day like this it is hard to put up much of an argument against it.