Last day of the working week, or first day a long weekend. Or first day of a short weekend. Or all of them. Well, as I look to begin another four weeks, probably, of traveling, and due to the fact my flight on Monday morning so early I can't get from deepest Kent to LCY in time, I am going to have to stay in London on Sunday night, as as the high speed line is closed for repairs, it seems that a straightforward journey to LCY will become an adventure, last many hours, and involve Jools having to drive me to Ebbsfleet to catch a train from there. I say all this as I decided that I would only work part of Friday in the case, and so, once Jools went to work, I put the computer one, answered mails, tried to make calls, but no one was picking up.
I work to ten, then pack up, round up my cameras and begin the short but dangerous walk down to the station. Now that the high speed trains stop there, no more having to trek into Dover, but it does mean, when I don't have the car, having to walk down the hill to the station, along Station Road, across the A258 and onto Martin Mill, along roads with no pavement. This time, at least, the car drivers game me room and I did not feel too much in danger, and the Deal Road was free of traffic so I scampered across and down to the station. But I had mis-calculated the time it would take, and left myself with just three minutes to get a ticket and get onto the platform for the train.
But, all done, and despite huffing and puffing with the effort of those last 400 yards, I made it, and slumped into a seat and looked out the window as we headed up the bank, then into Guston Tunnel and down into Dover. The train part-filled up, and again at the two Folkestone stations, but there were seats for everyone, and so I had the seat to myslef, I spread my stuff out and looked out the window at the spring;like weather and its effect on the Kentish countryside. It looked so vibrant, so alive, and yet here I was heading into London.
You know the journey by now well enough, I know I do. I even get out at Stratford so I can catch the Central Line to Bank, where the first port of call would be. Normally, when we travel to London, its at weekends, and The City is empty, most shops and businesses are closed and the streets are deserted. Nothing prepares you then for the sight and sounds as you walk up the steps from the Underground and onto the hard streets and everything seems so busy. Lombard Street, leading from the Bank of England down towards The Monument, is lined with parked vans and trucks, people are rushing round them, trying to get somewhere else. Fast. I stop to get my camera out, take a shot.
I looked at the A-Z and thought the walk to St Clements might be 15 minutes, but then the City is not as big as it seems, and after a minute of so, I was turning down the lane and at the other end was the church. The pavement was busy, but i barge through people who did not want to let me in, and once through the doors to the church, all is calm and quiet. Hard to believe that we are still in the same city.
St Clement's is best known for being in the children's rhyme, Oranges and Lemons. It is also a fine and simple Wren church, and what was until a couple of years ago, a dark and lonely place, has changed into a light and airy place, now that half the floorspace is offices for various charities. Not ideal I know, but the church will be looked after now and used. I am met by a fine warden, who tells me the history and things to look at. It is the real pleasure of visiting a church in the people who are its lifeblood. She is a volunteer for friends of the City of London Churches, a fine organisation whose website helps me plan these trips.
As I am taking shots, a large walking party with a guide come in. I try not to be upset, people are at least coming in, and if I wait I will get the shots I want. In the end we leave at the same time, and with a few yeads to walk to the steps down to Monument station, I enter the subterranean world once again, populated mainly by more City types rushing around, and confused tourists looking at maps.
It is only three stops to Blackfrars, and then a couple of minutes walk to St Andrew by the Wardrobe. And yes you read that right, by the wardrobe. As before the great fire, the monarch kept his fineries in a building behind the church. The fire took the wardrobe away. And the church. But it was rebuilt by Wren, of course, and now St Andrew sits, elevated, overlooking Queen Victoria Street, a modern dual carriageway, and I am sure drivers hardly give it a second look.
Inside are three wardens, who I chat to, and we get diverted into a long chat about churches, Kent and orchids. I could have stayed and talked much more, but, I get one, take my shots. I must admit, being left a little cold by St Andrew. It was rebult after the war, just the tower and walls are original Wren now, and inside is nice enough, but is all wood and to me seems plain. The ceiling is wonderful though, all moulded plasterwork, and despite being a reconstruction, is wonderful.
I now have an hour before my next port of call, and a meeting with a friend, and two more churches, one being the oldest church in The City.
Just up to lane from St Andrew was a fine looking pub, opposite what may or may have not been a Weatherspoons, anyway, the tradition looking pub was always going to win. The Cock Pit is built into one of the corners of a triangualr piece of land, and so space is limited, but they had Adnams and Timothy Taylor on tap, and food. So I ordered a sandwich, and a pint and being less than a tenner, I had to order a second pint to take the total over that for a credit card sale. I was willing to take one for the team. The Timothy Tailor was exceptional I have to say. Up on the TV above the door in the corner, they were showing the armed services thanksgiving service from St Pauls, which I realise is about 200 yards from where I was sitting. Indeed as I watched film of helicopters coming in for a flyby on TV, we heard them through the open windows of the pub. We even got to hear to Tornados before they were shown on TV for the next fly past. Realistic 3D sound!
I did worry about how I could get over the other side of Ludgate Hill, as the parade was going along there, and I had to be on the other side to meet my friend, Henry at St Barts. The parade had finished, and there was a crossing over which I did get over the other side, and quickly disappeared into the alley the other side up Old Bailey to Holborn Viaduct, and finally up Guiltspur Street to the Henry XIII gate of St Bartholomew's Hospital.
I was go early, and had rattled around the other churches, I was half an hour early, so I did what I always to, and people-watched. We were there for two for a guided walk around the hospital and surrounding area. Henry arrived at five to, and we joined the tour, which was informative, but if truth be known, not that good. We did get entry into the Great Hall in the North Wing, which was probably worth the fee, but sadly she would not let us take photos of Hogarth's paintings on the grand staircase, as the camera might damage their fabric. So she said. Bah.
Once the tour moved into the modern areas of the hospital, we took our leave, and put our heads into the hospital church, St Bartholomew the Lesser, but there were people inside, so we decided not to go further to take photos, but the other side of the square, once back through the gate was St Bartholomew the Great, the oldest surviving church in the City, and a gem. You access it through an ancient gate, but the upper part is a modern construct I think, even so, the church, the surviving part of a monastery, is Norman, and a delight, wonderfully ancient and pretty unspoilt. I took loads of shots, of course, before as I looked at my watch, and saw it was gone four.
We retired to an Italian place over the square for coffee and cake, before we all went in different directions, me by taxi to St Pancras, trying to get the quarter to five train back home. Although the traffic was awful, the driver managed it, and I got there with ten minutes to spare, I dashed up on the platform, and onto the train, getting a seat. Good job I did, as before we left it was standing room only, and by the time we left Stratford, there were people standing the length of the carriage.
I closed my eyes as the City slipped away behind us. Once out of the tunnel in Essex, the sun was setting in the west, the water in the marshes reflected the sky perfectly. Traffic on the bridge at Dartford was nose to tail, but moving. Not moving as quick as us.
I arrived at Martin Mill at six, Jools was there to meet me, dropped me off home whilst she went to the chippy. Seemed the right thing to do. Nothing beats fish and chips, straight from the paper with a huge cuppa.
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