Monday 29th September 2025

I served in the RAF for fifteen years.

I worked in the food industry for five years previous to joining up, then worked in the deep sea survey industry before ending up with wind turbines for the last 15 years before retiring.

I am proud to have served, and made many, many long-term friends and comrades.

I last went to a reunion over a decade ago, where the heavy drinking, I realised, was a thing of the past.

Every year I think of going to that year's reunion, but think better of it.

I was an armourer. That is a trade that deals with anything and everything that goes bang, from bombs and missiles, to small arms, loading aircraft to bomb disposal.

We are very proud of our trade, and are very active on social media in keeping in touch and letting the rest of us know when one of the family is called to the Tea Bar in the Sky.

Two years in the planning and fundraising, was a memorial to be erected at the National Memorial Arboretum in Staffordshire, and this week it was to be dedicated.

I decided that I wanted to be there.

So, hotel was booked and much planning of some churchcrawling to be done on the Monday afternoon and maybe Tuesday.

I thought Cheadle was in Lancashire, but it turns out it is near Stoke in the Midlands, a 40 minute drive from the hotel, so it seemed a good idea that I would visit on the Monday, before turning back south to the hotel.

St Luke was designed by our old friend, Augustus Welby Pugin, and is considered his "gem". It even says that on the brown road signs as you get near to Cheadle.

But before getting there, I had the small matter of driving nearly five hours from Dover, heading north, mostly by a route you'll be very familiar with.

The alarm went off at five.

Early.

I get up, and between us we feed the cats, make coffee, so that by five to six, the car was packed and I was ready to leave.

It was so early that there was no traffic heading away from the port, meaning I had a good run up the M20 past Ashford and Maidstone as dawn crept across the sky, and the sun rose.

Above, the sky was laced with clouds, but mostly blue, though tinged with pink from the early sun.

Amazingly, the M25 was fairly clear. I cruised to the tunnel in just over an hour after leaving home.

Along to the M11, then just head north.

North through Essex. The harvest is in, fields are ploughed and seeded, trees are still green, though edged with gold telling us that autumn is here.

Even Cambridge at eight wasn't busy, though it was coming the other way along the A14. I pressed on, stopping for breakfast at the massive Cambridge Services.

Breakfast was a bacon and sausage butty, a cup of tea and a Twix.

Breakfast and dinner as it turned out.

I ate in the services, then back in the car for the next leg north.

West of the A1, the A14 is still a two lane road, and the trucks that use it, overtaking, cause tailbacks as they creep past other trucks.

Its 42 miles, and it seems to take forever, but the junction at the foot of the M6 arrives, but the sat nav tells me to take the M1 instead.

Once I turned off the motorway, I went through an almost endless series of roundabouts, parkways and strip malls, as one Midland town blends with the next.

Between, sometimes, there are green fields, and rolling countryside, while above a "Simpsons" sky allows lots of sunshine to make nature's colour really punch.

The final 30 minutes were through villages rather than towns, up steeper hills. But I reached Cheadle just before eleven, and once driving round the town's one way system, I found the main car park, a short walk from the church.

St Giles is open every day, once I reached the church, the most striking feature is the west doors, with matching golden rampant lions on a bold red background.

Pugin was here.

I thought Ramsgate was Pugin's perfect church, but St Giles is breath-taking.

There were three others in the church, they sat in the pews and took in the church, talking in whispers.

I went round taking picture after picture, with both the DSLR and mobile.

How do I describe it? How can mere words do justice to a force of natures greatest work?

I guess its like listening to an orchestra, where all the parts combine to make a symphony. St Giles is a symphony in stone and paint and glass for the senses.

I had to leave, as I only had an hour on my parking ticket, so walked back up the main street and cut through back to the car park.

I had asked a friend, Aidan, if there were any churches in the area he recommended, and one was Radcliffe-on-Soar. So, I set the sat nav, and headed 40 minutes back in the direction I had just come.

Ratcliffe is a small village, spread out along a dead end lane, with the church near the end, and would be unremarkable. But decades ago, a massive coal fired power station was built the other side of the main road, its eight cooling towers dominate the village and landscape for miles around.

The power station is now closed and set to be demolished soon, so the towers still stand, stark against the light clouded sky.

Holy Trinity is open daily. I checked. So, I parked on the side of the lane, walked to the porch and pushed open the door.

Inside, the stillness was deafening. The centuries laid heavy on the tombs in the chancel, for it was the tombs that make this church so special.

Five, I think, tombs with carvings of the occupants on top, all in pious poses, though through the untold years, vandals and visitors have broken bits off: nose here, a foot or hand there.

I took my shots, enjoying the peace inside.

But my last church closed at four, it was half two, so should be OK, but you never can be sure.

It was another half hour drive, this time along country lanes winding its way over the Wolds.

The thing with postcodes is that in urban areas are very specific, and you find your destination quite easily. In rural areas a large part of the parish can be under the same postcode, or the whole village.

The sat nav got me to the village, but I could find no church. It suggested going down a road marked private. I decided not to follow, and visited all parts of the village in search of the church.

I found Church Lane, and like me you'd think the church was on church lane.

It isn't.

Or as I found out soon after, the bridge from Church Lane to the church has been closed.

Hmmm..

I checked on Google Maps, and sure enough the church was down the private lane. So I went back, following another car, that was being driven by the keyholder.

This was Widmerpool, the road took me past the outbuildings for a country estate, all now turned into large private residences. I could feel watchful eyes following me as I drove up the road.

I parked at the end, and saw the lady walk up a path with an old gas street lamp indicating it might be the way to the church.

It was.

The lady was talking to a workman who was dealing with a wasp infestation.

"Can I help you?"

I have come to see the church, it took some finding. It should be open today.

"I have the key, I will open it for you".

We went in and we talked about this church, and churches in general, but mainly about people like her who give parts of their free time for caring for these grand buildings.

Apparently there was an ancient church here, but mostly rebuilt in the first half of the 19th century, and again in the second half, what is there is mainly late Victorian, but of a good standard.

I liked it, and the location, far away from the towns that link like spider's webs across most of the Midlands.

But it was time to go to my hotel in Burton. I bid the keyholder farewell, as two dozy wasps buzzed around sounding like two very small bagpipes.

Back out along the private road, across the crossroads, over the railway and back to the main road. And then just twenty minutes to noisy, busy Burton.

In the middle of a retail park set along the main road into town was the Premier Inn, I pull in and check in.

Nothing wrong with the hotel or room. Clean and functional.

I settle down for 90 minutes before going next door to the restaurant for dinner. I had a table booked to make sure.

At half five, I walked over to the "restaurant", and found the place near deserted, the lady with improbable eyebrows who checked me in was double shifting in the bar all evening, and the oncoming shift found supplies were short.

I found out there were no burgers, no chips, no pizzas, no cheesecake, and other things ran out in the two hours I was there.

I couldn't have burger, so had fish and chips. Though not chips as such. Weird shaped slivers or potato. They did OK.

I had a beer too.

And as I was finishing, an old friend, one of the first corporals I worked for back in 1991 walked in.

Hello Mark.

"Hello Ian"

So, we sat down to catch up and found out what we have done in the last 34 years.

A friend of his came in, to eat, but hearing the ever growing list of items they place were running out of, they caught a taxi into town for a highly rated Indian restaurant (which had closed), so I drank up my third beer and went back to my room.

And went to bed at nine.