Saturday 6th June 2026

A few months ago, my friend Simon told me of an open day at Crown Point TMD in Norwich. Tickets were free, but limited.

I got one, so was set.

Then forgot about it, but then that's what calendars are for: to remind us of things.

As I had to catch the quarter to eight train, not enough time for the gym, so we had a slow start, then rush round getting my shit together, get into the car for Jools to drop me off at Priory Station.

Sixty six quid bought me a return to the Fine City, and a short wait until the train arrived, allowing to get a seat on the left hand side for the hour's run to Stratford.

By the time we left Ashford, the train was busy, but not packed. I guess it was still early.

I walked up from the platforms at Stratfor, as both escalators were out of use, then into Westfield to walk to the regional station, but looking to see if anything could tempt me.

Odd juxtaposition of the many fitness shops and the countless sweet and ice cream place; so something to take off pounds and something to put it back on.

But it was still before nine, so few shops open, not many people about either.

I had half an hour to kill, so walked over the main road to Stratford Market, where there were the usual suspect shops along the walkways, and in the middle, small stalls selling blankets, knickers, exotic fruit and vegetables, and much more beside.

I spend ten minutes looking around, then walk back out, making my way to platform 10 to wait for my train to Norwich.

Before then, trains to Clacton and Southend departed, laden with people heading to the coast, even if the promised rain had begun to fall.

And as a treat, Greater Anglia put a Stanstead unit on the EAML, meaning there was no first class, and the poor guard had to explain to the party of four behind me how to claim a part refund.

For those travelling alone and with no luggage, these are comfortable, and for the most parts, seats have tables and match the large windows, allowing clear views of Essex, Suffolk and Norfolk glide by.

A Mother and her daughter, perhaps eight years old, spent their journey to Colchester discussing characters in Harry Potter, and why they were good, and whether Tinselworm, were it real, be scary or funny.

I got a sandwich and drink from the trolley service, and if I said I wanted a "meal deal" I could have a free chocolate bar.

I had a Twix.

I ate as the train crossed into Suffolk, into the tunnel and emerged at Ipswich.

Its the home of Ipswich Town, apparently.

After a five minute stop, we carried on north to Stowmarket and Diss, and finally into deepest Norfolk to Norwich. Over Trowse Bridge, from where I glimpsed the queue to get into Crown Point, a queue I would soon be joining.

My ticket was for twenty past twelve, meaning I had an hour. Perhaps I could get in early?

So from the station, I walk down Koblenz Avenue, past ASDA, which used to be the old sidings, oil facility for the railways, now long gone. Then past Carrow Road, the home of football, crossing over then taking Kerrison Road, where the first check point was.

No early entries. We were told.

So I am several others had to stand for forty minutes until it was ten past midday, then we were allowed in.

The rain came down harder, so I tried to redouble by steps. By legs grumbled. But they did pick up the pace. Past warehouses and industrial units, made of corrugated asbestos or something, still standing and being used decades on.

Round the corner and down the access road, which dived under the Wensum Bridge, and indeed, just beyond as I saw previously, was the checkpoint and the ticket scanning desk.

I was in. The rain was now coming down quite hard. I had to clean the eyepiece or lens of the big camera every couple of minutes, people hurried to the maintenance facility, the three buildings each having two "roads" which housed two multiple units.

The rails of the roads were raised on pillars, so that it looked like the trains floated, with bright lights illuminating the underneath of the trains.

At the other end there were some locomotives parked up: a 37, an 86, and a class 90 electric. And between was a steam locomotive from the North Norfolk Railway.

Inside there were stalls selling models or stuff for preserved railway societies.

I had been just over half an hour, and I had seen it all. I chatted with the British Transport Police, or some of them, and remarked what a great job they do, little did I know I would see them in action on the late evening train out of London that I shuddered about.

I was to meet friends at a nearby pub. So, I walked back to the entrance and straight up to the bridge that carries the ringroad over the railway, where back in the 1970s there was a corner shop, on the corner, where when we talked to the ground that way from the station, Dad would buy me a pack of Munchies which lasted through most of the game.

Its gone now, of course. Turned into a house, gone the same way as the two pubs: The Clarence Harbour and The Kingsway.

Along the ringroad, heading towards Yarmouth until I came to the pub, The Fat Cat and Canary, where I hoped to have a beer or two, and some lunch.

They had beer. Lots of beers, including Titanic Plum Porter which I made two pints disappear. Sadly, they didn't do food until 5, so I made do with Mini Cheddars and pork scratchings.

Cam arrived, soon followed by David. So we drank and chatted until just before five, when I ordered and ate a burger.

I suddenly realised I could catch an earlier train back to London at five, I had fifteen minutes to get to the station. Four pints of plumb porter meant I didn't walk in a totally straight direction.

I said goodbye to Cam and David, and set off back into the city.

I arrived at the station at two minutes past five, and the train had left. On time.

So I climbed on the train on the next platform, which would leave in half an hour. The only problem was that only the trains that left on the hour stopped at Stratford.

I would try to think of something on the way into London.

What I decided was to go into London and catch the first "fast" train back up the line back to Stratford.

And so I calmed down, and with my woolly head easing, I enjoyed the trip back south through into Suffolk and then Essex, before finally thundering down Brentford Bank into London. Or Brentford.

We whistled through Stratford, then dropped into the station's throat having passed through Bethnal Green.

The train on the next platform left in ten minutes, going to Southend, as long as I didn't fall asleep on the short run back to Stratford.

I didn't, so got off and took the DLR one stop to Stratford International, where I had a fifteen minute wait for the train to Dover.

I got on and took a seat near to the toilet, behind a group of smart gentlemen all wearing the same striped ties.

Military.

The toilet door was locked.

And remained locked.

The guard came round and the group told him that a couple had locked themselves in.

No amount of knocking or shouting would get them to open the door. So, using a tool on his belt, the guard unlocked the door, and then began five minutes of tug of way until the door was forced open.

A young couple was inside, dressed in sports gear and hoodies. She with very expensive looking nails, but trying to hide her face.

One of the gentlemen stood in the doorway so they couldn't shut it, turns out they were Royal Protection Officers, or some of them were, the wrong types to mess with.

At Ashford the British Transport Police came on board and took them away, so that people could use the toilet.

Excitement over, we carried on to Dover where Jools was waiting. I asked her how the concert was at the parish church.

Bugger she said. I forgot.

Time when I got home for a brew, too tired to sit up at watch England on TV.