Of marshes and churches

The weekend began with me being given the afternoon on Friday off so we could go to Ashford to visit Nan. We began by going out for lunch to the Railway Bell. Quite frankly it had been a tough week and the thought of having a pint and a bite whilst the world of boxes carried on without me was a pleasing one.

We drove to Ashford, as Jools had done each day that week, and found Nan to still be in a combative mood, but mellowing out with each day. We offered an ear and our support and of course our love, and that did the trick.

We headed home and cooked Chinese style ribs, which almost certainly they don't eat out there, but it was spicy and gingery and was just the right thing to have. We finished the meal with full bellies and sticky fingers.

Saturday dawned cloudy and breezy, as promised, and so we set off nice and early to the Isle of Sheppy for a walk along the beach and then on through the salt marshes and lunch at the Ferry Inn at Harty.

Hoorah.

The Isle of Sheppy is one of many islands that rise from the Thames/Medway estuary. It rises a few feet above the silty waters, and is home to farms and holiday camps. Out of season it can be very bleak, and nothing better than when the winds blow and the sand stings your cheeks.



We parked at Leysdown-on-Sea, which is like a mini Blackpool, with caravans and Londoners. We pass through the town, each shop closed shut until the spring. Out into the land in the lea of the sea wall; we park up and pull our winter coats on the for the first time this season, and set off along the beach.



It was low tide, and it was easy going, old groynes were rotting into the sand, and so the beach was in the process of being washed away. Still, the shapes made for interesting pictures.

We walk further along the beach and come to and pass a private village, Shellness, and carry on to the mudflats and wild bird sanctuary beyond. The wind was blowing, and the birds already wintering were huddled together on the mud, looking for food, and keeping warm.

I set out across the salt marshes that stretch from Shellness to Harty, whilst Jools went back to the car and then to meet me at the church at Harty.

The path goes along an earth bank which at high tides keeps the sea at bay; it wouldn't take an angry sea to broach that, not even a mildly irritated one either.

On the fresh water side, a sea of reeds and bullrushes waved in the wind like waves breaking on the shore; and on the salt side pools of water gathered in the hardy moss and litchen and the mud. I passed one man and a woman jogging. The silence was wonderful, regular signposts told me how far to the pub and as I passed each one the thought of a pint became firmer in my mind.

Before we made it to the pub we met up at the church where Jools was being entertained by three chickens and a peacock. The church was open, and was wonderful; the small tower was supported by thick wooden beams that looked original.



We drive to the inn, and join the hooray henrys and queue at the bar. I have a ploughman's, although they call it a ferryman's, and Jools has a curry. For dessert they have creme brulee, and they are maybe the best we have had, and large ones at that.



We head home as we were to entertain that evening as a guy from work who I found great to talk to was coming for dinner and a glass of red wine or two. But there was still time to visit another picturesque church in the village of Iwade, but it, like so many other churches was locked up as to guard against theft.



Pete did turn up, and we had Moroccan lamb tagine and ginger and turmeric rice; it was rather good even if I say so, doubly so as I made some cheesy potato bread to go along with it as well.

Sunday we had a late start as we were to visit Nan again in the afternoon and visiting hours did not begin until three. We headed out to a village I had noticed had a high concentration of grade one listed buildings.

Charing is indeed a wonderful village, with a high street full of timber framed houses and artisan bakers, butchers and candlestick-makers. The church was indeed grand, and open, and the vicar certainly did not mind me taking pictures. Once, in the distant past, the church was even grander as an archbishop's house once stood there, and grand arches and towers were part of a few houses that neighboured the church. Sadly, most were behind high walls, and so the church barn was out of bounds.

We drove on to the village of Pluckly, not quite as commuter-ish as Charing, but pretty enough, with views over the wooded plain below. The church was wonderful too, and the alter was laden with produce as the harvest festival had been celebrated that day. We retired to the village pub, The Black horse, where the 80s tv show, The Darling Bud of May was filmed. The beer was good enough, and the 15th century pub was good enough without having been linked to some cheesy tv show.

We would have liked to have people watched some more, but the hospital was calling, and our date with Nan.

And soon the weekend drew to an end and once again the world of boxes beckons.