Hooray then, for drugs! Or at least headache removal ones at least. Although they did take all morning to kick in.
It's another cold and grey day in the Garden of England, otherwise known as Kent. Jools has the car all day and I am doing housework and scanning some old slides from a trip to Italy six years ago. It's a slow process, due to the thinking the laptop needs to do, and so I can't have any other windows open, not even for the net; and so I have vacuumed, bleached the floor, and generally tidied up and now the long dark soul of the afternoon stretches ahead like a long stretchy thing.
At about four, I will begin doing dinner, herb encrusted pork steaks, curried lentils and lots of vegetables, and a helping of the spicy potato bread. We are still living quite well.
Wednesday was even duller and more overcast thatn today; but the BBC promised that it would brighten up at around midday, and as there was a steam locomotive crossing the Romney Marsh, I thought I would take my cameras and me in the car to spend the day in photography and steam and smoke and speed. And churches.
The drive to the marsh is along the M20, through Folkestone and alongside the high speed rail line to London; the drizzle fell and the traffic kicked up loads of spray. I took my time and spent the trip in the slow lane with the trucks and lorries, it seemed safer. I drove on to Ashford, and instead of most people turned away from the shopping outlet village and headed out onto the marshes.
Traffic was light, but there is always the occasional idiot who thinks that the speed limit is not enough and that tail-gating is going to make me go faster. I slow down and enjoy his frustration, as it usually is a male, isn't it? Anyway, I turn off the main road and then it's down country lanes to the village of Appledore where there is a station with great views along the track, as well as a church I had yet to snap.
The station is a couple of miles outside the village, I stop to check out the sightlines and make sure there is parking, and then head into the village. I park up and walk to the church, looking grey and uninviting under leaden skies. I walk to the door set in the middle of the base of the tower; it opens and inside the church is bathed in the marm light of many stained glass windows. Lining the seats of the pews are lots of brightly knitted prayer cushions, not sure if this is the right name for them, but that's what they're for, something for tired knees to rest on when speaking to The Lord. Most are adorned with Royal images, celebrating wedding of European Royal's finest in decades past.
I buy a well written guide, and put another pound in the wall box for the church fund. I take many pictures, no easy in the dim light, but most come off.
Back outside, I consult my reference book and see there is another church at Stone-in-Oxney, a village a few miles away. Through fields on narrow lanes I go, over single track hump-back bridges and into a picturesque village packed with timber-framed houses and thatched cottages, and up the hill of the down that over looks not just the town, but the marsh too. And on a turn in the road is St Mary the Virgin, another splendid church.
The churchyard is scattered with snowdrops, just opening for the spring they know is just around the corner. I walk up the brick made path to the door and push; it is unlocked too, and go inside.
Another wonderful village church, full of history and many years of village life there contained. It is all simple but elegant arches, and the walls bear the marks of when it was either bigger or different. The simple coloured glass of the windows cast a blue light over half the church. Around the underside of the roof is a wooden frame that presumably holds the structure of the pitched roof in place. The floor is made up of small tiles, red and black; very simple but looks very effective. Under the bell tower is a pagan alter, Roman in origin, it's carved face now unclear as to what the markings once were. The guidebook suggests images of bulls were on each side; maybe it is right.
Time then, to head to the station for the arrival of the train, and maybe to read a copy of Private Eye I bought in Dover that morning. As it turned out, all parking was taken in the small yard, and there were already two people waiting; we chatted some, and then my plan to have a pint in the Railway Hotel was scuppered as they were closed until four; bugger.
So, I go onto the station to chat with those already there, and hope that the light would improve. In fact, it already had, and the sun had broke through the clouds, and the greys had given way to greens and browns on the land. More and more people arrived, soon there were twenty of us filling the platform; some just to watch, but some very serious photographers, with lenses of great size.
By the time the smoke could be seen a few miles away, I guess forty of us crammed onto the platform, and then Oliver Cromwell came into view, leaving a great cloud of smoke in her wake. She was held at the distant signal to allow a local service to come the other way through the single track section; once that was beside us in the station, with a shriek from her whistle, Oliver Cromwell moved off, one puff at a time.
The puffs got closer together as she gathered pace, and soon passed the local service, and then was upon us, whistle shrieking again, filling my viewfinder. The camera whirred away, and then, she was here and then passing and done. All in a flash, leaving us being silently showered with ash from her funnel.
It was worth it, I promise you.
Time then to head back home and prepare to pick up Jools from work.
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