Before I go on to talk about what we did yesterday, let me recap the working week. Work, sleep, work, sleep, etc. On Thursday, I updated my Facebook status sarcastically, thus: "is trying to head to Essex on Saturday. Weather and cats permitting!" As last month, our plan to visit various bead shops and churches in Essex was thwarted by the very welcome return of Molly. So, what could have gone wrong?
Well, first of all I was laid down with a stomach bug late on Thursday, one minute I was eating raspberries from our garden with some wonderful ice cream, next it was, I need to go to the bathroom. Come out. Go back in. Come out. Go back in.
And so on.
The next morning, I was laying in bed, feeling drained rather than head to work, and from the living room there came this incessant meowing. I head down to investigate, just in case there was some small furry or feathery creature to be saved. Scully was on the sofa. No animals or birds. I pick her up and we both head back up stairs. She curls up beside me and I doze too.
She moved a couple of times, and that is when I notice the blood. Quite a bit of blood. I investigate, and I see her tail is damp, and it is blood. She is not happy with me looking at it. I call Jools up and she books an appointment for the vet.
My father-in-law comes round at half ten, and we head to the vets. After blaming the usual suspect, a fox, it seems she had trapped her tail somewhere, and the skin has been scraped back on both sides down to the bone. I have to leave her to have stitches, 14 in all; Jools picks her up when she comes back from work. So, Scully has a plastic tube on her tail where the stitches are, but is in good spirits, eating well and fighting with her brother.
So, we decided to head off for the day yesterday after all, and so despite getting up early and as inviting as the bed was, and as good a thought of lazing around all day, we got up, had breakfast and hit the road.
Up the A2 to Dartford, under the Thames and into (cue evil music) Essex.
Essex is like any other county; it's like Suffolk and Essex, with which it shares borders, but deep down there is a wide, wide evil streak running through it. It manifests itself through driving; the driving of the locals who see the accelerator as an on/off switch and rules of the road are for every one but them. John Peel, of course, hated driving through the county so much he used to drive round it, every time. And he lived in Bury St Edmunds and worked in London, and that is some detour.
So, driving at the national speed limit for cars and light vans which is 70mph. And whilst driving through the fine country of Essex, we were the slowest vehicle on the M25, M11 and A120. The craziness did not end.
Well, it did end once we turned off and headed into the wild lands around Thaxted. On the way we passed through the village of Great Easton. We saw the church spire from a distance and I could not resist.
The church had an unusual tower, all brick with dark ones mixed in to give a nice criss-cross patterns. And when we tried the door, it was open, at eight in the morning. So, I snapped it and snapped it good.
We walked out and headed towards the main street of the village and I snapped some of the older houses, all with decorated plastering on the outside; griffins and rising suns. Looking wonderful.
In the car and off to Thaxted.
Thaxted was made rich by the woollen and fabric trade, and is full of wonderful timber-framed houses and dominated by the grandest of parish churches high above the High Street.
I snap it inside and out, despite it being renovated and one of the aisles being shrouded under plastic sheeting and scaffolding.
By now we were hungry, and despite being a tourist magnet, the town was surprisingly thin on the ground for tea rooms. We find one place open and go in and order bacon and brie rolls. And a quick browse through the Daily Torygraph of the Daily (Hate) Mail.
And so we afterwards we find the bladeless windmill and then head back to the car and drive off to our next destination; Finchingfield.
Finchingfield is a wonderfully picturesque village, it has graced many chocolate boxes and could be described as typically English. But it knows it is. Yes, the village knows it is beautiful, and looks high maintenance.
Right through the village is a huge green with a large pond at the bottom formed from a small stream. And around the green and up the hill towards the church's ornate tower are many, many wonderful timber-framed houses, with the occasional pub thrown in.
I snap the pond, walk to the post windmill and then up to the church snapping everything as I go. To enter the churchyard you have to pass through an opening through the almshouses, which was very pleasant. And then a short climb through the graves to the church.
And so back down the hill to where Jools had waited, and together we went into the local pub for a drink before heading off on the bead trial. And that is because the main reason for us being in Essex was to visit a couple of fine bead shops that Jools likes to look round in the same way I like to look round record shops.
On the way, however, was a transport museum which I had wanted to visit for some time. And as we were passing right by the museum, we, or I , decided to call in for some snaps.
In truth, the East Anglian Transport Museum was mainly devoted to trains, and mainly trains in Essex. And in truth, there was not much to see, a couple of steam locomotives, a class 101 DMU and a collection of rolling stock. But, it was hot, damned hot, and as Jools was waiting outside, and I had seen most of what they had to offer, and that the beer festival did not begin until Tuesday, I headed out through the gift shop and we made our way via one beadshop and onto another, this time in Colchester.
We drove out of the city again, and back along to Halstead, where in going the other direction I had spotted a huge wooden mill straddling the river and it looked worth snapping.
We found a place to park, and follow the signs to the mill and snap it in the later afternoon sun. We head into a nearby pub and along with beer we order nachos and fajitas to share. Not healthy food, but very tasty, and light enough.
And so we make for the car and the long trip home to Kent. But on the way we took a detour into Brentwood to visit an old online friend of mine, Debs, and her husband, Chris. with a sat-nav and the postcode we find their place and stay long enough for a coffee and a chat before we had to take to the M25 and cross the river again.
The sun had set and darkness was gathering as we sped though Kent; we stopped off for a burger at the Thanet Services and press on into the darkness and home. And waiting for us was one cat, and the others come along before we head to bed at the end of another very fine day.
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