Despite my allergies making themselves known again in the wee small hours of Saturday morning, I did manage to sleep until well past cat o’clock. Cat o’clock is about half five, but could be as late as six, but it when the first cat, usually Mulder, appears in our bedroom and meows.
And meows.
He means well.
So, anyway. As Jools had done the Tesco thing on Friday, it meant that:
a. we did not have to go on Saturday morning
b. we could laze around for a couple of hours before heading out
c. we had croissants for breakfast.
Yay.
At nine we headed out to Dover; Jools went to the library and I headed to the station to pick up my Flickr-friend, Will. Will had said he would like to go to Hastings, and as we had not been for a few months I thought that would be a great idea. So after picking Will up, I went round to collect Jools again, and so we all set off on a jolly boy’s outing to Hastings.
Once at Ashford, we took the Breznet road and headed out to the Romney Marsh. Will had not been along this road before, so we thought we would head to Fairfield church, as it is such a great place. So we headed off the coast road at Brookland, and bumped along the rough road to Fairfield. It is a wildly isolated, of course, as it ever was, but looks like it is at the end of the world under those marsh skies. I saw from a notice on the gate that the key could be collected from a nearby house, and also that I had never been inside. So whilst Jools and Will walked to the church, I walked to the house and took the key from the hook on the side of the house.
As is usual for such an ancient building, the key is a huge brass thing, and once I had walked along the top of the dyke and over the narrow bridge onto the island the church stands, I let Jools open up, finding the keyhole in the weather-beaten and worn door. Inside the church had been decorated with dried hops, and it looked as though the box pews has just been painted freshly in white. I snapped it from all angles, but we may return with a tripod due to the very low light inside.
We locked up and made our way back to the car, dropping the key back off before turning round and heading back to the main road. Along to Rye and into Sussex of course, past Winchelsea and along the rolling hills. The reason I wanted to got to Hastings was to visit a pub. Nothing unusual in that, other than we had seen the General Havelock mentioned at the national tile museum a couple of years back, and said it was one of the finest tiled pubs left.
So, I found the postcode, programmed it into the sat nav and Bob’s your aunt’s live-in lover. There we were on Havelock Street and no sign of the pub. But we did see a street where seven out of eight of the shops were estate agents (realtors) and the rest seemingly nightclubs or ‘fun’ pubs. We parked in a multi-storey, and went back out into the street, and I soon saw it down the hill.
Inside it was every bit as glorious as I imagined, we sat down at a table and ended up not only ordering drinks but lunch too, all the while taking in the tiles. I grabbed a few shots as well. The Greek (lamb) burger was very good, but the beer was better!
Will had wanted to see the fishing boats, which as at many south coast ports have to be hauled up onto the beach as there is no harbour. Jools and I had already seen them so we decided to take the cliff lift to the top of East Cliff and see what was up there. We arranged to meet Will in an hour and so left him. A return fee on the lift as £2.50 each, and not bad value.
In truth there was not much at the top of the lift, just an ice cream van, a vast expanse of green grass and scrub and sensational views which on a clear day would stretch down to Beachy Head. On this day we could see St Leonards but that was about it. We walked a little, sat down, walked some more before turning round, getting an ice cream, a fine 99, and then sitting on a bench with a view of the old town below and munch our way through the ice cream.
Will was waiting below, so we headed back to the car and out of the town. As I promised that if we had time we would call in at Winchelsea on the way back to Dover, I headed down past the New Inn and found a place to park near the church. The church had a service on, so I made do with visiting Spike’s grave. We walked round the village for a while, but in truth the light was fading so we headed back through the car and left the village through the ancient town gate.
After dropping Will off, we headed back home to feed the cats and feed ourselves. Already the day was turning to dusk and there was a nip in the air. We decided to try to burn the garden rubbish in the brazier at the bottom of the garden. After a while the flames died down so we left it, but some embers mush have fallen below the decking, as next morning we found a couple of square feet of it missing, and the area round the hole badly charred. Oh dear.
Sunday.
Sunday was a day for chores. My allergies were making breathing difficult now, but I was determined to carry on regardless. After watching the two Manchester teams lose on MOTD, we went outside to prune some bushes along the drive and for me to finish creosoting the fence. That took the rest of the morning, by which time it was time to head inside to listen to City play Stoke on the radio. City outplayed Stoke pretty much the whole game, and ended up running out winning by just the one goal. But it is a win. An away win. Seven points from six games, not earth shattering, but we are now level with Manchester United!
By now my allergies were running wild, and so I gave up doing much else of the than sniffing, sneezing and gently moaning. I did manage to cook Sunday dinner, roast chicken, and Nan came up to eat with us, but talking to her was harder than ever as she still does not have a hearing aid, and everything has to be repeated, getting louder and LOUDER.
Jools took Nan home at eight and I took more drugs and whisky. Anything for sleep.
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