(2nd day of holiday)
First job of the day, sadly, is to take Jools to work, as she does not have enough holiday with the temporary job to be able to take more than a couple of days. I then drop her off at the factory and head up to Tesco mising with the rush hour traffic. Up through Buckland and up to the supermarket. I whizz round getting supplies to last the weekend and maybe beyond. I have to get back, but the shopping away before the guys turn up to finish the windows. I have coffee and croissants and am just checking on my cameras to make sure they are charged and memory cards fitted. It is possible to go out without them. Apparently.
As the boys are unloading their gear, I drive out, en route for Folkestone and the bamboo installation on the harbour branch, not because I like the piece or even bamboo, but it will offer fine views of the abandoned line. At least with the kids back at school, the roads are fairly clear and there are plenty of parking spaces. I get a spot down by the harbour, cross Tram Road to the steps leading up to the line. Indeed, the views are splendid, but really so is the installation. As to whether it is art is another matter. What is art anyway?
I try to find some other pieces, I was told there is one behind the Quarterhouse, but I find some sort of playground instead. Walking back down Tontine Street, I see a nice looking independent coffee shop, which also hapepned to be vegan. I have a coffee and a vegan butterfly bun. The coffee is good, the bun less so, more like foam padding around a TV or something. But hey, it did taste of banana which was just as well as it was a banana bun. Or cupcake they said. It was a bun.
Honest.
I drive up towards Wingham and onto Ramsgate, as Pugin's house is open for the weekend, and as the church was stunning, what would his house be like? I park up along the wide road leading away from the town centre and take the short walk back to The Grange, his house. You enter the house through the longest and most wonderful of porches. I take shots and one comes out rather well.
Once inside the entrance hall, you are confronted by a effigy of the Madonna and child, which is an odd thing. But the rest of the ground floor of the house is stunning, all walls covered by bespoke wonderful wallpaper featuring his family crest and motto. On the first floor there are the family bedrooms, the master bedroom, even more oddly has a statue of the Virgin Mary looking over the marital bed. Very odd, or it seemed to me. Anyway: on the next floor there was a single bedroom, for his apprentice, and above that an open space at the top of the tower giving wonderful views over The Grange, the church next door and the town beyond. A wonderful place, but not feeling much like home to me.
Getting back in the car, I head to Fordwich where I wanted to go round the town hall, but also to try out one of pubs in the village. Sorry, town.
When does a village become a town? When is it big enough to be a town? I ask this because driving into the town on the sign there is the addage that this is Britain's smallest town. I was sure that the interwebs would have something to say about that claim. And indeed I was right, other towns do have something to say about that, but, Fordwich is the town with the smallest area. I think that is it. Because these things are important. Very important.
Thing about Fordwich is, that it is a medieval town, with its street plan unchanged for hundreds of years. What this means is that modern traffic does not mix well with the narrow streets, and parking is at a premium. However, I do find one, and head to the George and Dragon, I think it was. I order a pint and a crayfish and chilli mango bagel. As you do. You see the things I put up with when I'm on my holibobs. The beer is excellent, as is the bagel. I spend the time eating, drinking and people watching. The other diners are women who lunch, sipping chardonay, or whatever white wine is popular.
I drink up and walk over to the town hall, the dungeon is just being unlocked. Looks like I'm just in time. You reach the chambers by climbing up the steep steps, and inside it is an ancient court, complete with ducking stoll and a drying room for those women who did not drown when tried for being a witch. Nice. We are showed around by a local guide, and it is all very interesting. I get my shots and then head home, hoping to beat what counts as rush hour in east Kent.
The boys were just packing up, all windows have now been done, and very nice the house is looking too. I offer them beer, which they accept and sup the precious amber liquid right down. We shake hands and they are free, free to drink other peoples beers and tea next week. I pick up Jools, and once back home we cook pan fried aubergine to go with the pasta salad I had also made that morning, washed down with a cheap bottle of red. Before retiring to the patio to watch the sun set, stars come out and then the moon rise. It was chilly, showing the year is really getting on now. It is dark by eight, and feels like autumn.
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