Anniversary of JFK's assassination (also 51 years ago)
But more of that stuff next time, because before that, it was yesterday.
Does that make sense?
Does it matter?
Anyway. Yesterday.
Saturday.
On what was supposed to be the better day of the weekend, we had chores to run down town, then we could do whatever we liked. I cooked bacon butties for breakfast, which soon filled the house with a glorious sweet smell. I mean really, really wonderful smell. Unless you're a vegetarian of course. Once we washed up, got ready, we headed into town, me to get my new reading glasses, and Jools to get some shopping from M&S that she had ordered online. That done, what to do?
Well, Ian had decided that we should visit some churches. Just for a change you might think. Well, a Flickr contact had commented on a couple of my early, I mean first, Kent churches shots. And I realised that how I look at a church now is different, I see things I would have missed back then. And it turned out one of the churches, Ruckinge, I had failed to post any interior shots at all. So, I posted the ones I had on the hard drive, but clearly a return was needed. And then there was Postling, I looked at those and was unhappy at how poor an incomplete they were. And then there was Brookland....
You get the picture? So, a plan had hatched: Postling, Ruckinge and Brookland with a pub lunch wherever we would be at midday. Perfect.
We drive from Dover, up the A20, up over the cliffs and down into Folkestone, turning off on the A20 after our original road had turned into a mortorway. And then up the bottom of the Elham Valley, turning off before we reached Lyminge, doubling back on ourselves to Postling Postling is another, yet another, picture postcard village, set about a mile north of the Channel tunnel, but a million miles away, if you know what I mean. The village is situated round a crossroads, and snaking down a single street back down towards Folkestone. The church is right on the crossroads, but a an antique signpost, point the (accurate) distances to nearby villages and hamlets.
From the car I see that the lights are on in the church, so I grab my cameras and make my way to the door before whoever is inside changes their mind and locks it up again. From outside I hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner, and pushing open the door I see two warden cleaning the church. I say hello and I am greeted warmly. The church is wonderful of course, with remains of wall paintings just about visible in a couple of places. I take my shots inbetween talking to the wardens, meeting such wonderful people is more than part of the pleasure, it shows that these are living churches and part of their communities.
Indeed, as out next port of call, Ruckinge, is where I first noticed the church being all things to the village, not just a church, but a place for coffee mornings too, and more besides. We drive back down the valley, over the motorway and down the A20, turning off to pass through Lympne, pronounced Lym of course. Or so I think. The taking the road along the edge of the down onto the Romney Marsh. Ruckinge is right on the edge of th marsh, and the church stands looking forlorn, the tower appears it it might fall down. But looks can be decieving. Inside it has been renovated since my last visit, and is looking splendid. There is another warden hard at work here too, preparing the church to the 50th anniversary of the local guide troupe being held on Sunday. The church is decorated with photos and momentos from the last 50 years. The church is cold, but you can feel the warmth of the village inside.
I am tempted to say for lunch in the local pub, which has just reopened this year, but it is not yet midday, and I had it in mind to try the other pub in Brookland, next to the church. Which is what we do. Setting off out of the village, and then up the main road to Brenzett and onto Brookland.
St Augustine is a wholly remarkable church. If it were just the unique 'candle snuffer' belltower, that would be fine. But it also has a unique porch, and inside reveals it to be of, at least to me, unusual design, with walls and columns which seems about to fall down. This is not an illusion, the soft marsh has spread the foundations, meaning supporting spars and butresses have had to be installed. But still it is a wonderful church, and one I had really only glanced over before. I take many shots, happy with the result, we go outside to see smoke rising from the chimney of the pub. Shall we go in I ask, pointlessly, as we were going anyway.
Inside the smoke from the large open fire was having trouble making it up the chimney, and it was hard to see across the bar. But it clears, we order drinks and ploughmans, and setlte down to people watch, for me a large family of toffs at the next table trying to get their children to behave. The meal is small enough to be a snack, which is good as we have sausages for dinner back home.
We take the coast road back home, to Hythe and then to Folkestone. Back in time to listen to the afternoon games on the radio, time enough to get angry as City throw away the lead twice to draw 3-3 with Brighton. It is turning into a hard season after all. We then watch New Zealand play Wales at egg chasing, and a great game it is, with Wales looking like running out surprise winners, until the All Blacks score three tries in the last ten minutes and it seems oh so easy. A great game though.
Pork and ginger sausages, baked beans and sauteed pototoes. Lovely. A perfect dinner.
We round the day off by watching QI, and that seems to be it. Another day crossed off.
No comments:
Post a Comment