The weekend.
Again.
The BBC promised us that the sun would shine and so the day would be lit by golden sunshine. But not at dawn, as the sky was shrouded in cloud.
We went about the business of whiling away the morning. We had an early cup of coffee. A later cup of coffee with warm croissants. All was well. Jools went to clean her teeth, she then called out, "someone is filling a balloon in the field at the back". Eh? She repeated that. Better come up here she added.
I went upstairs, and indeed, as we looked the envelope of a hot air balloon was being filled up. It also looked like another two balloons were being prepped. We ran round getting dressed, grabbing our boots and cameras, and went along the road, then down the footpath. As the field came into view, the first balloon almost fully inflated, rose from the ground, only the tether line holding it down. The other two were filling with air, and the morning was broken by the roar of gas burners.
All exciting stuff. Several other people from the village came to watch, as the first balloon was let rise into the air, quickly gaining altitude and drifting towards the coast. The remaining two balloons filled up, rose from the ground, equipment was loaded, people scrambled on board, and as the balloon was warmed up more and more, more lift was created, until one then the other were let loose, and quickly rose into the sky. We all stood watching as the three balloons rose up and then made their way to the coast and on to France. We found out later all three landed safely in France some two and a half hours later.
We had to rush round, changing, grabbing our stuff, as we had a date with a train. As is always the case, isn't it?
But first we had to go into town to run a couple of chores before we had to rush to Wye to be at the station to see the train. All along Townwall Street, dozens of trucks were still waiting to get into the port. Apart from that the queues from Friday had died down. On the motorway we could see yet more trucks still waiting to get into the tunnel, but on our side, all was clear so we zoomed on. Up Stone Street, but then turning off to drive through Stowting, along wonderful narrow, twisty turny lanes, all overhung with trees, which let through the golden sunshine. It was a wonderful day to be out and about.
Through Stowting and onto Wye, arriving 45 minutes before showtime. I sat in the car listening to Fighting Talk, before walking to the station. I was met by another photographer who informed me the tour was running 173 minutes late! And there was doubt if it would even reach Kent.
What to do?
Well, head to a pub, have a pint, and a nice meal. A short drive through the village was The New Flying Horse, it was almost empty, so we took a table and both ordered fish and chips. And when it came the fish was as white a fresh driven snow, and cooked as perfect as it can be. All the better to be washed down by a pint of Christmas Ale from SN.
We went back to the station only for me to see that the sun would now be shining right down the tracks, making photography near impossible, so I hoped there would just be time to rush to Chartham to snap it there, if it was coming. I knew the back roads, and I suppose it took 15 minutes to reach Chartham, where there was half a dozen photographers on the footbridge already. I jumped out the car, grabbed a camera whilst Jools parked the car, and asked one of the guys when it was due: 10 minutes.
So, a short wait, the gates closed and we heard the two tone horn of the Western away in the distance. We raised our camera and the shutter went click, click, click and so on, as the train came into view and rushed by. All over in about ten seconds. Gotcha.
I walked back to the car, then we drove home, back along the country lanes we know so well to Bridge, then along the A2 to home. A warming cup of coffee and listening to the football on the radio, the heating cranked up to molten lava, and all was well. But should I go to see the Western at Dover? I found myself grabbing my camera at twenty past four, in a good mood at City had scored three goals in the first three minutes of the second half against ten man Huddersfield. All was well.
I had tried to get accurate timings for the return run, but it still said it was on time, so I had to be ready at ten to five. Thinking I would only be outside for ten minutes, I did not take a jumper. BIG mistake. I parked next to the old Harbour Station, took my place on the bridge, met up with a guy from the Dover Rail group on Faceache, and we chatted. Showtime came and went. It was clear the rumour that it would be runing an hour late was true after all. As the cold chilled me to the bone, the minutes crawled by, until at quarter to six, a single light showed at the portal of the Harbour Tunnel,a nd round came the tour. I tried to get shots, but shooting a moving loco in the dark was not easy, but the results were acceptable. As it accelerated towards Shakespeare Tunnel, the wonderful growl of the two engines could be heard, that is what we had come to see. Or hear.
Back in the car, I found out that City had run in two more goals to win 5-0. Perfect.
Back home and I head for a shower to try to warm my bones up, which works. We have cold breaded aubergine and pasta salad for dinner, quick and easy. Molly is back to her lovable contrary self, the wound on her rump already closing up. All really is well. Except having to go away again tomorrow. Such is the way.
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