Monday 10th August 2015

Lowestoft is my hometown. Like many towns it has had the shit kicked out of it over the last 30 years. As I remember how it used to be with almost full employment, shipyards, canning factories, shoe factories, TV factory, Birds Eye, a full fish harbor and so on. Now all of it, ALL of it has gone. There are shops, oh and a very much smaller Birds Eye, quite where folks earn enough money to pay the mortgage is beyond me. It seems to me to be an empty shell, trying very hard to do something, anything to pull through. But the high street has shops all with sales on, or closed down. How can any high street compete against the interwebs? I don’t know.

It still has Oulton Broad, Pleasurewood Hills and the fine beaches, or those that have not been swept away.

Saturday

I have a full day of free time to fill. And like most people you don’t know what you have until you move away: and so I have a list of churches and other places to visit. What I need is breakfast. And being in a B&B, breakfast was sorted. Two sausages, two rashers, fried egg, fried bread and mushrooms. Lovely. And a pot of fresh coffee. Not healthy, but fills me up so I am ready for the day ahead.

I grab my camera gear, go to the car. Now, before the fun stuff, I have to do the chores. However, I know an old friend of mine, now in his 70s is still cutting hair; so would his shop be open at eight? IN a word, no. But with the cemetery so close, I decide to go to visit the family graves; Dad, Grandad, two grandmothers and great grandfather and mother. Almost the full set.

They are in a right state: Mum has not been for over a year I guess, but then neither have I. The writing is coming off the gravestones, and I feel ashamed. Next time I will bring flowers. And clean them up. Until then, I say a few quiet words and am shocked at the passing of so many years. Dad was only seven years older than I am now when he passed. And that is certainly food for thought…..

I go back to Stuart’s shop: he is opening up, so I wait in line and get a trim. Not as short as I would like, but looks good enough for another week of meetings coming up! He is good, we talk football and families, as you do. Like visiting an old friend, which is what it was, really.

And finally, a drive to see Mum: who knows I am coming but just not when. I walk in the house, all the windows are closed, and it seems like she has been chain smoking for hours, the air is so thick. She knows this, and I remind her of all the broken promises five years earlier after she had had her heart attack. All broken. She is embarrassed and moves the conversation on. As usual.

After 45 minutes, we run out of stuff to say; her housekeeper arrives and she warns me if I do not leave then the floor will be mopped in the kitchen and I will be marooned. So, I take that as my queue to leave. I am glad to be leaving, and will not have to go through this charade until Christmas.

I climb back in the car and motor off into the countryside to a fine little church I had been reading about just the day before. Fritton is a place I used to visit a lot, mainly to the pub, the Decoy that used to do great food and we always received a fine welcome. But on the other side of the road, down a narrow lane there is a wonderful example of the local specialty, a round-towered church.

It was open, which would be the case with every church I was to visit during the day. It has the most wonderful arched Norman chancel, which still has it’s medieval wall paintings intact. This alone would have been worth the trip up to Norfolk from Kent, but I hoped to see many more fine things through the day.

One of the things being online has given me, is an appreciation of the wonders that surrounded me as I was growing up, but was ignorant of. Such a shame then that I only get to see bits and pieces when we go back to visit my Mother, of like this weekend, when I returned home for a school reunion.

Fritton is a small village on the A143 between Yarmouth and Beccles, and we used to go as we liked the local pub, The Decoy. It was run by an ex-RAF dentist, Eric. Nice bloke, hope he and his wife are still OK.

Looking through my friend's website on Suffolk churches last week, I came across the entry for Fritton, and I was intrigued: so, the first stop out of Lowestoft was Fritton.

Set down a quiet country lane, a simple round-towered church, but then like so many churches, the exterior does not hint at the delights and wonders inside.

I thought the round chancel similar to Wissington, but inside the chancel is revealed as Norman and many-arched.

Prior to my visit at the beginning of the month, and being local, the one think I knew about St Michael was that its belltower was detached from the church.

What I was not really prepared for was how big the church was, even for a market town on a county border.

I used to travel from Lowestoft to Bungay every day for over 5 years; sometimes by car, but for the last three years by coach.

The coach used to pick up at various places, and once we had left Beccles we used to pick up at the bottom of the hill from the short stretch of dual carriageway and again at the main part of the village, where the church was.

I used to think, even back in the 80s, that Barsham was a fine location for a church: down a private lane where where the vicarage and church are. I thought this really was private, and so never did go for a look.

And so on my only full day in the area, Barsham was once church I really did want to visit, and so taking the now much quieter road out of Beccles and slowing down for the turn to the church.

In the 25 years since I last traveled the road to work, the trees have grown even larger, to the extent the church is all but invisible from the road now, well in summer for sure.

The church is still hidden as I approached, hidden behind a line of trees, but the round tower could be seen over the top of the lych gate.

Inside, there was bunting, a Nelson connection, and two of the wardens were doing the weekly cleaning, and were very chatty, but polite enough to let me get on with my snapping.

I have been driving along the A143, the sometimes less-busy road, from Burt St Edmunds to Yarmouth, for as long as I have had a licence.

I first travelled it in the mid-80s, when in an act of bravery, I agreed to drive to the NEC to visit the Motor Show.

Back then it joined onto what was still the A45, now the A14, and I seem to remember the drive to Brum took about six hours. Quite an adventure for a new driver.

I mention this as I have been driving past St Mary's since then, and even in the dark days before I appreciated a good church, the tower of St Mary was a fine sight to see. Even more now as I can admire the skill that went into its flintwork.

However, I always thought that this was the church for Wortwell, which is the neighbouring village, but as I found when I did eventually visit, it is a separate village.

Close up, the tower is even more magnificent. And unlike Simon, I found it unlocked and with a welcome sign outside. I parked in the drive opposite, and was quickly across the road and into the churchyard.

Bungay has once again returned to being a quiet market town, with little traffic to disturb the peace.

This was not always the case, as the main Halesworth to Norwich Road used to pass along past the churches, thundering by the people trying to walk on the narrow pavements. All the traffic is gone, and what little traffic does us the street is only one way, heading north.

I know Bungay very well, I used to travel through it every day, and may of my work colleagues from the chicken factory used to live here, and sometimes I used to come back over to socialise and have a beer or two.

It was in Bungay I was offered some blue pills that I was assured I would enjoy very much, this was the one and only time I was ever offered drugs. I declined. Much preferring ale.

After twenty five years since I left the chicken factory and my life moved on, now that I return I see few people I know. None in fact. But then we have all changed now.

Along one side of St Mary's Street there are three churches, all side by side. Much to my disappointment, I did not enter the Catholic one, I should have done, Simon rates it very highly, but I am unsure about entering and photographing inside a Catholic church.

I did visit the other two however, and both I enjoyed very much, as if the for the coolness inside as much for the churches themselves. It was a mighty hot summer day, and really, I should have found a riverside pub somewhere and supped beer all afternoon.

Imagine a town centre, which on one side of the main road has the normal mix of shops and pubs, but on the other side has three fine churches?

Well, that is Bungay, and as well as the churches there is also the Buttercross, marking the ancient centre of the town.

In fairness, Holy Trinity isn't really on the main road, but completes a large area of peace and quiet, in what is now a very gentle market town as traffic no longer thunders through it, or did not when I visited.

Bungay is also home to one Harry Potter. Yes, that one, the wizzard. Well, the books were produced here, or at least the hardback ones were, as Clay's the printers seem to have possession of half the town for their printing works.

Bungay sits on the southern bank of the River Waveney, and therefore is in Suffolk, but to me it seems Norfolk, so much nearer Norwich and Ipswich, and the proliferation of yellow and green shirts rather than blue and white ones is obvious. Saying that, City were playing home on this day, so that might explain it. Locals travelling to Carrow Road have to leave the ground sharpish at full time to get back to the bus station so to catch the last bus back home.

Such is the life for a Bungayonian, which I suspect they are not called.

And transport to Lowestoft is, if anything, even worse, I suppose you could always row along the river.

I had been to Mettingham once before. Well, other than passing through. Back in the 80s Mettingham had a fine trucker's cafe, which I seem to remember won awards, and nearby was the Tally Ho pub.

The Tally Ho are now rearooms, and the greasy spook long gone.

I had gone to Mettingham to visit the village show, many of my friends at the chicken factory lived on farms and for them it was a major event. I took my whole family in our Ford Cortina. It was a low key thing, as you would imagine, but at the same time very enjoyable.

I drove out of Bungay, back up the hill past where the old Harley Davidson shop used to be, past where another pub used to stand, that was the Watch House if I remember. That has been knocked down and more houses built. Up the hill out of Bungay and I could see the Tally Ho ahead, but just after that there was a sign saying 'church open'. I didn't know there was a church on the road.

Later, as I drove further along, I saw another church at Shipmeadow, but that I discovered later is now a private house.

Anyway, back to Mettingham. I turned round and found a place to park just off the road, not knowing if private vehicles would be allowed up the lane.

The lane was very narrow, and curved to the left about 50 yards up, thus hiding the church completely.

I walked up and found a perfect small round-towered church, once again like in Bungay with a window set in the base of the tower.

Despite its rural setting, it was very tidy inside, cool and welcoming. A church I rather liked.

I left Mettingham intending to go back to the hotel to cool down, and being the first Saturday of the football season, follow Norwich's progress. But I suppose it was seeing the open door to the now private dwelling that was Shipmeadow's church, that made me think about other churches in the area. And my mind turned to what I had always thought was a fine looking one beyond the aerodrome at Ellough.

So I went through Beccles, back over the level crossing and instead of taking the Lowestoft road, I turned up towards the airfield, and where I hoped the church would be.

After a ten minute drive, I saw across a huge field of wheat that was being harvested, the church. As I approached, there was another 'church open' sign, but nowhere to park.

Before I realised this, I was passed it, so I turned round, drove slower past the church, and still no place to park. I turned round again, and once past the church,I take a left, and I believe there to be just enough room for vehicles to pass if I left the car there.

I was then left with a very dangerous walk along the main road, diving into the hedge when a car approached, but I did reach opposite the church, and so looking both way, I cross and was safe entering the churchyard.

It was by now half two, and mighty warm, and alternating between walking to and from churches, plunging back into the car, ramping up the air con, meant that I was churched out. And then there was football. Yes, it was the first game of the season time. I drove back to the hotel with the radio burbling away, arriving at just before three. Enabling me to scramble up the stairs to my very warm room, whap the radio on, and throw myself down on the bed.

Once I cooled down, I made a brew and polished off the two small packs of biscuits. Sadly, City were soon 2-0 down before pulling one back, then the ref disallowed a great goal, and as we chased the game, Palace scored a third on the counter. 3-1 for the first game, not good, but there were some positives. I hope.

At half five, I rang for a taxi to take me into Oulton Broad so I could attend the reunion. I had promised myself I would not be there early, but I was down after the defeat and thought a walk round the park would while away an hour or so.

The taxi arrived and as we drive into Oulton Broad, we swapped news about what used to be along the route and what had closed. I have no idea where in eastern Europe the driver came from, but he was a good old boy and it was an enjoyable trip. Well worth five pounds of anyone’s money!

It was a glorious afternoon, not a breath of wind and the broad looked gorgeous. I walked from the road into the park, then taking the path at the edge of the broad round past the yacht station and onto the holiday village. After asking I was shown to the function room where others had begun to arrive.

Every few minutes more people arrived, old friends, acquaintances and even some old teachers. We began to drink and talk and talk and drink.

Thing is, if we really wanted to, we would have kept in contact, and clearly some of us were very different, but there was no bad feelings at any point. Funny to see how some people who were close friends back at school, still are. Clearly, some things do not change.

There was food, but it seems I forgot to eat, and so at about half eleven, I was tired and emotional, so I called for a taxi, bid my old friends farewell and went outside where the taxi was already waiting.

Take me home. Or at least to the hotel.

He did, I climbed up the stairs to my room, where I scattered clothes and belongs all round before falling into a deep, deep sleep.