Wednesday 28th October 2015

Tuesday

Beer Festival day

It is that time of the year when I take my sorry ass back up to Norfolk for some beer drinking. And I thought I deserved it this year, but as ever as the day approached I wished for a few quiet days instead, but I knew as well as beer, there would be visiting friends and visiting churches too. But with a train at nine, I have more than enough time to faff around, pack and drink too much coffee. As you do.

So, at half eight Jools takes me to Dover Priory, I have my ticket and a first class reservation, which seeing as most trains from Dover only have the one standard class is pretty pointless. However, I am told I have to travel on my booked train, which does have first class to Ashford, but then change onto a very busy service, the first off peak one, to Stratford.

So, I get on the front carriage, walk to the front compartment, and here I am swanking it about in first class. Only the seat is about the most uncomfortable one I have been in on a train, as the support for the tiny table is digging in my left knee. And you pay extra for this shit? But I am going to see through the pain, I paid for this luxury! We rattle along through Folkestone, stopping at both stations there, then again at Sandling and Westenhanger, where no one gets on. Or anyone I can see anyway.

At Ashford it is the usual scramble as hundreds of people are trying to get on the first cheap train of the day, but at least a second set of six carriages are put on so there seems to be seating for all. But with the second half arriving 5 minutes late, then getting delayed on the run into London, I begin to stress that I would miss my connecting train. By the time we arrive in Stratford, I have 20 minutes, or less even, to get to the regional station, which is either a one stop ride on the DLR, but could mean an eight minute wait for a train, or rush through the shopping centre.

I am confronted by a horde of dimwitted twerks who either dawdle in front of me, or are writing texts as they walk and not looking where they are going. I think of headbutting one woman who walks right into me and hardly notices the fact. I make my way over the wide footbridge, go through the barriers and am in the station. Along the busy passageway under the platforms to platform 10A, and I had made it with four minutes to spare.

The train glides in. Or rattles in, the class 82 driving trailer and nine mk3 carriages with the class 91 loco on the back. And I have a reserved seat in first class, near the back. I should not have worried as there are loads of seats in first, so slump into single seat with a table and a fine window seat on the right hand side of the train.

It is a 90 minute trip up the main line, with stops at Chelmsford, Colchester, Mannintree, Ipswich, Stowmarket and Diss before arriving in Norwich at the turn of 1957. I jest, but Norwich is a different place, as the end of a long bad road from London, and at the end of a very under-invested line from Liverpool Street. The landscape changes slowly as the train passes through Essex into Suffolk and just before Diss into Norfolk. Trees seem to be changing colour all at the same time, and as the sun breaks through, the trees seem to burst into flame. Being a first class passenger, I get free coffee and biscuits, which is nice.

We roll into Norwich, just about on time, which is rare on this line I guess. I am in no hurry, so let the others in the carriage get off before me. I can hear the growl of a Type 3 in the platform next to my train, and I plan to get to the concourse to snap it, I had toyed with the idea of climbing back on the train to snap it through the window of the train. I thought better of it, but I am then disappointed aand yet thrilled at the noise as the 37 pulled away from the buffers and the engines echoing off the tranished. By the time I get to the concourse, all there is left is a haze of blue smoke. Darn, missed them.

I have my cameras in the rucksack and a small bag with a change of clothing and other bits and pieces. I go to my hotel just down from the station, hoping to drop the small bag off, but there is no one in. So, I would have to take the bag with me. Now, I had decided to go to the festival on the 2nd day rather than the first, so I could make the last two hours of the afternoon session. So I walk up Prince of Wales Road then up through Tombland to St Andrew's Hall. And for a change, there is no queue.

I walk up to the entrance, flash my CAMRA membership card, get in, buy some tokens and a glass, then head for the first stillage to decide on my first drink: Moulton's Mild. It is deep dark brown and has a fine nutty flavour. Perfect. However, with my two bags and the crowds, it is hard to get round easily. So I limit myself to a few visits, a couple of porters, and a couple of over-hopped beers, and then they call time at half two. Not bad, eithet two or two and a half pints, and a fine hand made pork pie to take the edge of my hunger. Lovely.

I walk back up the hill to the market place, and decide I need a pasty. I remember there is a pasty place along Gentleman's Walk, and indeed there is, and they have a fresh batch just out of the oven, along with a gingerbread latte it is splendid, and looking at the people walking by. The well dressed teens and the yokel in cords held up with knotted string. Normal for Norfolk.

I walk back down Prince of Wales Road then along Riverside to the hotel. I check in and am shown to my room. The heating is on full and the window closed. It is like a sauna. Once alone, I turn the radiators off and open the windows wide and lay on the bed to cool down. I fall asleep.

I wake up with my mobile ringing. I struggle to remember how to answer it. I make plans for tomorrow, then get ready for the evening ahead. I think a walk past some of Norwich's finest buildings. Up Riverside is PUll's Ferry: lit up well, an building with a vault over a landing stage, when this was one of the few ways over the river, but now a private house by fine symbol of Norwich. Along is the ancient Bishop's Bridge, also lit up and ripe for snapping.

I cross the bridge heading to the cathedral and the close, which I hope will be open. Indeed the gate at the start of the footpath is open, so I walk through and have the whole close just about to myself. I take shots, hoping they will come out.

Out through the impressive gate then down to the start of Elm Hill, and ancient cobbled streets lines with half timbered houses and shops. It is as glorious as it sounds.

Pastht e raucus noise coming out of St Andrews Hall where the evening session of the festival was in full swing. But I go past it, walk up across the main road, up more narrow cobbles lanes to Pottergate where the old Inn there, now called The Birdcage was having a beer festival too, and opposite the chippy was doing posh food. However, I have just battered sausage and chips, then go into the pub for a pint of golden ale. I had bought a book at the football club in the afternoon, so I spend half an hour sipping the beer and reading, raising my eyes to people watch as people come and go. Its cheap entertainment.

With the one pint, I decide I have had enough, and if I go back to the hotel I can listen to the football on the radio. So, back along near-deserted streets and back down the hill to the river where the hotel was. City were playing Everton in the League cup, and ended up losing on penalties, shich is always the way. But an improved performance by all accounts. However, Arsenal lost to Sheffield Wednesday, 3-0, which made me chuckle at the faces old whiner would be pulling.