Sunday 29th November 2015

Saturday

I suppose I should say why we were up in Lincoln for the weekend. Well, as you know, I used to be in the Air Frce, and my trade, Armourers, have a get together in the city at the end of November nearest our patron saint's, St Barbara, day. And that fell on this weekend. And like every year, the thought of attending was probably going to be better than the actual experience, but hey, we were there now, and so I was going to make the best of it, what with a cathedral and parish churches to visit.

It will come as no surprise to hear that the thought of a day of churches and pissed up armourers did not thrill Jools, so she had decided to take the train to Harrogate for a craft fair. And this involved catching a train at seven, which in turn meant setting the alarm so she could be out of the guesthouse by half six for the drive down to the station. She did get out in time, which meant I had an hour in bed to laze away before breakfast at eight and then the rigours of the day.

At a quarter to eight, I could smell fresh bread baking, sneaking under the door of the room, which made me even hungrier. Bang on the dot of eight, I was down the stairs into the breakfast room where a bowl of fruit was waiting and in a while a bowl of fresh bread and most importantly, a pot of coffee was also brought out. Let breakfast begin.

I was out the door at nine, walking towards the roundabout, then turning south towards the cathedral. Somehow the clouds had cleared and the sun had risen into a clear blue sky, but already couds were forming, and in half an hour the sky would be covered. But for a few minutes, there was the promise of a fine day. I re-traced my steps of the previous night, past the pub, the Victorian church, the University buildings to Bailgate, at which point to ancient city begins. All the shops along here were busy getting ready for the day ahead, putting out wares or signs and delivery trucks unloading stock. Needless to say, I ambled on by, snapping as I went.

I had checked the cathedral site before I left home, and knew it had been open since seven, so it was there I went to first, hoping to get my shots before the cathedral became too crowded. Which turned out to be a good decision, as indeed there were very few people about, so I zoomed round, snapping away, getting what I hope will be good shots. Only downside was that the libraries, chapterhouse and roof tours were later in the day, which I would miss, but I can always go back.

The shots done, and the cathedral filling up with the sound of ever-increasing numbers of visitors, I leave, and find I have over two hours before the reunion was due to start. I walk back down Steep Hill, still only a few people about, well at the older end of it, but down the bottom where all the modern shops are, it was already crowded. I suppose I should say that Steep Hill so gets its name because it is a steep hill. In a county most famous for being so flat, that in Lincoln the ancient part of the city is built on a hill overlooking the river below, and the main road from the cathedral to the river was this Roman Road, now cobbled and as steep at 1:7 in places.

Anyway, I had seen an interesting church down by the railway station, so it was there I was heading for. St Mary-le-Wigford is Lincoln's oldest church, apparently, but is right beside the busy level crossing and a major road junction. It is easy to miss and feels fairly down at heel. But it is open, and inside the MU is having a Christmas bazaar, so I buy a pack of Christmas cards, before I go round taking my shots.

I wander around, looking at parts of the city I had not seen before: the market, the canal through the centre before I thought maybe I should grab something to eat before the drinking began. On the way to investigate one more church, I bump into an old friend Daz, who is also here for the beers, but has had some health issues and will not be drinking much. I find a small cafe opposite St Swithin's, I have a large coffee and a couple of small sausage rolls.

After more aimless wandering, I look at my watch and see it is quarter to twelve: showtime. The reunion was being held at an Austalian themed bar, Walkabout, not too bad, but then they have such a small choice of decent beers, and the only half decent one was off. Bloody Doom Bar it was then! But I was not really in the mood for drinking, and this turned out to be the only beer I had. I spoke to Daz at length, but he left at one, which must have planted a seed in my head. There must have been a couple of hundred already in the function room, but I knew only a couple by name, and maybe a few others whose face I recognised. I had a coke, then another one with a rum in it. I spoke to some people, some who were real joy to meet, others not so. My old mate from school and the sea survey days, Dick, arrived, so hugged and swapped greetings.

Already the beers were flowing, and I was feeling uncomfortable. I felt no longer part of this. Its hard to explain, but I did not feel the need to spend all afternoon looking at the bottom of a beer glass. After some more chats with friends, I decided to bail out. I said farewell to one person I had wanted to see, a colleague from Colt, then I was down the stairs and out.

The street outside was crowded, but I felt free. I guess what it comes down to, after being out of the mob ten years, I am not the person I used to be, nor feel the need to do the stuff I used to with people I mostly did not know. I thought this was the case, but now I know it for sure. I have a life with somebody I am very happy with, contended in fact, we have our house, the cats and I even have a job which gets me out and about, exercising the grey matter.

One last check of my watch reveals it to be quarter to two: I could walk back to the guesthouse, via another church, and be back inside ready to listen to the football on the radio. I set sail up Steep Hill, and was off.

I called in at St Mary Magdalene church, just outside the Cathedral Close, I had been tipped off that it would be open by the owner of the guesthouse, and after huffing and puffing up Steep Hill, it was good to catch my breath inside where a Christmas wreath festival was under way, but I could see enough of the fabric of the church to make the visit worthwhole. As was the long chat I had to one of the wardens about the fine churches, including this one, in the city.

That done I walked back to the guesthouse, my legs aching as I climbed the stairs, just in time for the football to start at three. I make a pot of tea and make to ginger nuts disappear. The football is good, but my eyes get heavy, so climb into bed to keep warm, and that is where Jools found me when she returned.

We listen to the football, or I do. We have a coffee, then at six we walk out, just as the rain had stopped. We had a table booked at Ribs and Bibs at eight, but had an hour or so in which to find a nice pub for a quiet drink. We find one in Bailgate, and I have a fine pint of Timothy Taylor, followed by a pint of Ghost Ship. Quickly, we walk down Steep Hill to the restaurant, where our table is just ready, and not having eaten since about eleven, my eyes took over and I ordered something galled the vitamin P platter: baby back ribs, pulled pork, a smoked frank and crackling. I also order a portion of Boston Beans, which has lots more pulled pork in it.

By the end I was porked out. Walking back up Steep Hill was out, so we able back down Steep Hill towards the station, past piles of pissed up armourers outside Walkabout, and flag one down to whisk us back to the guesthouse and our bed.