Friday 18th March 2016

I have never subscribed the the nonsense that is St Patrick's Day. I am part Irish, owing to my Mother's heritage and distant relationship to the Beamish Brewers back in the old country. It has never occurred to me that this is anything else than part of who I am, I don't consider any part, no matter how small, to be slightly Irish. So, come March 17th each year, when the excuse to dress up and drink colured beer never appealed to me. I did drink green beer once, however. Back in the day, in Vegas I visited the Star Trek Experience at the Hilton, and seeing they sold Warsteiner (Wobbly), I stayed to sink a few. Only they called it Romulan Ale, coloured it green. Some 12 hours later, I was shocked to see that the colouring had turned my poo green. I thought I was seriously ill. Or turning into a cow. However, I remembered the green beer. So, let this be a warning to all of you.

Thursday

As you know, and if you didn't you might have realised after yesterday's post, that I am undertaking a project to photograph Kentish churches. I am up to over 240, that's an estimate, but it's going quite well. And whilst I have snapped many of the churches in East Kent now, there are a couple that are buggers to get into. Preston for one, and the former Betteshanger parish church, now the Northbourne School Chapel being another. So, a couple of weeks ago, I mailed the school and arranged a day and time when they would let me have the key. And yesterday was the day.

So, I lazed around until half nine, doing the usual Thursday chores; putting the bins out, cleaning up, feeding the birds, having breakfast. At nine fifteen, I grab all my camera gear, including the 80s monster tripod, loaded them into the car and drove along the Sandwich road to Northbourne.

The school must be a former country house, very grand with splendid grounds, in front of the main building was light woodland and under the trees and veritable carpet of daffodils waving in the breeze and glowing in the spring sunshine. The secretary came out to meet me: can I help you? Checking my notes, I explain that I had been speaking with Ms Jones and.... I got no further as she said, is it that time already? I'll get the keys for you. I follow her into the office, show her my driving licence, she is happy with who am I am that I am just a photographer. I am trusted with the keys, pointed the way to go, and left to it.

I get te bag, another camera and tripod out of the car and walk along the edge of the wood and daffodils to a set of ornamental steps leading down to the church, the tower of which I can just see above the trees surrounding it, lost in the haze of a misty spring morning. But the sunshine was warm, and it felt good to be alive, and in my sweaty hands, I had the key to the church.

At the porch I put the key in the lock, turned it and the modern lock just clicked. I turned the handle and pushed; the door swung open. It was almost as dark as night inside, I hoped there would be light switches otherwise it would be a short visit. I found the bank of switches, flicked them all down, and an interior of Victorian delights was revealed. I rarely read up on a church before I visit, but I knew this to be a largly Victorian building, with only a few memorials from the long-demolished Norman one, but the fine detail of the carving and other work took me by surprise.

I took shots handheld with the 6D, then using the tripod took the wide angle shots. I was there just over half an hour, and I think I had snapped everything.

I switched the lights off, and locked the door. Making my way back up the slope to the steps and the main part of the school. Mission accomplished!

I handed the key back, loaded the camera gear back in the car, then pondered what to do next. There was a chance I could meet a friend at Kingsdown at half eleven, so I had an hour to kill. I had some stuff to get from Tescos, some bird food from the pet food shop, so that is where I went. With the scanner it was a simple task in going round to buy some rolls and ingredients for some handmade bread. I paid and left, was loading the car in about ten minutes.

I make my way along the Deal road, with some Landrover behind me, tailgating all the way, wanting me either to go faster or overtake, but I have been enough cars either in hedges or on the rooves in the fields beyond to know better than that. After fighting my way down Kingsdown High Street, or whatever its called, I park opposite the public toilet block on the way to the golf course, the orchid site being just the other side of the hedge.

Due to the prolonged chilly period, the rosettes had not advanced that much since my last visit, one maybe had a spike forming. Not sure. My friend, Mark, was not about, I then became away of the sound of a PTO, and saw a builder's Mercaht lorry near to where I had safely parked. Instead of waiting, the lorry had just parked next to my car and was unloading whilst blocking the road so no one could get by.

I throw my gear in the back and reverse out, with a driver inches from my bumper as I tried to make way. Some patience needed, perchance. Anyway, the road was now passable.

I drove a couple of hundred metres to repack my gear safely, realising i was at the bottom of the road leading to Kingsdown Church. A different Kingsdown church, and John said this one was always open. So, I take the cameras back out and walk up the slope then through the churchyard.

A playgroup had just ended, but I was made welcome, and indeed had a great chat with the young lady running the group, and were both entertained by her daughter, demanding attention. Another fine Victorian church, with much to recommend it to anyone passing.

I go back home for lunch, and in the process of unloading the stuff from the car, I realise I am feeling quite crappy. I worry about sucj stuff all the time, sometimes worry that when I feel tired its just like before Dad died and he slowed down and I would die of a massive heart attack soon.

The sun is shining still outside, a cool breeze had built, but should be great weather for walking. I ache all over, and really don't feel like it, and once out can feel each step as it sends bolts of pain up my spine. I make it across the fields, past the pig's copse, with no pigs in it, still, and halfway down the dip. I give in, turn round and struggle up the slope and back home.

Inside I get congested, so take allergy medicine, congestion medicine, and make a tea. Nothing works, I am bunged up and in a bad mood. I try sitting on the sofa, at the table and laying on the bed and feel shit in all three.

Jools comes home at half five, I make fishcake sandwiches; yes you read that right. I lave them with sweet chili sauce and it is a triumph.

I spend the evening feeling sorry for myself, listening to the football, trying to clear my sinuses, and failing.