Thursday 9th February 2017

I woke up and felt like an express train had run over me. In fact I slept so soundly I did not hear the alarm nor feel Jools get up. I did wake up when I smelled the coffee brewing. It seems me and my legs are very out of practice with a simple five mile round walk, so therefore, I will have to do more. But for a while, I just complain about how much my legs ache. And it is my thighs that are worse, just screaming with pain, asking what the heck did I think I was doing walking to Kingsdown when there are taxis available. Of course, that is the point. I must walk, or everything will seize up, and we don't want that, do we?

One other point before I get going, you will read later on something I will forever call the chip incident, and let this be a warning to us all. No matter how good a chip might look and smell, when out of the fryer, it will be hot.

Anyway, onto yesterday, and a day filled with churches, some of which I will have to hide the identity of due to being subjects of GWUK, but one I have to talk about, as it was so wonderful, I mean. Well, you will see.

Jools said she would travel to work on the train, so I could have the car for the day, but that meant her getting on the nineteen minute past six train from Martin Mill, which meant having to be out of the house by five past, which also meant having had breakfast by ten to, and finally being up in time to wake up, prepare lunch, have breakfast, shower get dressed and all that other stuff.

And as I said, I slept through it until five to six, when Jools was all busy getting clothes out of the wardrobe and heading for the shower. I'd better get up then! We are both dressed and ready to go by somewhere between five and ten past, and with it being just a two minute drive down the hill to the station, she was there in time to buy her ticket. And then I could drive home to make coffee and have breakfast, and watch the recording of last night's game, only due to it being extra time and all that, only the first half of extra time was recorded.

Oh well, I switch on the computer to see the highlights of the game, the two extra time goals anyway. And still, despite being on holiday, it feels like I am playing hooky from work. But I manage to fill in the time until the morning rush had died down before loading the car with camera equipment, and then checking my guide book, cross-referencing churches I had been to, making sure I was only going to new churches (for me). Such planning showed that I had missed out several churches close to home, or within a 45 minute drive anyway. But what I did lean through the day was that even if John had marked a place on the map in his book, did not mean it had a church, or if it did, then the church might be in another village, some miles away.

And such is the reality of the parish system, created hundreds of years ago, and where villages grew up does not mean is where the parish church was.

I get in the car and think that the worst of the traffic should be over. I was right about that at the Duke of Yorks, but further along at Whitfield, traffic was at a standstill. I tell myself not to panic, I have all day. I get through, roar past a line of trucks, and mix it with those making a last minute dash to get to Canterbury before nine. Certainly once past the Canterbury turnoff, traffic thins out to be almost non-existent.

I get to Faversham, then take a quiet road out, looking for a speck of a place which I am told, by John's book, there is a fine church. After driving down a succession of narrow, twisty and muddy lanes, I come to the village, and am through it before realising it. I find a place to turn round, go back through and count the buildings in the village on the fingers of one hand. And no church.

I program the next church in, or the next village, and check with the book that there is an actual church there to start with. There is, and the sat nav tells me it is ten minutes away. Halfway there I see the signs to another church, pointing up a lane that was called "Church Lane". Without thinking, I turn up it, thinking the church would be a few hundred yards up it. But no, the lane went on, up a down, down the other side, across a cross roads, which at least still pointed to the church, and the lane continued the other side.

I came to an ancient church, set beside a row of three cottages, the church itself is visible through a simple Lych Gate, but on either side there is no fence. As expected the door to the church is locked. But somewhere to come back to when the countryside is green and fresh, rather than the dull brown it is today. But here, best of all, is that the churchyard is carpeted with a thick layer of young snowdrops. Most are not yet open, but a few clumps in open ground are indeed open and worth snapping.

The sat nav takes me to the next church, set back from the main road, and despite having two wide tracks leading to the Lych Gate, both have "private, do not park" notices on show. I don't have much hope of this being open if I'm honest, and I am proved right. But there is a good list of keyholders, including two houses near to the church. Not the one who had places the do not park signs, but at both the keyholders, there was no answer to the ancient pull bells by the aged oaken doorways.

Next, I am taken to a church set among what were outhouses and stables and bakeries of a fine country house, but is now an exclusive housing development of four and five bedroom houses for the upwardly mobile. The church is locked, but a sign promises a keyholder nearby. Once I had worked out the map, photographed it and worked out how that applied to the dead ends and courtyards I find, there is no answer to the electronic peals of Big Ben when I press the door bell.

Oh well.

My next target was one that I had not know existed until that morning, and yet on orchid hunts up on Wye Down, you look down on Brook down below, and I'm sure I have seen the church there. But, I had not set foot or tyre tread in the village ever. So, that is where I went next. Entering the village, at every junction and turn, were signs for the village pub, offering good food. After the third set, a plan formed in my mind, go to the church, find the door locked, then go to the pub for beer and food.

I find the church, a stocky ancient looking building, with a stockier tower. To get to it, one has to cross a bridge over a spring, hence the name of the village, Brook. I try the door, and find it yielded, and once inside, I entered a long forgotten world. In 2016, St Mary was reordered, the modern (well, Victorian) was swept away, and the re-discovered wall paintings were given prominence, and the altar replaced with the ancient stone one found in the churchyard.

The effect is magical, I mean, it feels so other-worldly, that one expected some long-forgotten figures come to chant incantations. On most of the wall, paintings fromthe 14th, 16th and 17th centuries are on display, in various states of distress, but then you would be if you were 600 years old.

I take so many shots, some will come out, some won't. I will post the best here in time.

A few hundred yards up the road is the pub: the Honest MIllar. I find a parking space, but inside the place is rammed. Mainly with a part of coffin dodgers, who in fairness have as much right to have food as I do, but then the single waitress did ask if there was anything wrong. Half an hour later after correcting what was wrong, apparently, I got my drink and ordered fish and chips, which seemed to be OK as the portions were small, and so should not ruin my appetite

Those of you who may remember the beginning of this post may now understand the warning about hot chips. Yes, the food did arrive, and was so freshly cooked the batter was still crackling. I tried a chip, it was so hot it burned my mouth. So I swallowed it. And oh my word it was hot I had to pour half a pint of beer down my throat to stop it hurting. Then I waited as I felt my windpipe expanding as the burn affected me. But it stopped, and I wasn't going to let good fish and chips go to waste, even if it had nearly killed me. Oh no. I ate the lot, finished my beer and said it was good. Which it was, just bloomin hot.

I had one final church on the list, one which I must have been past, but is almost hidden from the road that passes through the village. There is a gravel track, and unfriendly do not even think of parking here signs. So I half block the road through the village and walk towards another St Mary, this time Brabourne.

In fact, it is a very similar church to Brook, just left Victorianised and covered with family monuments by the local landed gentry.

It is now two in the afternoon, and once I got my shots from here, I decide to go back home to sort dinner out and review the day's shots. Up to the old Roman Road, to Hythe then along the motorway before turning up the Alkham Valley to Dover and home, arriving home at half three.

I will have to collect Jools from the station at twenty past six, but with chorizo hash to prepare, I prepare the vegetables, boil the potstoes before setting off for Dover to collect Jools, then once home, all systems go, cooking the onion and peppers, frying the sausage then cooking the boiled potatoes until crispy.

Perfect.