Saturday 29th April 2017 (part 2)

What it did offer was great views over Elm Hill to St Andrew's Hall where the beer festival is held each autumn. I get shots, and then just over the road is my main target for the day, St Andrew.

I attend the beer festival every October, and have never found it open, maybe I am unlucky, but I really wanted to see inside the large church. It was open this time, and is a light and airy church, as it's large windows are plain glass, not stained, so let in lots of light. I again have the church to myself, no volunteers here, but I am happy enough to get shots. and then move on, sorry I really should be taking my time, but I know that come three I would be pooped and churched out.

Along St Andrews Street, and where St Benedict's Street begins, there used to be five churches in a row, now there are four, and one is ruined. None of the existing ones are used as churches, one is an alternative art gallery, one is redundant, and the final one is a music and arts venue, and is where Rickie James carved "4 REAL" into his arm back in the late 80s.

St Lawrence is a large, now redundant church, in the middle of independent and alternative shops which line St Benedict's. You have to walk down some steep steps to enter it, and apart from a small greenhouse, it is empty. The greenhouse was for the use of locals growing plants, not sure how well that worked out, but it looked unused for at least a year. Again I was met by two volunteers, who told me of the history, and how sad it is to see the church in a semi-derelict state.

Just along is St Margaret's, now a "church of art". Some of the art, even for someone with an open mind like myself, seemed inappropriate, but then, its a big world I suppose. I take shots and that left just one more church along the street; St Crispin, now the Norwich Arts Centre, a place I saw many gigs in the 1980s before I joined the Air Farce.

In the modern lobby, a gentleman is playing a piano for a very small audience; they sip cocktails and offer polite applause as I walk in, but I think that was for him and not me.

I ask if its OK to go into the old church, it is, and once inside, once you look behind the stage, mixing desk and lighting rig, there is a church there, waiting to be discovered. Not that it will be a church again I suspect.

I take shots of the monuments, and a couple of the stage, and decide it was now lunchtime, I needed a drink and a sit down. On the other side fo the road I see The Ten Bells which called itself a beer house and gin palace. Beer sounded good, as did a sit down.

The guy at the bar next to me asked about the camera and then wanted to show me his. It was a cheap point and shoot job, but does the job, I know as I use one when I'm traveling. Not sure if I offended him but not being interested in his camera, so he turned to speak to the American guy next to me and his far more interesting pack of screwdrivers. I drank my bear, and a diet Coke too, the second one a free refill, which was very kind of the barman. They served Redwell beer, draught here, and was very nice, but I was careful not to have a second, even if that did sound tempting, as there were many more churches to visit.

I walk back over St Benedict's Street, down the passageway beside St Lawrence down to the river, crossing over a footbridge as if I was correct, and was, my next tick in the box was waiting.

St Michael Coslany sits at the western end of Colgate, set in a large square, which on time would have been the churchyard of course. It is seldom open now, and wan't earlier that day when I walked past, but was to be so from midday.

The door was open, so I walk through it and into a training area for the Lost in Translation circus. Yes, you did read that right, a school and practice area for trapeze artists; two large frames had been set up, and a strong but lithe young man was swinging about attached by his wrists to a rope. IN front of me, a group of children were being told the discipline needed for this vocation as well as the extreme stretching exercises needed to be done before a work out.

I was made welcome enough, and was told it OK if I go to take photographs of the church and what fittings were left. Underfoot there were amazingly thick mats, so I spring from step to step in order to get my shots. Te volunteer on duty sat in the cafe upstairs, now taking up most of the balcony, he ignored all what was going on round him as he sipped from a styrofoam cup. I took a few more general shots, then beat a retreat, smiling at more parents bringing their children to the church, all dressed in leotards ready for some swinging about.

I knew where I should go next, and that meant going back over the river, up the steps to St Benedicts Street, then along before climbing Cow Hill to St Giles on the Hill. People think of Norfolk being flat, and it is in places, but also has hills, and some steep, so at the top of it is the perfect place to build a church.

Traffic was nose to tail up Cow Hill, and was so slow moving that I bear the cars to the top, even with me stopping to huff and puff. To the south, the church is screened by some fine wisteria bushes that were now coming into bloom. I walk past them into the church, and find more listless volunteers, so I go round getting my shots in what was a large impressive church. The parish had also laid on a cake sale, and the ginger scones looked fine, and I waited to be served to find out how much, but no one ever came.

Maybe we had had enough cakes and scones? Although I had not eaten since breakfast, so the worms were stirring.

I got a text message from Jools; how was I doing? I thought about it, took in the input from my feet and legs and said I would meet her in the Red Lion in about 45 minutes. From St Giles, I thought it was mostly downhill, and near to the cathedral there was one more church to visit, so I could do that and still be about on time.

The market and Lanes were busy as usual, I walked on, counting each step nearer the pub and a pint of cold beer. Up London Street then down again past St George Tombland and the Maids Head Hotel, turning east I walk down the lane and come to St Martin at Palace, but before I go in I am confronted by the event organiser who remembered me from St Saviour, and wanted to show me some recent findings on the age of the site.

Back inside, I found the nave had been cleared, and a triple decked stage, seats and what be a cafe had been put in. It worked, in a way, and seems I had just missed a choral piece being performed. Mums and Dads milled around congratulating their children.There were a few memorials and fittings to snap, but by now I was in the death throws of being churched out, so turned to leave, knowing that I had just ten minutes walk to the pub. Sadly, the Old Hospital was not open, I had wanted to see inside since I watched a Sir John Betjeman documentary on Norfolk churches, but the door was locked. Just as well.

I could see Jools in the beer garden, as the sun was now out, it was warm enough, and she had brought me a beef and stilton pasty to eat with my beer. The pint of Woodforde's Reedcutter was so good I had another, and Jools had a second half of Thundering Molly.

The afternoon shadows began to lengthen, so we took our leave of the pub and walked back along Riverside Road and back to the hotel for a lie down , and me to listen to the football, where Norwich at one point were 3-0 up against to Leeds, manage to collapse and draw 3-3. Not a defeat I suppose.

We lay on the bed as the radio told me how the games were going. At half six we are ready to go out again, climb back up Prince of Wales Road to St George again, and to the Japanese restaurant we had made a reservation for.

We were shown to a table on the first floor overlooking Tombland so we could watch the comings and goings down below, as those ladies in silly high heels try to walk on the cobbles. We have a selection of fried Tempura, and then a bowl of beef curry to follow. It does for us, and is very nice, but best of all shows neither of us had forgotten how to use chopsticks, and we used them to clear our plates.

I suppose we could have gone to another bar, or stay out to watch the boxing, but instead we walk back down to the station, past those bright young things out on the lash, their heads already spinning thanks to lager and shots.

Back in the hotel, we make a coffee and eat more chocolate we had bought from a corner store, before as the bells rang out, we went to bed at ten, my legs happy now to be at rest.