Saturday 9th September 2017

There has been so much going on, what with blogs and photos and work, since coming back from America 13 days ago, that planning for the next round of photographic trips slipped me by. Next weekend is Open House London, which means the week before is Heritage Weekend; when many houses and churches that are normally closed, are open. Also for church crawlers, it is also the charity weekend, ride and stride, which means even more likely that churches will be open.

There is a website for both, Heritage and Ride and Stride, which I finally looked at on Wednesday, took some notes and that was it. There was a high concentration of churches around Tonbridge, which is not a bad place, but getting there is a different matter; an hour's drive and then the traffic once you get there. Anyway, I get up Saturday morning, look at the list again and a plan began to form: go to Grain and then work my way back and see how far through the list I would get.

A day of church crawling did not appeal to Jools, she wanted to stay at home and work work in the garden, meaning I was to go out by myself. Which is fine and at least I know I shouldn't bore myself with the day.

After getting up, we have croissants and coffee, I pack my camera bag, check the sat nav, make sure I have the list of churches and I'm all set.

I need no directions to get to Grain, you head north until there is no more Kent and you're there.

Grain is a peninsular that sticks out into the Thames Estuary, and is where Dickens got the ideas for the opening scenes of Great Expectations. It can be other-worldly, low lying ground, isolated villages and narrow lanes. And if you are in the right place, the big ships heading up the river to Tilbury seem to be crossing the land.

I cruise up the A2 then the motorway, I am only going sixty, so most people are lining up to pass me, means the drive is enjoyable, with the radio on too. I sing quietly to myself as high powered cars hammer past. I turn off after crossing the Medway, traveling along the dual carriageway until that runs out, trundling the last ten miles along the road at 40, which to be honest is the speed limit.

Grain, especially at the east end of the peninsular, is flat and covered by marshes and gas storage containers. To find such an industrial area across the marshes is always a surprise even if you are expecting it. Beyond the gas containers, freight yards, docks and so on is the village of Grain. It is pleasant enough, has a pub or two and a village shop, and then right through the town is the chuch, St James. And I have tried to see inside at least three times. Maybe more. But the Heritage site said it would be open, and from the road I can see the door open and someone waiting to greet visitors.

By now it is a glorious day, the stunted tower of the church standing stark against the clear blue sky. And it is warm, such a contrast from Friday when it felt and looked like autumn with steady rain for hours on end. But now it seemed like summer again, and was pleasant just to stand in the sunshine and talk to the warden as a group of riders (not striders) got their bikes ready for their charity ride.

It is a simple church inside, with modern seating arranged in a circle as there was a recital to be happening soon. Over the entrance there is a striking figure, which the warden pointed out several times that it wasn't a Sheena-na-gig but a rarer beard-puller. After some research in the meantime, it seems she was right, a beard puller. But clearly ancient and with little apparent connection to Christianity, but then you could say that about most churches. I guess the old beliefs didn't die out.

I have the shots I wanted, and nearby is another church I that I found locked last time we were here: Allhallows.

Off the main road and along a narrow country lane is the small village of Allhallows, and in a dog leg of the road sits All Saints. I had told myself that the trip over was a waste of time, as it would be closed and was a waste of petrol. I was relieved to find the main entrance open, and other photographers milling around outside. In fact, I find out from the warden that the church was supposed not to be open, as they had a production of the Three Musketeers on that night, but as one of them was in hospital with appendicitis, it had been cancelled. He was in the process of taking the curtains down which hid the rood screen.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/jelltecks/37125059095/in/photostream/ And what a fine church it is, and myself and the riders and striders were given a warm welcome, with a tour of the church and an update on some excavations that had taken place recently and the discovery of two tombs from the family chapel that used to stand in the north east corner of the church. Inside you could see the blocked up arch that used to lead into the chapel.

It was a shame to leave, but I had a list of churches as long as your arm to visit, even though I wouldn't see most of them, but I had to make tracks.

I drove off the peninsula, and back down the motorway, for one junction anyway, to take the road beside the Medway to West Malling. I was going there as I had never been there before, but the Heritage website said many events had been lined up, looking at local history with many pictures of the church and town through the ages. What I had done is assume I knew what I was looking for and confusing the names of towns and villages along the valley. What I thought was West Malling wasn't, when in fact it was part of Maidstone, or near enough, with the result by the time I crossed the downs and dropped towards the M20, traffic began to build. And over the motorway, thanks to a lane closure there was three miles of stationary traffic out of the the town, meaning I would have to think about the way I left to avoid being stuck the rest of the afternoon.

West Malling is chocolate box pretty; you approach the town centre along a main road, which opens out into what used to be the market square, but is not a car park, at least at the edges. And the square and main road leading to the church is lined with many fine buildings, mostly occupied with nice looking independent shops. Thankfully, the church has a tall spire which made it easy to find, so after parallel parking on the main road, I walk through the market square to the church, where the porch doors are wide open, and the cathedral sized church open and welcoming.

As befitting a large and obviously rich town, the rich is richly decorated with many fine monuments on the wall, and the most wonderful royal coat of arms I have seen. Sadly, it seems the balcony is out of bounds, as is usual, so I go round getting the shots before making my way out of the church and back to the car, snapping many of the buildings on either side of the market square, and taking a parallel road to the main one, I find two ancient timer framed houses, both painted black and white and looking like that each and every one of those years it has been standing had taken their toll on it's timbers.

I take the car out of the town, and end up driving into Maidstone before taking the road to Mereworth back out, knowing that in time I would get back to the motorway, and if I had guessed correctly get on the motorway avoiding the jams.

I was right and find myself at the bottom of the A249, on the road up the North Downs, past Stockbury leading to the A2. It was now nearly three, and churched out, but I had one East Kent church on my list that I had not visited before; Bekesbourne. Not sure where it was, so I programmed in the post code, which seemed to take me to within 5 miles of Dover. There was no church at the end of the drive, so I go onto the next junction and see no mention of Bekesbourne or a church. I put in the name of the village and that takes me back to near to Canterbury, going off the main road at Bridge, then following the dried up bed of the Nailbourne to Patrixbourne, passing the churches of Bridge and Patrixbourne, and a few hundred yards later, I heard the pealing bells of another church.

I see the tower just showing above a line of trees, and a handful of cars parked in a field. I join then, then walk up the meadow to the lych gate where two wardens are greeting the people who are there, which seems to be the whole village, everyone smiling and apparently having a fine old time.

The church is built of flint, but is unusually long, with a tower at the west end, a tower similar to Northbourne School, at least to my eyes.

Once I had been into the church, I stop for a brew at the cake stall, and a slice of Victoria Sponge, which goes very well with a mug of tea both for three pounds. Smiling families are still arriving, saying hello to friends and swapping news and gossip. It is so very, very pleasant.

With it now being four, too late to go to any more churches, well, I had hoped to see one of the two victorian churches in Dover, but as I go past, I see the vicar of the first closing the door for the day. Next year, maybe.

I go home, arriving home at quarter to five; I have had the football on the radio all afternoon. Citeh had thrashed Liverpool 5-0, but then my focus was on Norwich, who scored an early goal against Brum, but after than no other mentions. I hoped we had hung on. And checking the computer I find out we had hung on, and won, and so not conceded either.

I was thirsty, so I made brews with which we ate the remaining chocolate biscuits, two and a half each, then being near to six, I made the insalata for dinner.

At the end of another day, I could relax sitting on the sofa watching Norwich win 1-0, and not hide behind the sofa.