Sunday 10th September 2017

We had the intention of doing lots on Sunday. Honestly we did. But as it turned out, we had had enough of working to lists of things, or at least I had, and the proposed trip to Ramsgate for yet more church visits was cancelled, and instead we went back home and had ice cream.

But it had begun full of intention, when I said I was going out at half seven to snap the final orchids of the year at the monument. I want to come said Jools. So, we get dressed and drive to the cliffs, where just a few spikes are lingering on, defying the eager mowers who want to raze all grass to mere millimetres from ground level. But the council has been as good as their word, and no cutting since before we went to America, and mpw the mowers from hell will be unleashed. But many spikes will have set seed, but the benefit of this year's action will not been felt for maybe a decade once the orchids have completed the early part of their lifecycle.

What the lack of mowing also has done is allowed other wild flowers to thrive: there were hairbells and wild parsnip also growing well too. So good to see, and maybe they will return, but not fare too well with mowing taking place weekly, until it is orchid season come next summer anyway.

We have a look over the cliff edge too, and think of our good friend Tony from the other side of the world who worried if I got too close to the edge, lest I fall.

I thought that bacon butties would be the order of the day, but there is none in the house! Oh noes. But we can call in at the village shop on the way back! Yay! But I have left my wallet at home; so cereal after all. Boo!!

Anyway, something healthy would be good for us.

We have a bacon-free breakfast, then we are off out again, this time to funky Folkestone where there was an arts festival on. The Triennial is held every three years, and this year there is work by the famous artist, Anthony Gormley. I say work, its the "Another Place" figures seen on the coast in the North West, but this is more than enough to get the pulses racing.

There is other work too, I had seen shots of some work made to look like toy houses, and that one was near to the Martello Tower at Wear Bay, so it was there we went to first. Parking was impossible on the road, and the only car park was for bowlers and golf payers only. I did not have enough Pringle off to pull of "I'm a golfer" lie.

So we go down the hill and park near to the bridge over the Tramway Road and remains of the harbour branch. There was a set of steps down the cliff here, and I knew that one of the Gormleys was in the arches of the sea wall below. Indeed it was at the bottom of the steps, accessible by more steps, to the beach, then the rusty figure could be seen looking out to sea.

A few early risers are out getting shots too, so we take turns, which is easy as it is a very low tide. So low in fact, the sea seems to have left the mouth of the harbour high and dry, and it seems we could walk into town that way, which would be a first.

We walk beside the rocks that keep the beach in place, then out to the low water mark to the harbour wall, which was indeed high and dry, and looking like a huge dry stone wall. I take shots of it, the walk round the end of it into the harbour, where we see the sandbank on which we were walking, faded out to where the fishing boats were stranded on black slimy mud. We would not walk out on that, but instead follow the sand to the small beach beside the wall, then along the harbour.

The harbour branch line has had some serious work done on it, and it has been turned into a green walk, part footpath and part garden, at least the rails have been left in situ, but its days of seeing trains are long gone, of course. Converting the line to a preserved railway would have had to overcome three major problems: 1. the steepness of the line, a 1:36 from a standing start. 2. Maintenance costs of the piers and swing bridge, close to £1million a year. and 3. No station at the top of the line where it joins the rest of the network. One could be created, but there is no access, and would be in the middle of housing and industrial units.

Anyway, we last passed over the piers and bridge when we went down the penultimate train back in 2008, now we could walk, take our time and take as many photographs as we wanted, or just sit and take in the views. Its not perfect, but the best that could be done. And even the bridge has had a lick of paint and looked presentable.

The station itself is still undergoing work, but it looks like the footpath will continue across the road through the station joining up with the path to the harbour arm, with all its shops, bars and other such things And the other Gormley too.

We walk across the car park to another of the houses, turns out its a protest at how holiday homes make property expensive for locals, which is as good a reason for art as anything.

The second Gormley is underneath the pier, in an area called the loading bay, where decades of action by the sea have left it carpeted in green moss, making the rusty figure look other-worldly. I like it, and being early only two others there to take shots, but once back up top there is a huge group of people being taken round.

We have a cuppa and a slice of coffee walnut cake, and sit out on the old platform of the station that stretched out along the pier. More people were arriving, and the decision was made not to walk to the lighthouse, but to turn for land and the delights of the Old High Street where I could get a haircut. There has been a total turnover in staff there, and the two young chaps have either been sacked or moved on to work on the railways. There is a new guy there, but he is good, talks well and gets the messy job or barnet taming done. All for a tenner.

We do look in the record shop, many tempting things to buy, but no time to play what I have now, so we leave empty handed, walking back to the car to the harbour. But the chips smell so good, we have a small portion each, then sit on a low wall overlooking the harbour, now filling up now that the tide had turned. The chips are great, but even a small portion is huge, so we eat what we want and stop, putting the uneaten ones out of the reach of the gulls that had been watching us with unblinking eyes.

We go back home, and we should then be going back out to Ramsgate to snap three churches that are open. But I am pooped, not really tired, but have done enough, and there is always next year. So, we go home for brews and ice cream, sit in the garden, then listen to football as I prepare the first roast dinner since Tony left, I think. Roast chicken, roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, steamed veg and gravy. And pink fizz too.

As the football ends at quarter to six, dinner comes together and is wonderful, at least smells it, and is very good indeed, but with stuffing too, we were literally stuffed at the end, and plenty of chicken and stuffing for sandwiches during the week.

And that was the weekend; just time to call Mother and see how she is. Nothing changes and the conversation lasts less than 3 minutes and its over.

What can I say? Anyway, the weekend is over. Here comes Monday!