Tuesday 3rd October 2017

Today is a kind of lull before the storm. Or before the operation anyway. Mus is to be transferred to Papworth. She called at eight, asking me to do a couple of more chores for her. She puts on a brave face, but I know she is scared. I would be too. I say I will see her Wednesday or Thursday, probably Thursday as she would be in recovery or Intensive Care.

Mum’s cleaner comes at nine: she does four hours a week, and helps make ends meet. I had realised that if I had said not to bother come round, she would be badly out of pocket. I told her not to bother working, she had done so much these past two weeks, and in the preceding months, she deserved time off. But She is honest, and said she would work anyway. So, I leave her to it, and she will put the door key in the wall safe (don’t ask, but means I can get back in, if I remember the combination)

A few months ago, maybe as long as a year ago, I had seen a documentary from the 70s by John Betjeman, where he visited many Norfolk churches, including Trunch, which has a stunning font. Yes, a font. Know that sounds odd, thinking about a font for a year, planning a visit. But there you are. A friend as a fabulous website on East Anglian churches, so I look at another couple of possibles, but my main target was Trunch.

I said farewell to Sheila, and climbed in the car, set the sat nav and it took me to Gorleston, Yarmouth and then down the A47 to Acle. I had thought of going to Halvergate, a small village where in another life I had picked up my first car from. I wondered if Halvergate had a church, it probably did, but at the end of the Acle Straight I saw no tower of a church, so went to Acle instead.

Acle is the main town between Yarmouth and Norwich, where the dual carriageway ends and the Acle Straight, a two lane road with just a single bend, otherwise 8 miles dead straight to Yarmouth. I needed to fill up the car, get a country A-Z. My first task after I had filled the car was to see where Acle church was. There was two, I drove round the town and found the parish church, looked nice enough, but there was no parking, and being so close to home I could return. I followed the sat nav out into the hinterland, the narrow roads and lanes that spread north from here.

I drove slowly, hoping to see many church towers and free to go and investigate. The road passed by a church, flint built with the East Anglian round tower. I pull in and meet a volunteer who is doing some tidying up in the churchyard. We talk for a few minutes, and I smile in the warming sunshine, and that I am spending the day church crawling.

I guess I should have felt guilty that I was doing this when Mum was being moved by ambulance. But there was nothing that could be gained from spending the day in the house waiting. Waiting for hours on end for a call that would not come. So, I went out, after doing chores. And churchcrawling. Mostly churchcrawling.

I go inside, take in the atmosphere, take shots and look at the fittings.

I move on. I see another church. Another round tower, another flint church. There is no board outside saying which church it is. On the information board, the benefice lists four churches, but seems to have the dedication to this one, Reps, wrong. It was a banner in the chancel that gives away the church and dedication. St Peter, Reps with Bastwick.

As I drive over the Norfolk flatlands, under the big blue sky that on Norfolk seems to get in this country. There are fields, villages, woods, and as I drove along, I saw a huge church tower over the tops of trees forming a green wall. I was still two miles from the church, yet I could see it clearly.

This was Worsted, the town that gave its name to a cloth, and was centre of the mediaeval wool and fabric industry, that made this one of the richest area in England, and nearby Norwich the country’s second city. The industrial revolution changed all this, and mostly that revolution missed Norfolk, and it sunk into rural torpor.

St Mary, Worsted is a church on a grand scale, all knapped flints, glinting in the sunshine, with the village square laid out at it’s eastern end.

Inside the warden meets me and greets me warmly. He shows me the highlights of his church, and he can see my enthusiasm for his church, we talk for at least ten minutes, at which point he leaves me to explore and take my shots. The only downside is that he tells me the parishners do not like their 18th century box pews. I don’t tell him I like them.

I am now near Trunch, maybe just 20 minutes away, s I decide to press on. Through North Walsham, then turning off the main road, but then I am waylaid by another flint church beside the road, this was Swafield, and was open.

I was now just a mile from Trunch, so I drive on and thankfully, the church was easy to find, on the main street, next to the village pub and opposite the village shop. St Botolph has the font. It also has a rood screen, and despite damage by puritans, it still is impressive. Behind the font there is an ancient wooden structure, now serving as the bell ringer’s platform, but its faded paint is still visible.

Once I have my dozens of shots, I go to the pub for lunch. The landlady has pulled a muscle in her back, but is still able to provide me with a pint of IPA and takes my order for a cheese and ham ploughman’s. There was so much food, cheese, ham, slaw, pickle, bread, butter, onion, radish. And more. But was good. And there were a few locals to swap banter with, a very enjoyable lunch I have to say.

I decide it is time to turn south, and my next target was supposed to be Little Plumstead. It was about half an hour away. But in getting there I stop at Dilham, Smallborough before arriving at my target. But there are no signs for the church, and the map has none marked. And yet the village sign clearly had an image of the church on it, but no idea where it is. My friend, Simon, says of his visit, it was locked, so maybe it was for the best.

One of my favourite beers is Woodforde’s, and they have their brewery in Norfolk, so that was my next destination in Woodbastwick. That was well signposted, and call in the brewery tap for a swifter straight from the barrel, and to buy some ale from their shop, before visiting the village church, mainly because of its unusual dedication. But, despite there being a sign saying the church was pen, I found the door locked, or at least I was unable to open the door. Ad this turned out to be the only church of the day was locked.

The day was fading now, and the light was poor as cloud cover was now total. But I see a road sign pointing to Panxworth church, so I turn out of the traffic down the narrow lane, and find just a tower a truncated naïve. Worth a shot or two.

The sat nav wanted to take me back home through Yarmouth, but I had a better idea, driving through Acle again and then out onto the marshes towards Reedham, where there is a chain ferry to take a couple of cars at a time over the Yare.

Four quid gets me on the ferry. There are no other customers, but a cyclist just makes it on, paying his quid to cross, and once two cruisers had passed, the winch powers up and drags the ferry across. From there it is a simple task of following the road through a couple of small villages (no churches), then onto the main road into Haddiscoe, across the marshes, over the New Cut and old river before taking the back road to Herringfleet and Somerleyton and to home.

Back home I find mum’s hoard of custard creams, I have a weakness for those too. Make a brew and then settle down to review my shots from the day. Jools calls, and Molly is in the vets after a lump was found the day before, they take a biopsy, but the initial result is unusual, does not look like anything cancerous, but we shall wait for the result.

Dinner is chicken tenders, cous cous and sweetcorn. I know how to live, or at least look after myself. Night falls, and it grows cold. Autumn is here. There is stuff on TV, so after clearing up I sit down to be entertained on the history of Vienna, but it meant nothing to me. Ahem. Followed by a documentary on poetry in Liverpool. Better, much better than it sounds.