Sunday 28th October 2018

First day of winter.

Not really, but it feels like it

It being light at seven in the morning is nice. Being dark at five isn't. But that would come later.

We do actually sleep through our extra hour in bed, and waking up I am not sure if my internet radio that sits beside the bed had updated or not, so it could be six, seven or eight. It was seven, and just about light.

And the only two things on the agenda were: 1. Snap a train. 2. Get a haircut.

I checked and double checked the timetable for the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway, and was certain that one of the doubleheaded non-stop services would pass through St Mary's Bay at about half nine, meaning we had lots of time to get ready and get over there to eb standing at a level crossing waiting for the train to pass by.

I make bacon butties, of course. Jools has a shower, get dressed and we leave at half eight, giving us an hour to get to the other side of Hythe.

We leave the house with the breeze getting up and yellow and golden leaves being blown hither and thither.

We dive up the M2o past Folkestone, and then into Hythe, taking the coast road out of town until we came to the edge of Dymchurch, then turn inland to a small level crossing where there is a station, two platorms separated by two small tracks laid side by side. Standing on the far side I could look all the way up the line to Dymchurch, and I could see no train approaching.

So begins the waiting.

A walker came up to ask me what time the train was due, and was happy enough with my answer. And in the distance I could see a small white plume of smoke and steam marking the approaching train, though still a mile away.

It approached slowly, two scale model steam locomotives hauling a long rake of carriages, rattling along the uneven track.

I could hear the engines now, working hard pulling into the headwind, so I let the camera fire in bursts. Suddenly it was nearly upon us, so I switch to the other camera with the nifty fifty, and the train passed us, over the crossing and round the bend in the track beyond. I waved to people in the train, then we packed out cameras away and drove to Folkestone through Hythe and Sandgate to park at the top of the Old High Street so I could get a haircut.

The shop had just opened, and so I was first, the bloke chatted as he cut, meaning he took 45 minutes to complete the masterpiece. Jools said she pays fifteen for ten minutes, and I pay a tenner for 45 minutes; something wrong.

Once I am shawn, we can go home, and do, getting back as soon as possible, and then me preparing for Sunday lunch/dinner.

For both Jools and I, Sunday lunchtimes meant Sunday roasts. My Dad used to go tot he pub for 90 minutes, come home and eat dinner, then fall asleep for a few hours. This used to happen 52 weeks a year, no matter how hot the kitchen was for Mum, and somehow she made the preparation of said Sunday lunch last all Sunday morning and into the afternoon.

I have a way of doing it, meaning the joint is cooked in an hour and a quarter, the veg all steamed and the roast spuds done in the fryer. Takes less than two hours from start to finish, and tastes darn good too.

The reason for eating early is that we are to resume card hostilities in the evening.

So, at six we go over to Whitfield where there is no John, but Jen and Sylv are there. And Jools and I clear up, in two hours, winning it all, just about. So we make good our escape and come home under the hall full waning silvery moon, ready to be home at a sensible time so we can be bright and fresh for work in the morning.