Saturday.
The shopping has been done.
Just other stuff to do.
There are several Kent churches that are hard to get into. If not impossible. The internet has made arrangements to be made, sometimes, allowing those locked doors to be opened. With the crushing disappointment of a church that has been locked for years, once you see inside it is plane as a slice of white bread. And there are those churches that even from the outside, you know have a tale to tell, with a mixmatch of buildings and pitched roofs.
We know what it will be like inside.
Throwley is such a splendid looking church, sitting on a low hill above the few houses of the village, and never been open the four times I have visited. But during the week, I mailed the wardens, and they replied, and a time this Saturday was arranged.
We just had to be there on time.
I was more excited about this that two weeks in Chicago and New Orleans. How does that work?
Saturday morning dawned clear and cold, with a touch of frost, making the lush green grass have a sugar frosting. I love this time of the year. And at ten to eaight, the sun rose above the houses the other side of the dip, shining bright golden light into the house and onto the garden.
It was going to be a wonderful day.
Aint that the truth?
We were up at seven, I make bacon butties whilst Jools gets ready. And as I tidy up, she goes to Tesco and the tip, so at nine, we were ready to leave. For a Saturday morning, the roads were quiet, oddly so. Even from the port. So we cruised down the A2 to Faversham, along tree lined roads lined in oranges and reds, that contrasted with the dark blue sky above.
It was glorious.
Throwly sits high on the downs, surrounded by orchards and fields. It is deepest Kent. The drive leading to the church is now private property of the house beside, and two very unfriendly "private property, no parking" signs welcomes the visitor. There is no other choice than to park on the grass verge opposite. I wouldn't mind, but the drive leading to the house's garage has been unused for so long it is covered in moss and lichen.
Tiny-minded wanker.
There, I said it. Riles me every time I visit. They live next to the church. I bet they're the same people who complain about the nose of the bells too.
We were early, so wander round the churchyard, and I notice more details of the church I had failed to see previously. Four winged figures on each corner of the tower: an angel, an eagle, a dragon and something else. They are splendid.
But more splendid is when the warden comes with keys for the church.
Yay!
And the church is fabulous. Two fine side chapels, both with great monuments and figures. And in good repair. It seems the puritans missed this in their fervour. Thankfully.
The warden takes me round, pointing out interesting details and stuff I might have missed. Including the carved hedgehogs, a family motif of the Harris's.It took nearly an hour to get round and record it all. All worth it of course. Though later, I did panic that maybe there was no memory card in one or both of the cameras, but there was, so no need to panic.
We were done, so Jools and I say goodbye, and walk back into the golden light of a fine autumnal morning, the few leaves on the horse chestnut each like bursts of flame.
I have a second target, and urban church that had somehow slipped through my planning. Urban churches are rarely unlocked, was it worth the half hour drive there? Hell, it a nice day, why not?
So, we follow the sat nav at it takes us up and down the roads and lanes less travelled. All around, trees were full of autumn colour, caught in the low light of the sun. It was just a pleasure to see it.
We arrived at the post code, in the middle of a housing estate.
No church.
We reprogram the sat nav, and it takes us to the old part of the town, and on a bed in a small wood was the church. I go over, convinced it would be locked.
It was open.
Not as sensational as Throwley, but nice enough, and good to get another one, the 325th Kent church done.
The next item was cats: Or kittens.
We have been thinking about getting one or two more for a while, so we diced to go to a cats rescue centre to see what they had.
We arrive in the town centre, park opposite, and find the centre in a terraced house with a shed for an office and three long rows of pens for cats. The centre is just recovering from an outbreak of cat flue, so numbers are down on usual, and once we tell them about our resident cats, they think it best to wait for one or two non-nervous male cats, so that they would not faze Scully and cause kitty pissing wars.
Which seemed sensible.
It was half one, and we were hungry, so thoughts turned to lunch. So many places nearby, and yet there is the Romney Marsh nearby. And it is no surprise to find we end up at the Woolpack. The Woolpack is a 15th century inn, all timber-framed and no straight lines or right angles anywhere.
We get a table in the main bar, order steak and ale pie for Jools and steak and mushroom suet pudding for me, all with gravy and seasonal vegetables. I have a bottle of Bishop's Finger to wash it down with.
Which was nice.
When we came out, the sun was setting away in the west, and the light fading fast. So we make tracks back to Hythe along the coast, then onto the M20 and back home, getting back just before four as darkness began to fall.
We feed the cats, have a brew and I listen to the second half of the games on the radio, then at half five watch the 6 pointer between Southampton and Watford. It was as desperate as expected, but the Saints come from behind to win, and move ahead of Norwich in the table.
We have home made nachos for dinner, with more beer, meaning that I would sleep well, but with odd dreams thanks to the jalapenos.
Such is life.
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