Saturday 18th January 2020

Jools had a bit of an accident on Friday, she was carrying the usual slalom round the two cats on the stairs when she slipped on the carpet and fell down the last few steps.

In doing so she bent her three smallest toes back, causing, at least severe bruising and much swelling.

She went to Yoga, swimming and shopping, but the pain was pretty bad all through Friday, and a night of broken sleep followed, as she woke when she turned over and caught one of her painful toes.

This meant that a day of church crawling in the Swale area did not appeal, and I would go solo this week.

But before, we were to go to Preston to pick up some steak, kofkas, bacon, sausages and so on and on. So, as daylight arrives, we drove to Sandwich and then over the marshes, all saturated by the recent rain, to Preston. Ribeyes a fiver each. Six of those, please. Not to eat all at once, mind.

And that bought, we drove back, arriving back home before nine to have breakfast, and then part.

Yes, the churches were calling. And after compiling my list, checking it twice, I decided that Swale was going to be lucky, and one of the churches visited would be Bobbing. I mean, who doesn't like a village called Bobbing?

Exactly.

So, cruise up the A2 to Faversham, then the motorway to Sittingbourne.

My first call as an as-yet un-named village, situated on the downs beside the motorway. The church set beside the road looked inviting, and the door was open, which was very nice.

Inside were to wardens doing new flower arrangements, and they were only too happy to let me snap away, as long as I didn't snap them. Later, the vicar came in and I repeated my story about trying to photograph every church in Kent. Parish church in Kent, that is.

Are you going to Newington she asked?

I explained last year's two disappointing visits there; the first one the church was locked, and the second tome (on Heritage Weekend) they had double booked the day with a christening, and the churchyard was packed and no one could get inside the church until the service finished. I waited twenty minutes and left.

I put in my next destination, and found that I was going to go along the A2 through Newington. Its just a two minute detour to the church, so I turn off and go under the low railway bridge, and find a car in the church car park.

Promising.

I pick up my oversize camera bag, walk to the church, and I think I see the porch door ajar. It is.

I push in and find more wardens doing more flower arrangements. I explain again about the project, then tell them I will be as quick as I can so not to delays them.

St Mary is a huge church, in a near urban setting, and yet is little known. The north aisle has some fine wall painting remains, clear enough to see Christ at one of the windows.

There is so much to photograph, but do a good job, I hope, in half an hour.

Next up is another what I thought was an urban church, on the outskirts of Sittingbourne, but the road to the church twisted back into the countryside, to the church sitting on a high ppoint, surrounded by thatched cottages and an old forge.

It looked splendid in the sunshine. I walked to the porch after recording it outside, but found it locked. I was photographing four huge Victorian grave stones when a gentleman came along the path: can I help you? I am just photographing the church I replied.

Would you like to see inside? He asked waving the key at me.

Phil had seen me from the window of the old forge and came to see if he could help. He could help, he had the key!

I was aware he was there out of the goodness of his heart, but there was so much of interest it took time. But he understood, and was fine with someone who appreciated the church coming to look around.

And onto Bobbing.

Bobbing is the last village before the A249 leaps over the Swale to Sheppy. It is now an afterthought now the bypass bypasses it. The church sits on what counts as a hill round here, opposite the school. There was a large friendly "church open" sign hanging on the west door.

How wonderful.

All churches are different. Some slightly so, other wildly.

Bobbing is different. A wide nave and chancel, no arch, it is a fine space, almost square, with the altar stretching the width of the church, and decorated with fine mosaics.

I record it, from all angles.

Once last church.

I rarely research a church before I go. But I make an exception for urban churches, as these are rarely unlocked. So to make the effort its good to know there is something worth seeing if you get inside Though that makes failure all the more disappointing.

Queenborough is the first town on you come to on Sheppy, and isn't pretty. It is a mix of terraced houses and facoties, now being flattened to make room for big box retail stores. It seems unpromising to say the least. But it has always been linked to the sea as a port.

Holy Trinity sits on a busy road, and its graveyard as stretched to the other side of the road as its parish's dead increase in number. The church is old. And sits huddled, now literally fenced in on the east side by a new wooden fence by the modern house next door. The vestry is a wooden shed, tacked onto the church, making it look so down at heel.

I try the door, after telling myself all the way over from Bobbing that this was a fools errand.

But it was open, and inside was a delight. Above the pews was the wooden roof, richly painted with angels, saints and who knows what? But hard to see, as the paitings are covered in a layer of soot from a fire centuries ago, and will cost hundreds of thousands of pounds to restore. But a trial area had been tested, and the results good. Just need the money now.

I take my shots, trying to make as much noise so not to surprise the people working in the vestry-cum-shed. The warden still jumped when she came back into the church to see me there taking shots. But they were very welcoming, and told me the history of the church and parish.

So, five churches visited, and I got in all five, three by luck, but still, a rare day and one to celebrate.

Just needed Norwich to win to make it a real red letter day.

I drive home listening to the radio, the build up the main batch of games, and City were playing Bournemouth. We were bottom, they they just one place above us. So much to play for, so much to lose.

I arrive home at half three, and City score as I am making coffee, scoring from a penalty.

It is close for the rest of the game, two red cards; one each, and lots of City chances, but no more goals. So, Norwich win, get three points, but at least six more wins needed.

But for now, we will celebrate.

Yay!

We play cards in the evening.

Back into the swing of things, and me have mixed fortunes, but John scoops the jackpot. Again. Jen had made pasties, Lancashire ones, which were fine. So fine we have two. Yum.

But, another day is over. We drive back home under the gaze of a cold crescent wolf moon.