Saturday 15th February 2020

Storm Dennis (day 1)

I, like most Brits, love the weather and talking about it. I am sure that growing up and before I joined the Air Force, there were few flooding events. I'd like to think I would remember.

But this century there seems to be flooding every year, winter and summer. Something has changed. Many things have changed.

And storms like Dennis, an almost record low pressure of 917 mb was heading our way. Strong winds, torrential rain, flooding, building damage. Again, just a week after the last named storm.

Luckily for us, it was due to hit later on Saturday, at least here in Kent, so we could get out and do some stuff first.

First of all was to go to the butcher, as Mark had posted that they had made a batch of wild garlic sausages, made with hand picked ramsons, and these are just wonderful. So, while Jools went on the cross trainer, I got in the car and drover over to Preston to get the meat.

Traffic was very light, except the dick that tailgated me as I drove away from Sandwich. But I arrived safe after inching my way through the flooded lanes at Nash. The guys were, as ever, in great spirits, but the guy who picks the wild garlic has just lost his wife, and it is possible that this will be the last batch they will make.

Oh I know where there are loads, I can get you some fresh ramsons.

Have this steak cheap, have this free cheese. And so on, I think they want me to get the wild garlic.

So I had better do it next weekend.

Laden with meat and pork pies, I walk to the car and drive home. I was now running a little behind as we talked about football so much. But back home Jools had breakfast ready to cook upon my return; croissants to warm through, coffee pot to bring to the boil. Even so once we had eaten ad drunk, there was barely enough time to gather our stuff together and get to Dover to meet our friend, Will.

We had not seen Will since his marriage some five years ago, and since then he and his wife have bought their own house, got new jobs, had a daughter and now waiting for the birth of their second child, a son. So, quite some catching up to do.

He arrived on the twenty past nine bus from Canterbury, and he had just got off as we pulled up, so we let him get in, laden with camera gear, and we set off for Ashford and then the Romney Marsh. His partner had suggested he get back into photography, and he thought of coming along with me on a shoot.

There would be churches I said.

Fine he said.

From Ashford we took the road to the marsh, tailgated again by some throbber who overtook when it was dangerous, and nearly had a head on crash. He got ahead, and then we caught up with him at the roundabout a couple of miles further along.

First stop was the always picturesque Fairfield church.

Fairfield is no longer a place as such, if it ever was The church sits on a island made of drainage ditches and Hastead says people used to reach it for services in boats. What we see now was constructed in the early 20th century, though Hastead again says that the church he describes was not that different to what we see now, and that church was probably a recent construction.

The key is hanging outside the nearest house, so I go and get that while Jools and Will walk to the church.

I soon join them, walking along the top of dykes and over wooden bridges until I reach the church, the large key turned in the lock of a door that is clearly centuries older than the church itself.

And we go inside.

It is as it always is, clean and pure; box pews and a triple level pulpit. Years old hops still hung from the hand-hewn rafters. We get our shots, not taking that long before we go to leave. And meet a dogwalking couple and pass the key to them, with instructions on where to leave it once they were done.

We go back to the car, then turn round and go to nearby Brookland to visit the church there. St Augustine has a unique bell tower, but one I have not seen inside of. Maybe it would be open?

No it wouldn't. Though the church was.

I snap it again, just because we were there, and Will also snaps it, he seems to like snapping churches.

With the wind building, we go into Sussex to go to Camber Sands, as there is a west-facing sandy beach, and we hoped it would be.

Camber is home to a large holiday camp, once the mainstay of the British holiday. This one is hanging on, though not in February when not even the British would consider a seaside holiday.

There are other hardy souls, most with dogs in tow, so we park then walk up the sandy path leading up the dune. It was OK until the slope flattened out, and we got the westerly straight into our faces. Wind-borne sand grit-blasted our faces, and at ground level the sand in the air could be seen making patterns as it flowed through the tussock grasses.

We reach the beach, find we can't speak to each other as our words are stolen from our very mouths, so I indicate I was going back to the car, Jools and Will agree.

Just up the road is Lydd, home of the largest church on the Marsh, though not on the Marsh, really. On the way we see swans and geese in the fields, feeding on winter crops, and on a lake I catch a glimpse of a smew.

Lydd is a fine old town, but the chuch towers over all other buildings, and the nave is on as grand scale too, 199 feet long.

It is open, so we go in and the church is so vast that the wide angle lens isn't really needed, the 50mm getting most of the building in.

I take shots of the monuments and details, and point out to Will some of the features. Not sure if he's impressed or bored. He says the former.

Once that was shot, time had crept on and was now half twelve. We had already decided to go to the Woolpack at Brookland, so went back down the coast road then along to the turn off. We find we were the only ones on the main bar, and after ordering drinks we tae seats in the chimney to warm up, and for me to take a photo.

The Woolpack is a 15th century pub, and not a flat surface or right angle anywhere. Only downside is the poor choice of ales, either Spitfire or Masterbrew.

We then moved to a table and ordered ploughman's all round, and waited until the food arrived.

By then the wind was building outside, so we decide to cut the afternoon short, and take Will back home to Herne Bay.

Back off the Marsh to Ashford then up to Challock to Faversham, and back along the M2 and Thanet Way to his house. We turn down a cuppa as once again I had forgotten my allergy spray, so we had to get home so I could breathe again.

We get home at half three, with the football in full swing. Over a fresh brew I sort through pictures and listen to the footy on TV, multitasking at the highest level.

And at half five, settle in front of the TV to watch Norwich v Liverpool, the return game of the opening weekend.

It was a close game, and Norwich play well, really well, without creating much, but just before half time, its seemed harder not to score, but somehow Liverpool clear. In the second half, Mane come on and scores a blinding goal to win the game. So much effort for no reward, the stroy of the season, really. Pride intact, Norwich are cheered off the pitch, still rooted to the foot of the table.