Wednesday 15th July 2020

Normality has been restored.

Almost.

And today, I would try some churchcrawling.

Churchcrawling is the hobby of visiting churches for pleasure, and for me to take photos.

And the best area to go, I thought, would be the Romney Marsh, where there is a certain degree of tourism in visiting churches, and several are under the control of the CCT, so I was hopeful.

We have coffee and fruit for breakfast. And a second coffee, so all is good for a morning, if not a day out. And there was a chance of a pub visit for lunch, which would be something.

We drove to Ashford again, past the area to become the new freight/customs post, only about 40% had a fence still, and there was no obvious work going on.

And out towards the marsh, running beside the railway to Ham Street, and as we were passing, to Warehorne to see if I could find a White Letter Hairstreak or two. Driving past the church I see the door is open again, so my mind is made up to call in once we were done by the canal.

Again, we were the only butterfly chasers around, a few campers had set up beside the canal, a dog barked for attention, but we were on the other bank, striding towards the railway bridge and the butterfly heaven beyond. I said we would only stay half an hour, and so we did.

Nothing new was seen, though I did stalk and snap a dragonfly, which turned out to be a Black Tailed Skimmer, resting in the grass, allowed me to get near enough to get a reasonable shot. But in the brambles, nothing other than the usual suspects.

We turn back to the car, passing a jogger huffing and puffing.

We do stop at the church. St Matthew looks a bit of a mess from outside, the tower half brick due to a collapse, but repaired. At least it looks different from any other church.

We go in, disturbing sheep grazing in the churchyard on both sides, just a narrow fenced off area lead to the porch and the cool interior beyond. The sheep scatter and we were soon inside. Like we had never been away. The only hint something was odd was the pews all taped off, and a few plastic chairs arranged in the chancel.

I take shots, mainly details, but then it has been six years since we were last here. Or I was, as it was then I was taken on a private tour of the Romney churches by a good friend, who gave me lots of details at the time.

Which is how it was I knew where Snave was.

Snave is a small hamlet beside the road over the Marsh. A row of houses, with the church just visible down a grassy lane between two modern houses, whose dogs tried to out-bark each other in order to alert their owners as to the two trespassers.

St Augustine must have once been very remote, but now the main road passes within 50 metres, although it is still on a side road. The dogs bark loudly, but we walk on, trying to ignore them. The Alsatian looks very fierce, but seems safe enough behind the wire fence.

Entry to the church is via a side door, but I knew this, and you walk into what seems like a waiting room at a country railway station, with the bonus of a fireplace in one corner.

I retake many shots I already have, but good to revisit a place every now again.

It doesn't take long to get my shots, so we leave the church, closing the door behind us, which possibly won't be opened for another few days or weeks.

A 15 minute drive along a meandering lane took us into the middle of the Marsh, through St Mary in the Marsh to the largest church, the "cathedral of the Marsh", Ivychurch.

St George is a large and complicated church, and inside is a huge space, too large for the present parish, so one of the aisles is now an agricultural museum of sorts, all ploughs and mangle wurzle roots remover.

I kid you not.

There was a lady sitting inside who took our names, and gave us a squirt of hand sanitiser to keep us safe.

Half the nave is empty, I mean just the font standing along with nothing within 10 m of it, just the uneven brick floor. An aisle of chairs leads to the quire and chancel, Jools sits to read, and I talk for 15 minutes with the lady on duty. I learn our next intended port of call, Old Romney, had been struck by lightning and is currently closed.

So I get my shots and go round and round. Happy in doing something so enjoyable, and as if by magic, I was done at five to midday, just before opening time, and the best kept beer on the Mash was about to be served at the Bell just beside the church.

We walk in, and apparently I had a huge grin on my face, as I saw the bar lined with pumps, all looking marvelous.

I order a pint of Old Dairy Best, Jools has some cider. Just like it used to be.

We go to the beer garden, drinks in hand. Quite the magical moment as I brought the foaming glass to my lips, and savour the moment.

It goes down way too easily.

The pub isn't yet doing food, so we make do with crisps, then walk back to the car to head over the other side of the Marsh for the final call at Burmarsh.

I had low expectations of All Saints at Burmarsh being open, Jools really had to persuade me hard to go. I mean, she said, there's nothing else to do. So, we arrive in Burmarsh, the church sitting in an island surrounded by a small ditch. The church itself is sinking into the ground. You approach the church over a narrow footbridge, there is a gate at the far end, I open that and walk to the porch door.

I turn the handle, and it is locked. A curt notice says the church is only open a few hours on Sunday for private prayer only.

Oh well.

Back to the car. And we were hungry. And no pubs to eat at, so why not go to Hythe for more chips?

Why not indeed.

we arrived at half one, the chippy about to close, but we get served and both the chips and large battered sausage were cooked fresh, so that once served in a box, the batter was still crackling.

We take our food to the park opposite, ad sit on the ground under a tree to eat the golden glorious food.

We walk back to the car, then drive back to the motorway and back home.

We have a coffee. Sit in the garden, and then I check my pictures, post a few online, write a blog post, and the afternoon slips by.

I make stuffed focaccia bread, then cook the pasta and make the sauce for carbonara; bacon and eggs, which comes out great. But after our visit to the chippy, we really weren't that hungry, so end up leaving half the bread for another day.

The evening is spent watching football.

The season is nearly over, just two or three more games to go. Then its the Cup. Then Champions League. And then we start the next season.

Sigh.