Sunday 13th September 2020

Sunday.

And if anything, more packed than Saturday!

What about the day of rest, peeps?

A friend had pointed out to me the fact that the old Folkestone Harbour station has had replica signage put up, to supplement the splendid restoration of the buildings and track, after decades of neglect and then line closure.

It was to be a fine day, I needed a hair cut and we could meet our friend, Mary.

And I could take some shots too.

Perfect.

And I thought that if we went over early, there would be few people about, and I could get really fine shots. So I thought.

But I had failed to take into account an ironman or triathlon taking place.

The above activity is where people swim, cycle then run. When a marathon isn’t enough.

We knew there was something on as we passed by dozens of cyclists, wearing swimming shorts, cycling up The Tramway from the harbour. Marshals stood at every junction, pointing the way for them to go.

We drove down to the harbour, then up Tontine Street, up to the top of the Old High Street where we parked, paid for parking until quarter past eleven.

The Old High Street was almost empty, in shadow, but ripe for being snapped. So, I do.

At the bottom, where the brightly coloured “Bounce” shop glowed in the sunlight, I went to take shots from about then yards, when a woman in a green long flowing cape screamed at me:

“Don't you point your fucking camera at me!”

So said the "lady" in the final shot of this upload.

It's a free country, I am in a public space, I will take what shots I want.

I'll come over there and shove that camera...

"You and whose Army?

She stomped off.

I had already taken her shot, though she was a good 20m away.

Thankfully, we didn’t see her the rest of the day.

Which was nice.

Not as nice as the weather, though.

Once at the harbour, we climbed up the step to the old railway to walk over the pier to the swing bridge and the old Harbour Station.

We had to dodge runners in wet suits,

Once they reached the station, they jumped on bikes to cycle who knows were, before running back to the station to finish.

Anyway, we walked on, ambling really, over the pier to the station, admiring the wonderful warm morning light.

The station is magnificent. I mean it’s a shame that there won’t be trains running down the line any more, but the station has been preserved, renovated and now with period replica signage, it looks fabulous.

Also the lines used to snake from the pier onto the harbour arm, and the station sits on either side, looking resplendent.

I take lots of pictures, then, through a doorway I spot a coffee shop.

I say coffee shop, there were selling coffee and snacks from a converted shipping container. All painted up and looking nice. I mean there was that and many other such places along the harbour arm, but we chose this one.

We order coffee and then my mouth also ordered sausage baps. Or brioche rolls as the menu called them. Anyway, we took our coffee to a seat overlooking the coast with views up to Dover, and then the guy brought the rolls. And his two dogs waddled over, and the white King Charles spaniel sat beside me and used its hyper sad eyes to look at the roll I was eating.

Oh those sad, mournful eyes.

I buckle and give it a piece of sausage after about 30 seconds.

It wanted more.

Jools told me, in no uncertain terms, I should not.

So I eat the last mouthful and that was that. We drink the coffee up, then walk back the same way to the Old High Street, then up to where Jools was going to meet Mary at a new place, which would be open before ten, and I would walk to the new High Street for my hair cut.

I have to wait ten minutes outside, but I was first in the line, so I get to have my barnet shorn first.

In a blur of movement, in half an hour, I am freed of my long flowing locks.

Aah, that’s better.

I walk down to Steep Street café, where Jools and Mary are talking.

Mary reads either the Mail or Torygraph, so I put her right on a couple of her points of view, hopefully, not too hard.

But we talk of the future, but unsure when any kind of normal will happen.

We leave at eleven, back to the car and then home, dodging the port traffic, as a ferry had just docked, and the roads were busy.

But I get us home with only a few close calls with other drivers.

Hmmmmm.

Back home I prepare the leg of lamb for dinner, I slice several cloves of garlic and place them and some rosemary in the lamb flesh to ooze out flavour and marinate before cooking.

I get a message saying Tracie and Wayne had left Whitstable. And they had Sprocket.

Sprocket is their new spaniel puppy.

I say new, they’ve had Sprocket for about six months, so isn’t really a puppy any more, but we had not seen their lively dog due to the lockdown.

They arrive, so I pour Wayne and I a beer, sharing a very fine bottle of Chimay Grande Reserve, though Wayne was going to drive home. We sit in the garden and poor Sprocket was overcome with sensory overload, could not stay still for more than two seconds. The cats and kittens, obviously, were horrified at this turn of events, and made themselves scarce.

When Jools tokk them and Sprocket out for a walk, I cook dinner, prepare the potatoes, corn and stir fry, so when they return it was just about done.

Yummy.

I carve and dish up, which Wayne and I eat with a fine tripel, of course.

Lovely.

At half five, they have to leave, and I think the cats really wanted their dinner, so we waved them off and as we stood at the end of the drive, the first meow came asking about the possibility of dinner.

And that was that, really.

Cats fed, then they smell the house and garden, putting their scent down over that of a dirty dog.

Heck, it gets dark soon after seven now, and with another fun-packed weekend, we were tired again, and I find myself wanting my bed at half eight. So, after a shower I do go to bed, and was going to read, but Jools was already gone, asleep already, and tomorrow another working day, but her last two working days until who knows when…..