Monday 3rd July 2023

There was never any doubt I would go to Rob's funeral. Rob was born just two weeks before me, and in our many meetings, we found we had so much in common.

A drive to Ipswich should be something like only two and a half hours, but with the Dartford Crossing that could balloon to four or more.

My choice was to leave early, soon after Jools left for work, or wait to near nine once rush hour was over. If I was up early, I'd leave early, I said.

Which is what happened.

So, after coffee and Jools leaving, I loaded my camera stuff in the car, not bothering to program in a destination, as I knew the route to Suffolk so well.

Checking the internet I found the M2 was closed, so that meant taking the M20, which I like as it runs beside HS2, although over the years, vegetation growth now hides most of it, and with Eurostar cutting services due to Brexit, you're lucky to see a train on the line now.

I had a phone loaded with podcasts, so time flew by, even if travelling through the endless roadworks at 50mph seemed to take forever.

Dartford was jammed. But we inched forward, until as the bridge came in sight, traffic moved smoothly, and I followed the traffic down into the east bore of the tunnel.

Another glorious morning for travel, the sun shone from a clear blue sky, even if traffic was heavy, but I had time, so not pressing on like I usually do, making the drive a pleasant one.

Up through Essex, where most other traffic turned off at Stanstead, then up to the A11 junction, with it being not yet nine, I had several hours to fill before the ceremony.

I stopped at Cambridge services for breakfast, then programmed the first church in: Gazeley, which is just in Suffolk on the border with Cambridgeshire.

I took the next junction off, took two further turnings brought be to the village, which is divided by one of the widest village streets I have ever seen.

It was five past nine: would the church be open?

I parked on the opposite side of the road, grabbed my bag and camera, limped over, passing a warden putting new notices in the parish notice board. We exchange good mornings, and I walk to the porch.

The inner door was unlocked, and the heavy door swung after turning the metal ring handle.

I had made a list of four churches from Simon's list of the top 60 Suffolk churches, picking those on or near my route to Ipswich and which piqued my interest.

Here, it was the reset mediaeval glass.

Needless to say, I had the church to myself, the centuries hanging heavy inside as sunlight flooded in filling the Chancel with warm golden light.

Windows had several devotional dials carved in the surrounding stone, and a huge and "stunningly beautiful piscina, and beside it are sedilia that end in an arm rest carved in the shape of a beast" which caught my eye.

A display in the Chancel was of the decoration of the wooden roof above where panels contained carved beats, some actual and some mythical.

I photographed them all.

I programmed in the next church, a 45 minute drive away just on the outskirts of Ipswich, or so I thought.

The A14 was plagued by roadworks, then most trunk roads and motorways are this time of year, but it was a fine summer morning, I was eating a chocolate bar as I drove, and I wasn't in a hurry.

I turned off at Claydon, and soon lost in a maze of narrow lanes, which brought be to a dog leg in the road, with St Mary nestling in a clearing.

I pulled up, got out and found the air full of birdsong, and was greeted by a friendly spaniel being taken for a walk from the hamlet which the church serves.

There was never any doubt that this would be open, so I went through the fine brick porch, pushed another heavy wooden door and entered the coolness of the church.

I decided to come here for the font, which as you can read below has quite the story: wounded by enemy action no less!

There seems to be a hagioscope (squint) in a window of the south wall, makes one think or an anchorite, but of this there is little evidence.

Samuel and Thomasina Sayer now reside high on the north wall of the Chancel, a stone skull between them, moved here too because of bomb damage in the last war.

I drove a few miles to the next church: Flowton.

Not so much a village as a house on a crossroads. And the church.

Nothing so grand as a formal board outside, just a handwritten sign say "welcome to Flowton church". Again, I had little doubt it would be open.

And it was.

The lychgate still stands, but a fence around the churchyard is good, so serves little practical purpose, other than to be there and hold the signs for the church and forthcoming services.

Inside it is simple: octagonal font with the floor being of brick, so as rustic as can be.

I did read Simon's account (below) when back outside, so went back in to record the tomb of Captain William Boggas and his family, even if part of the stone is hidden by pews now.

I had said to myself, that if I saw signs for another church, I might find time to visit. And so it was with Aldham, I saw the sign pointing down a narrow lane, so I turned and went to investigate.

First it looked like the road ended in a farmyard, but then I saw the flint round tower of the church behind, so followed the lane to the church gate.

There was a large welcoming sign stating, proudly, that the church is always open.

St Mary stands on a mound overlooking a shallow valley, water stand, or runs slowly, in the bottom, and it really is a fine, fine location for a church.

I pushed through the gate and went up the path to the south porch, where the door swung open once again.

The coolness within enveloped me.

An ancient font at the west end was framed by a brick-lined arch, even to my untrained eyes, I knew this was unusual.

There were some carved bench ends, some nice fairly modern glass, but the simplicity of the small church made for a very pleasant whole.

I no longer watch TV much, so was unaware of the view and indeed church being used in the TV show, The Detectorists.

One of Suffolk's hidden treasures, for sure.

It was now past midday, and I had just about two hours to get to the crematorium, some 14 miles away. I knew Ipswich has traffic problems, and there's always a chance I failed to follow the sat nav at a junction, so I set off in plenty of time.

Ipswich indeed does have traffic issues, especially where the old A12 crosses the old A140 by way of two mini roundabouts. These I remember from the mid-70s when we used to go to Portman Road by coach, and these were always jammed. At least at half midday I sailed over, as he who hesitates can be stuck for ages.

Then along the old ring road, again I remember from those coach trips to the football, not much has changed, just the cars quicker and the tempers of their drivers quicker still.

I reached the crematorium, with over an hour to spare. I checked on the sign outside the waiting room to make sure I was in the right place, and Rob's name was there.

I sit and wait on a bench, and see Rob's wife enter the waiting room, and that of Daki.

It was all too real.

At two I went in, saw Sarah and looked at the service card I had been handed, saw Rob's smiling face staring back and I crumbled. I hugged Sarah and Daki, sobbed how sorry I was.

It was time.

We filed in, and I took a seat at the back. Hanging Around by The Stranglers came on the sound system, and Rob was carried in.

It was a fine service, no religion, just memories of a fine and complicated man.

Once it was over, Supertramp's Give Just a Little Bit came on, to end on a positive note.

For a while we stared at the drawn curtains, Sarah and Daki hugged and sobbed.

It was over, Rob was gone.

Outside, I tried to speak again, but emotions overcame me again. I said I wasn't going to go to the wake, so instead in driving summer rain, dashed back to the car and started to long drive home.

I headed out east through Foxhall and onto the A14, then down the A12, no podcasts this time to cheer me.

Traffic was heavy in places, but I made good time, and made it over the Thames by half four, and I promised myself a stop at Medway Services for a whopper and coke.

And onion rings.

Dirty food, and nice.

I called Jools to let her know I would be at Jen's by six, so she would drive there as she had borrowed Jen's car, and we would drive back home together. On the way we called in for KFC for Jools, then the final dash home to be back at half six.

I had been gone almost exactly 12 hours.

And that was that. And as my dear old Dad would have said, one hell of a day.