Saturday 15th July 2023

The weekend.

And a kind of lull in the orchid season between the main part and the time of helleborines, though they are coming.

And the pause before the start of the new football season in just three weeks time. Let me say once again, there is too much football, there neeeds to be a bigger gap between seasons when there is no football, like in the NFL, so we can really look forard to the new season.

As it is, last season ended just over a month ago, and its just not enough.

And as Saturday was windy.

Very windy.

No point in going too far lest we couldn't get back, if only there something worth watching on the tellybox to take my mind off the long bleak teatime of the soul. Something sporty, exciting, and maybe with lots of fine countryside and history to absorb too.

If only.

We went to Tesco, made more difficult with the A2 being closed for the installation of a new bridge, we could get to Tesco, but all port traffic would be using the roads in the industrial estate in Whitfield, so would be busy.

So, we went early. Just after seven. And as the first span of the bridge had been installed, and best views were from Tesco car park, we took shots before going in to hunt and gather.

And once back home, we had breakfast, put the shopping away and then what?

Church.

One nearby church I had no revisited in over a decade was at Ripple, and when I looked at Google it suggested the church was open 24 hours/7 days a week.

Was Google telling the truth?

I would find out. I went to Ringwould, then turned by the windmill, over the fields to The Plough, turned up Church Lane. Parked outside. Went to the door. Turned the handle.

Locked.

The notice board said the key was available from a house nearby.

I went, and they were out.

By then the wind was really getting up, and I was worried about trees being brought down, so made my way home via Martin and Martin Mill, over the main road to home.

Back home we had Caprese agan, because its summer. And then to the sofa for Le Tour.

And typical of me, I pick the greatest day of racing for years to rejoin the TV audience.

The afternoon sailed by. Scully sat beside me, very happy with that turn of events.

For the evening, we listened to the wireless, that nice Mr Maconie had been asked to curate an evening of Northern Soul at The Proms, and it was quite magnificent.

Two more hours flew by.

I drank more sloe port.

Then we went to bed.