Wednesday 18th March 2026

The Kent Church Project, which I grandly names the process of visiting churches in the Garden of England, with the aim to record the exterior and interior of each of the parish churches, or at least the listed ones, began in July 2009.

And the two questions I get are:

1. How many churches are there in Kent?

2. How many more do you have to do?

The answer to both is: it depends.

Kent is not the same now as it was in Hastead's day, a chuck is now part of Greater london.

This is modern Kent.

But historical Kent includes places like St Mary Cray and Bromley.

Jools goes to an art group in Bromley once a month. I was to go with her last month but the weather was supposed to be cold and wet, so I bailed. But this month, on Wednesday, was to be the warmest day of the year thus far.

It was agreed I would catch the ten to nine train, Jools would follow 90 minutes later after her fitness class, and we would meet up for lunch, then either I stay in the pub drinking beer all afternoon to half five, or I come home.

And whilst in Bromley I would visit their parish church. I checked lots of times that it would be open, so all was set.

Jools dropped me off at ten past eight. I went to the buffet and bought a tea and breakfast wrap. It was bland, but warm, and the tea passable.

Then onto the platform, over the bridge and down onto the island platforms of 1 and two, sit and wait for the train to come in.

It was warm even before nine, so I took shots of the waiting Javelin and the station before sitting down to wait some more.

The train rattled in, and we few passengers got on, spreading ourselves out over the four carriages, all ready for the off.

I use this line when I go to Canterbury, but its maybe fifteen yeas since I went to Rochester and Chatham and beyond.

Beyond Rochester be dragons.

The train skipped two stations, so the next was Bromley, my stop. So I got off the now busy train, up more steps and out through the barriers into the town, on the main street.

London buses of various sizes ran up and down, London taxis waited for fairs outside the station. It looked and felt like London.

The church was up the high street about a quarter mile, then left at the junction, and was there, all churchy.

Rows of neat independent shops mixed with chains, all rather pleasing. And with street fruit and veg stalls offering over-ripe bargains.

I walked up, looked in at the jeweller, as my watch is playing up and Mr Timpson says he can't put another battery in it. That that battery cost ten quid to fit, than the actual value of the watch when I bought it.

However, the cheapest watch was £200, and that's without looking at the Rolexes.

I walked on to the church, where I found just the children's chapel was open, for private prayer.

I swore.

I was not happy. And wrote how unhappy I was about it in the visitors book.

It was then that I remembered the parish office was next door, so I may throw myself at their mercy and tell them my long and arduous journey up the line from Deepest Dover.

I knocked.

A lady came to the door, and as I explained that I had travelled nearly an hour and twenty minutes just to see the church, she asked if I'd like to see inside now.

I would.

So I was let in, but told I had to be done by midday for the next service.

I had an hour. More than enough time.

The church burned was destroyed in 1941, and the present church built, but the original tower was kept.

So the modern church is plain, but pleasing to the eye, with nice modern glass, textiles and wall paintings.

I helped set up the communion table, or at least move it into place. And was done, so I tanked all who made my visit so enjoyable, and set off back into the town.

Now, if only I could find a barbers.

The first one I came to had frosted glass, so I didn't bother opening the door. The second one, opposite the station was busy, but on one waiting.

I went in.

I was in the chair within five minutes, and chatting long to the barber as he shorn my locks.

Bromley he thought, when asked, is both Kent and London. He liked it, but then he grew up in St Mary Cray which he made sound like 80s Compton in downtown LA.

Just down the street was the 'Spoons, where I was to meet Jools. I don't normally darken their door, but just once won't hurt.

I bought a pint of elderflower bitter (!) and sat to wait for Jools to arrive on her train at ten past midday.

She arrived, so I had already bought her a cider. We ordered food and waited, where behind Jools was a bank of noisy flashing one armed bandits, as we used to call them.

I had Korean chicken burger, which was crap. The chips were OK, and the onion rings greasy.

But it was cheap, and a pint of Leffe Golden ale was only four quid.

I'd sleep well on the train back home.

I caught the two o'clock train, it was mighty busy, but I got a seat, but not near the window so closed my eyes as the train rattled back south.

At Faversham I got a window seat, so enjoyed watching the countryside roll past until most folks got off at Canterbury, leaving a few of us to go all the way to Dover.

I drove back home, put the kettle on and in my usual manner whiled away 90 minutes, and soon it would be time to collect Jools.

The cats were fed, curtains closed and heating turned up a notch.

Out in the car, driving through the gloaming of a just set sun, past the Castle and down into town, parking outside the station for Jools's arrival.

And once she climbed in the car, I turned round and we went back to Townwall Street, up Jubilee Way to home, where darkness had fallen.

The kettle was boiled, brews made.

The evening was spent listening at first to Newcastle being crushed by Barcelona, then Liverpool easing to a 4-0 win. Sadly, Norwich lost to Southampton, 1-0, despite dominating the game.

So it goes. So it goes.