Monday 13th February 2017

The big day had arrived.

I say big day, what it was, was that I had arranged to inside a church in London. Myself and several other GWUKers had tried several times to see inside it, but we always found it locked. So, thanks to the internet, I was able to arrange a time and date when a small group of us would be allowed in. Or so we hoped, I mean one can never tell if on the day we were told no.

But, with arrangements made between the four of us, all that was left was to make sure camera batteries were charged, memory cards had enough memory, and then to set the alarm for early doors.

Even though the appointment was for two in the afternoon, as Jools had to go to work early, she dropped me off at Martin Mill at six so I could catch the early train upto London. At least it wasn't as cold as last time I stood here, but this time it was for pleasure, not for work, so maybe it was my mind telling me I was enjoying standing on the platofrm in the inky blackness just before dawn.

A few other hardy souls were also waiting, but it being the first day of half term, many parents were taking the week off too, which explained why the train was nowhere near full even after the Ebbsfleet stop. As we neared London, dawn came, showing up the late winter countryside, and mirror like River Medway as we thrashed over it at 140mph.

I also got to stay on the train until St Pancras, but had no real idea of what I was going to do with my morning, other than take lots of photos. As we came out of the tunnel, crossed the ECML and rounded the final bend into St Pancras, I saw the old gasometers that used to tower over the tracks, now moved and one turned into a park, whilst others contained new builds. I have always wanted to see that park I thought.

So it was that I walked down into the subway, along the illuminated passageway to Granary Square, then mixing it with the builders trudging to work, carrying snap and bottles of high caffeine drinks. I stopped to take pictures at regular intervals, smiling as I did so. This was great, a clear day, soon to be bright sunshine and all of it to take shots in.

The builders went through a turnstile, and I walked on, down an alley, and into the park. And being early I had it to myself, just a couple of security guards walked by making jokes whilst they smoked. I took many shots, then stood on the side of the canal as trains left St Pancras on the other side of the water. I took more pictures.

There was a path alongside the canal, which took me back to St Pancras where I had spotted a nice Italian place where I could have breakfast. But for now, I was happy enough walking along the footpath, dodging joggers and cyclists, looking at river tugs moving barges full of spoil. I took photos of those too.

I had a cooked Italian breakfast and two huge cups of coffee. Spicy sausage was both spicy and a sausage. And good.

Fully fueled, I went down to the Thameslink platforms to try to get a shot of one of the new class 700 units. I only had to walk onto the platform to see one leaving. I took the first train south to Farringdon, got out to wait for one of the new units. It was less crowded there and better light. I only had to wait two minutes before the next train, a 700, came in. I got my shots, then climbed on so I could ride to the next station, City Thameslink.

A plan had now formed in my head, revisit a church near to St Paul's, walk up to St Anne and St Agnes, my first time there, and I found it locked fast. But the other one was open, so I snapped in there, redoing shots I had done on the compact. Probably not much better, but the wide angle lens is wider, so more church per shot!

From there I decided to revisit St Lawrence Jewry, a church I last did several years ago and so was ripe for a revisit. It is near the Guildhall, and so easy to find, and just walking down the cobbled streets, past ancient and interesting buildings whilst the city started work was a real pleasure.

St Lawrence was open, and empty, so I went in and did my shots, snapping more of the details I'm sure than I did before.

From there I thought I would go back to the very first church I visited in The City, St Olave Hart Street, a little gem of a church, so rammed with memorials and decoration, it is a delight in any direction one points a camera. I snap it good, and having noticed a Shepherd Neame pub on my way, I go back there to wet my whistle, and take the weight off me plates.

It was midday and the news headlines were showing, I looked at them and shrugged. It all seems to trivial and us so powerless to stop the idiots in power. Let reality rip them a new arse, as me old Dad would say. Probably.

I walk over to St Helen's, we were due to meet at one, in the hope of going inside, as their website said that's when it be OK to go in. But there was a Bible class going on, and would not let Aidan or I in until two, and by that time we hoped to have met our two friends and we going over to St Peter.

So, we walked to St Katherine Cree and St Andrew Undercroft; St Katherine had a choir practice going on, so we did not stay, and St Andrew although the front door was open, you needed to enter a code to get through the inner door. So we walk across Cornhill to St Michael and find an organ recital going on. As Motzart said, the music had too many notes, but was very impressive in a Wren church, and I felt the walls to make sure the 16hz sounds of the deepest pipes were there. They were.

We walk back over to St Helens, and Sarah and Malcolm were there. We shake hands and greet each other, so for the first time, other old friends and I go into St Helens to see about accessing St Peter. A phone call was made, we were expected, so back over to Cornhill, and round to the yard, knock on the door, and we were let in.

We shook hands with the guy, did we need anything, and he let us get on with it.

50 minutes later, we all had our shots, so we said our goodbyes to the friendly bloke and the church, and went on the old Arthur Dent challenge of finding a good cup of tea.

Inside Leadenhall market we find a place, so gather round a table to chat like old friends, which we were, just most had never met before. But, time was ticking, and if I went back I could catch the half four train and Jools could meet me at Dover on her way home from work. I texted her to confirm the plans, then set about saying goodbye, and walking to Liverpool Street, taking the stairs down to the Circle Line and then just four stations along to St Pancras.

Enough time to use the free facilities for the 3rd time that day, then be up on the platform as the train arrived, get a seat on the right hand side facing forward, and then review my shots whilst waiting for the train to depart.

It filled up, but not too much,m until an orange family arrived complaining loudly that they could not sit together. They had been shopping and were happy with the clothes they bought. Takes all sorts I suppose. I blocked their chatter our and watched as Essex and Kent slipped by and faded into the dusk. End of a perfect day.

Jools was waiting for me, taking us up Jubilee Way to home, where dinner was taking the pasta and aubergine out of the fridge and pouring the wine. Diner in ten minutes after arriving, and very tasty indeed.

Needless to say, rest of the evening was spent reviewing and editing pictures and listening to yet more football.

A perfect day all round really.

Sunday 12th February 2017

This will be my last post until Friday, I suspect.

I have a hectic day planned tomorrow, and then on Tuesday, I go to Belgium working until Friday. I will continue to write and post them when I can.

We woke up this morning to find the snow had all melted, and despite the BBC saying it would be a brighter day, there were dark clouds making it still feel like night, and a steady drizzle falling.

After making coffee, I watch the football, whilst looking at the birds outside feasting on the seeds I had put out. Afterwards, I decide that with the offcuts of bacon I had left from yesterday, I would defrost some bangers and make a fry up. So, I got busy, and soon had the sausage frying, bacon grilling, and cold mashed potato frying in butter to make it crispy.

We eat at about half nine, and it was as good as it sounds. Not if you're a vegetarian of course, but then we're not.

Somehow, Jools and I ran out of shower gel the same day, and so we had to pop into Dover to visit Boots, and that gave me the chance to snap the work on the St James Development. I guess its about a year since i last took shots, and in that time I guess they have been laying foundations and footings. And now they can put up the steelwork for the new cinema and shops.

Anyway, most of what you can see is a painted green fence, but there are places where you can see in, so I take shots whilst we walk round the site. Two through roads now don't go through, as this is where the new car park will be. Seems like they are expecting lots of visitors by cars, as this will be the second or third new car park. Sadly, the Co-oP closed last night, another victim to modern times, and a crowded town with only so many customers. It was the last of the town centre supermarkets, and now the shop will be empty.

Jools goes to Boots and I go to Sports Direct to get some new trainers, or walking shoes. As mine are either falling to pieces or covered in mud. So, I go in, see a pair I like, try them on, pay for them and leave. 5 minutes, I know how to shop.

And that is that, we walk back down to the car park, past more empty shops; many of which were charity shops. What does it mean when even they close? And yet more shops are coming down at St James, maybe they understand economics better than I do. Or not.

We go to visit the old folks at Whitfield. Tony is smoking huge roll ups like they're going out of fashion. But he's in good spirits, he's just had his 75th birthday, and we are going out for dinner on Friday. Or should be, I might be washing my hair. As it seems I have become unsociable in my middle age.

Back home for more rugby and football. And a glass of Belgian beer too. I try not to fall asleep as France just beat Scotland, and on the radio, Leicester lose once again.

For the first time in months we have fried breaded aubergine and pasta salad for dinner. Because its nice, and tomorrow when I get back from London I will just be able to get it out of the fridge and eat. I know how to roll.

So, we are tired, fed and watered, and tomorrow is MOnday. But a Monday off for me. News on that London and the working week in Friday.

Y'all take care now.

Satire is dead

Or at least pointless.

I used to listen or watch it all: The Now Show, The Bugle, Have I Got News For You, The News Show, as well as read Private Eye, watch clips from the Today Show. And you know what? Even though we all knew what was being parodied was ripe for it, and that the lies peddled by those in power, or those that sought it was right to be called out at satirised.. And none of it made any difference.

None at all.

Britain is bad enough with T May as PM, Boris Johnson as Foreign Secretary, David Davis as Brexit Secretary, and they are making a dog's dinner of things. And a bumbling pointless old bloke as leader of the opposition, and yet, things get worse. Satire would only make things worse, I mean, how can you satirise the above?

And then over the pond Trump is 45. He is all bluster, knows nothing about anything, has appointed billionaires to cabinet, is rolling back health care and social programs, just like he said he would. All ripe for parody, and yet, satire has been on his case for two years or more, and it made no difference. Like having all facts and common sense on the other side, Brexit and Trump won.

What hope is there when truth and reason n longer matter, no do those who lie when they are caught out lying, can call their lies "alternative facts", and we just blink.

I don't watch or read catire any more, satire could not take the pain and helplessness away that I feel right now. But satire and facts are all we have, because the Brexiteers and Trumps are more passionate about their lies, their made up massacres, sunlit uplands and Brexit fairy that we could ever be about facts, reason or social justice.

Saturday 11th February 2017

We have now been living in Chez Jelltex for eight years. I know this as I have been reading my posts for this week of years gone by. How exciting that was, packing, moving, unpacking, starting a new job, going to Kazakhstan then my new employer going bust. Yes, it all happened, we had just moved into a new house, with large mortgage, and I had no work. I can now laugh about it, but at the time it was a tough 18 months until I got the permanent job with Vestas.

We now have repaired the house, done up the garden and are settled here with the cats, it really is a fine life.

We wake up just before seven, and there is that odd blue light showing through the windows showing that it had been snowing. THe light doesn't last, so its a rush to go downstairs, find the camera, put it to the right settings, then go back to the bathroom to snap the scene. Already the blue is fading, but the clouds hanging dark and pendulous, look full of snow. And yet, it is clear the melt is already under way, and would continue through the day.

We were going to go to Littlehampton, or at least to west Kent on a church hunt, but to be honest the light was even worse than on Thursday and Friday, and the temptation was to stay at home and watch the wildlife come to the garden for food.

Consulting the BBC website, there is football on the radio, rugby on TV, and I have a stack of photos to edit. all in all, a fine day in. So I get down to make some bacon sandwiches, a fresh brew and all's right with the world. Katie is on the radio, so we listen to her as we do our hobbies, whilst outside the snow still falls. The cats are not impressed with the weather, and even when put out the door, they come right back in.

After lunch we watch Ireland v Italy, whilst I have the digital radio on beside me, with the football on. Its a fine way to spend the day; Molly sits beside me on the sofa. At three the football starts, and in 20 minutes City are 3-0,, and run out 5-1 winners over Forest. I'll settle for that.

At then to five, Wales v England kicks off, and is a brilliant game, with England behind until the final 2 minutes when they score a second try. Fantastic finish.

We have warmed up baked pasta, and it is still good. Great even.

City wnning, and scoring five top drawer goals means I have to watch the highlights at the end of the evening, and indeed the goals are well worth watching. That it might even now be too little too late for promotion is another matter, but let us celebrate a win, good performance and great goals.

Friday 10th February 2017

Jools works until just two on a Friday, thus to get through all the tasks I wanted to do, I would have to work quickly. That including not sleeping through the alarm, getting up to make sure Jools made the train for work. That done, I could go back home to have coffee, a bowl of Bran Flakes and wait for the time to go to Tesco came round. In the end rather than wait until eight so I could scan, I thought I would just it over with, so mixed in with the early rush hour traffic, and that coming from the port.

I whizz round Tesco, scooping stuff from the aisles, including ingredients for a meal I was going to cook that night, but more about that in a minute. I fond an almost empty till out of the two (!) that were open, pack and pay for the shopping.

Once home, I put all the shopping away, and get down to make some tomato sauce. Yes, you read that right too. See, through December we had caught the re-runs of Rick Stein's Long Weekend series, and were taken with many of the recipes, so we bought the book, and I planned to make the one that leapt out of me; baked pasta with beef and pork ragu. I decided to only have one sort of meat in the end, but the rest would be as per the book. First of all was to make the tomato sauce which is the base for many Italian recipes. Two tins of chopped tomatoes, some garlic and olive oil. Cook for half an hour, whizz with the blender, and it was done. And even if I say so myself, it looked great. And the smell of the frying garlic cloves filled the house.

But no time to stop to savour that, I must get going. At half nine I am out of the house, driving to Dover to try to get a haircut. Once in thew chair, no waiting needed, I find that the new barber, a lady, if also an amatuer photographer. So we spend a very pleasant half an hour chatting about cameras and exposure modes. Much better than the blokes who were chatting about violent video games.

I pay and then drive to Priory Hill, a place I had not been to before. But I had heard that workmen had cleared undergrowth, meaning that the station below was visible from there once again, something that had been hidden for over 20 years. Dover is built in a steep valley, and near the centre the rows of terrace houses cling to the hillside, sometimes twisting and turning, with modern life meaning that parked cars almost block the narrow streets. It is for this reason, partly, that we moved from the flat at Crabble, to have a drive we could park on, as much for being in the countryside and peace and quiet.

Anyway, I find a place to park, get the camera out, get my shot and am back in the car in under two minutes, then have to try and find my way out of the labyrinth maze of dead end streets and courtyards. In the end I retrace my steps back down to Ladywell, and take the London Road to Crabble, past the old flat to Kearsney and finally onto the Alkham Valley road to Folkestone.

All is brown once again, spring seems so close, and yet far away, especially on such a grey and gloomy day. Onto the motorway before turning off into what will soon be orchid country. On Thursday I had missed a church out from my list, so decide to go there and see if it was open. In the county A-Z, it seemed to be another place at a bend in a lane, less than a village really, and one expects there to be a tiny chapel of ease or small church for a community so small.

The narrow lane takes me on a rollercoaster of a ride, down hills at 15%, back up the other side, past farms and hamlets, I take the final turn towards the village, and despite there being no village, just a farm, there is the church, one of the largest in Kent, set back from the road built of flint and ragstone. It has a triple gabled east end, with the chancel in the middle of course. A classic example how the basic Normal two cell church had been expanded over the years.

Much to my delight, the church is open, and the bank of light switches easy to find. So I light up the church, and gegin to snap away, with it being domminated by memorials to the local landed family, of course. It was them that created at least one of the side chapels I suppose.

I take near on a 100 shots, and I am happy with that. I make a circle of the outside of the church, checking for blocked windows and doors, before gong back to the car, shivering in the chilly keen east wind. THere was promise of snow in the afternoon, and it was easy to believe, it felt cold enough.

Into the car and driving along the valley, I soon come to a familiar area, Yocklett's bank. I take a turn up the down back to the main road, passing by the layby where soon I will be using in order to hunt the early Fly Orchids. I take the road back to the motorway, then across driving into the coastal town of Hythe, as I was to collect Jools at two. It was now just after half twelve, enough time for one more church. I park at one end of the town, then begin the long climb up streets too steep to have cars, to the church sitting high on a bluff overlooking the town.

I had been here before, to visit the ossuary under the chancel, but inside the church a wedding was under way. So, this was one I had not visited or photographed.

Up and up I go, huffing and puffing. Even when I got to the church gate, there were two more flights into the porch and another into the church itself. Phew. The church itself is massive, and it must have been quite a task to create a fairly level space on the side of the hill for the church. The chancel is accessed by climbing yet more steps. But is worth the effort. A heavily Victorianised church, but with plenty of pleasing architecture to keep you interested.

I get back to the car at ten past one, just time to pop into Waitrose for a couple of things I had forgotten from Tesco. It is an expensive place, filled with wonderful and tempting things. I keep my eye on just the butter and yoghurt we needed, paid for them and escaped without being lured into buying otter's noses or something.

To the factory, arriving just after half one, 30 minutes to wait, but with Radcliffe and Maconie on the radio. I find myself bopping my head along to Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, Arcade Fire and The New York Dolls. The half hour soon passes, Jools comes out and the weekend can begin.

We drive home back along the motorway, then along the Alkham Valley to home, arriving home just before three, and just as the first snow flurries began to fall.

After making coffee, there is the rest of the recipe to make. Fry onions, more garlic, add the meat, wine and then the tomato sauce, let simmer for half an hour or so. Boil the pasta, mix in the saucepan with the ragu, pour into a pan lines with breadcrumbs and grated Italian cheese. Pat down, sprinkle with more breadcrumbs and cheese, pop into the oven and bake for 45 minutes or until brown and crispy.

I dish up, and it is marvelous. I mean really now too tomatoey at all, just bloody lovely.

There is TOTP from 1983, all Bananarama, Bonnie Tyler, jazz funk, Bucks Fizz and The Style Council. Finally, there is a fab documentary on Chrissie Hynde which reminds us not only how great a musician she is, but what a wonderful person she is too.

Outside, the snow carries on falling, and looks like it is settling too. As I watch the Chrissie Hynde doc, there is a fox sitting in the garden about ten feet away from me, eating peanuts left by the birds and keeping an eye on me. He seemed happy with the situation, he is there for about ten minutes before fading away into the night. In fact, this is the third time this has happened this week, maybe he just likes to watch TV through the front window.........

My Lords, do your patriotic duty

Anyone who follows current affairs will know that once patriotic fervour is called upon, that means there is no real evidence to support the cause. Just that it would be unpatriotic not to support the cause.

Thus it came to pass this week, that having been given the opportunity to debate the Government's Brexit bill, ended up passing it, with no amendments. This is mainly because the Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn, forced a three line whip on the party, thus asking the PLP to put party before country. Several did vote against the Government and party line, and resigned from the Shadow Cabinet, thus forcing Corbyn into another reshuffle. Never has politics be seen so much as re-arranging the deckchairs on the Titanic.

Not that Labour should have voted against the ill, but should have put in clauses that meant proper oversight. This they failed to do, even failing to back an amendment in supporting EU workers' rights post Brexit. Hopeless. And once the 3rd reading had been passed, Corbyn then tweeted that now the fighting would start. Thus failing to understand what his party had just done.

In the end, when Brexit is the shambles that it will be, there will be a day of political reckoning, in which the two main parties will each split in half, maybe a re-drawing of the political landscape will be good, but as the Union will be fractured, probably beyond repair by that time, it will be more deckchair arranging.

THe Brexit bill now goes to the House of Lords, with leaks from Number 10 stating that the Lords should do their patriotic duty in passing the bill, or face abolition.

The Lord's duty is to do what the House of Commons did not do, insert oversight and checks and balances. It the Lord's duty is just to nod along, then it really is a pointless chamber.

May has set herself a deadline of the end of March to trigger Article 50, no one forced her to do that, showing once again she really isn't as good at her job as she would like us to think.

Brexit is like a divorce, and the first part of discussions between the two parties is about what the talks will be about. Top of the list is the divorce settlement, outstanding contributions to various EU projects and initiatives that Britain has committed to. THis could be as much as £60 billion. Failure to agree this, means that the talks will fail there, and nothing else will happens, and Britain will fall out of the EU in two years on WTO terms.

Or worse.

Yes, there is worse, upsetting any one of the other 161 members of the WTO, including the EU itself, can trigger a dispute, trying trade up in hugely expensive (for British exporters) trade restrictions and border checks. But listening to the idiot savant, Jacob Rees Mogg, its so easy. Showing clearly, he doesn't really understand the problem, and he is an MP, son of a national newspaper editor, with the best education money can buy. All clearly wasted.

Part of me is past caring, let us see what happens. Maybe the whole process can be halted. Maybe it cannot. You would have thought the PM would have wanted to know, but they are so intent on implementing what is called "the people's will" which result in a massive power grab by the executive, changing laws and rights with little or no debate in the House, such is the so called "Great Repeal Bill".

Thursday 9th February 2017

I woke up and felt like an express train had run over me. In fact I slept so soundly I did not hear the alarm nor feel Jools get up. I did wake up when I smelled the coffee brewing. It seems me and my legs are very out of practice with a simple five mile round walk, so therefore, I will have to do more. But for a while, I just complain about how much my legs ache. And it is my thighs that are worse, just screaming with pain, asking what the heck did I think I was doing walking to Kingsdown when there are taxis available. Of course, that is the point. I must walk, or everything will seize up, and we don't want that, do we?

One other point before I get going, you will read later on something I will forever call the chip incident, and let this be a warning to us all. No matter how good a chip might look and smell, when out of the fryer, it will be hot.

Anyway, onto yesterday, and a day filled with churches, some of which I will have to hide the identity of due to being subjects of GWUK, but one I have to talk about, as it was so wonderful, I mean. Well, you will see.

Jools said she would travel to work on the train, so I could have the car for the day, but that meant her getting on the nineteen minute past six train from Martin Mill, which meant having to be out of the house by five past, which also meant having had breakfast by ten to, and finally being up in time to wake up, prepare lunch, have breakfast, shower get dressed and all that other stuff.

And as I said, I slept through it until five to six, when Jools was all busy getting clothes out of the wardrobe and heading for the shower. I'd better get up then! We are both dressed and ready to go by somewhere between five and ten past, and with it being just a two minute drive down the hill to the station, she was there in time to buy her ticket. And then I could drive home to make coffee and have breakfast, and watch the recording of last night's game, only due to it being extra time and all that, only the first half of extra time was recorded.

Oh well, I switch on the computer to see the highlights of the game, the two extra time goals anyway. And still, despite being on holiday, it feels like I am playing hooky from work. But I manage to fill in the time until the morning rush had died down before loading the car with camera equipment, and then checking my guide book, cross-referencing churches I had been to, making sure I was only going to new churches (for me). Such planning showed that I had missed out several churches close to home, or within a 45 minute drive anyway. But what I did lean through the day was that even if John had marked a place on the map in his book, did not mean it had a church, or if it did, then the church might be in another village, some miles away.

And such is the reality of the parish system, created hundreds of years ago, and where villages grew up does not mean is where the parish church was.

I get in the car and think that the worst of the traffic should be over. I was right about that at the Duke of Yorks, but further along at Whitfield, traffic was at a standstill. I tell myself not to panic, I have all day. I get through, roar past a line of trucks, and mix it with those making a last minute dash to get to Canterbury before nine. Certainly once past the Canterbury turnoff, traffic thins out to be almost non-existent.

I get to Faversham, then take a quiet road out, looking for a speck of a place which I am told, by John's book, there is a fine church. After driving down a succession of narrow, twisty and muddy lanes, I come to the village, and am through it before realising it. I find a place to turn round, go back through and count the buildings in the village on the fingers of one hand. And no church.

I program the next church in, or the next village, and check with the book that there is an actual church there to start with. There is, and the sat nav tells me it is ten minutes away. Halfway there I see the signs to another church, pointing up a lane that was called "Church Lane". Without thinking, I turn up it, thinking the church would be a few hundred yards up it. But no, the lane went on, up a down, down the other side, across a cross roads, which at least still pointed to the church, and the lane continued the other side.

I came to an ancient church, set beside a row of three cottages, the church itself is visible through a simple Lych Gate, but on either side there is no fence. As expected the door to the church is locked. But somewhere to come back to when the countryside is green and fresh, rather than the dull brown it is today. But here, best of all, is that the churchyard is carpeted with a thick layer of young snowdrops. Most are not yet open, but a few clumps in open ground are indeed open and worth snapping.

The sat nav takes me to the next church, set back from the main road, and despite having two wide tracks leading to the Lych Gate, both have "private, do not park" notices on show. I don't have much hope of this being open if I'm honest, and I am proved right. But there is a good list of keyholders, including two houses near to the church. Not the one who had places the do not park signs, but at both the keyholders, there was no answer to the ancient pull bells by the aged oaken doorways.

Next, I am taken to a church set among what were outhouses and stables and bakeries of a fine country house, but is now an exclusive housing development of four and five bedroom houses for the upwardly mobile. The church is locked, but a sign promises a keyholder nearby. Once I had worked out the map, photographed it and worked out how that applied to the dead ends and courtyards I find, there is no answer to the electronic peals of Big Ben when I press the door bell.

Oh well.

My next target was one that I had not know existed until that morning, and yet on orchid hunts up on Wye Down, you look down on Brook down below, and I'm sure I have seen the church there. But, I had not set foot or tyre tread in the village ever. So, that is where I went next. Entering the village, at every junction and turn, were signs for the village pub, offering good food. After the third set, a plan formed in my mind, go to the church, find the door locked, then go to the pub for beer and food.

I find the church, a stocky ancient looking building, with a stockier tower. To get to it, one has to cross a bridge over a spring, hence the name of the village, Brook. I try the door, and find it yielded, and once inside, I entered a long forgotten world. In 2016, St Mary was reordered, the modern (well, Victorian) was swept away, and the re-discovered wall paintings were given prominence, and the altar replaced with the ancient stone one found in the churchyard.

The effect is magical, I mean, it feels so other-worldly, that one expected some long-forgotten figures come to chant incantations. On most of the wall, paintings fromthe 14th, 16th and 17th centuries are on display, in various states of distress, but then you would be if you were 600 years old.

I take so many shots, some will come out, some won't. I will post the best here in time.

A few hundred yards up the road is the pub: the Honest MIllar. I find a parking space, but inside the place is rammed. Mainly with a part of coffin dodgers, who in fairness have as much right to have food as I do, but then the single waitress did ask if there was anything wrong. Half an hour later after correcting what was wrong, apparently, I got my drink and ordered fish and chips, which seemed to be OK as the portions were small, and so should not ruin my appetite

Those of you who may remember the beginning of this post may now understand the warning about hot chips. Yes, the food did arrive, and was so freshly cooked the batter was still crackling. I tried a chip, it was so hot it burned my mouth. So I swallowed it. And oh my word it was hot I had to pour half a pint of beer down my throat to stop it hurting. Then I waited as I felt my windpipe expanding as the burn affected me. But it stopped, and I wasn't going to let good fish and chips go to waste, even if it had nearly killed me. Oh no. I ate the lot, finished my beer and said it was good. Which it was, just bloomin hot.

I had one final church on the list, one which I must have been past, but is almost hidden from the road that passes through the village. There is a gravel track, and unfriendly do not even think of parking here signs. So I half block the road through the village and walk towards another St Mary, this time Brabourne.

In fact, it is a very similar church to Brook, just left Victorianised and covered with family monuments by the local landed gentry.

It is now two in the afternoon, and once I got my shots from here, I decide to go back home to sort dinner out and review the day's shots. Up to the old Roman Road, to Hythe then along the motorway before turning up the Alkham Valley to Dover and home, arriving home at half three.

I will have to collect Jools from the station at twenty past six, but with chorizo hash to prepare, I prepare the vegetables, boil the potstoes before setting off for Dover to collect Jools, then once home, all systems go, cooking the onion and peppers, frying the sausage then cooking the boiled potatoes until crispy.

Perfect.