Sunday 10th August 2025

It is easy in either cold wet weather, or hot sunny weather, to sit inside and shelter from the extremes Mother Nature throws at us.

There's stuff on the radio, footy on TV and all the other stuff. But sometimes, you've just got to get out.

And as I promised Jools that when she went swimming in the harbour I would come along and walk the promenade, and Sunday she had planned to mee Sean and Ange down there.

So it was after coffee, we left the house just before nine, down Jubilee Way, parking just behind the Prom.

Jools went to the beach, and from the railings about said hello to our friends.

In port was still the Spanish Galleon, and a cruise ship, which explained the confused American and French tourists wandering around looking for some culture. Or McDonalds.

I walked to the new bridge and back, mainly to botanise the beds along the edge of the beach. Not much of rarity at this time of year, but good for the council to make then nature friendly, and put up boards explaining that there are for nature and wildlife.

I was the only one looking, really though.

By the time I had wandered back, Jools was out of the water and dressed, and looking out for me so we could walk back to the car.

Leaving the beach means talking to everyone you pass, and can take half an hour.

She makes it to the Prom, we sit and wait for Sean and Ange, as it takes them longer as they have to talk and hug everyone.

And then us, so we go our separate ways.

Back home for breakfast of the leftover fruit, all now pretty much mush or getting there, but fine with yogurt and muesli on, and went down well with a fresh brew.

And that was it really. Too warm to go much, we sit on the patio until we get too warm, take shelter in the house and do it again.

We have lunch.

And after, the sun had swung round so much that the seats were in shadow and so much cooler, the afternoon breeze had got up as well.

A mid-afternoon snack of a mug of tea dunked with ginger nuts did the trick, and then there was football: Leicester v Sheffield Wednesday, which ended 2-1 home win, though The Owls played well for a club near extinction and players that had not been paid for months.

Supper was cheese and cracker. And wine.

Before retiring to the patio to watch the 97.5% waning moon rise at ten past nine.

Saturday 9th August 2025

It am the weekend. Again.

What should we do? Perhaps nothing.

As it was another heavy day for port traffic, we did little.

There's always the radio to entertain, or sit on the patio with Scully, until it got too hot.

Mornings mean the sun shines bathing the whole garden in hot sunshine, but as the sun passes over the yardarm, the shadow from the parasol protects us on the seats from the worst, and then later on the shadow from the hedge makes it even cooler.

The morning was just a preamble to the start of the football, three back-to-back games, starting at half twelve.

I could have gone out, but instead stayed in the cool of the house and watched footy.

Otherwise it was time spent researching feline diabetes, with more information, and the ability to post on a message board.

Second game was Norwich v Millwall.

A brave new era for Norwich, apparently, with new manager and several new high profile players.

City played well for 40 minutes, then ran out of puff. Millwall dominated, bullied then scored the first a few minutes into the second half.

Two minutes later Sarge levelled after charging down a clearance from the Millwall keeper, the ball bouncing into the goal off Sarge's bum!

But Norwich still didn't wake up, got caught out on the break time and time again, and was only a matter of time before Millwall scored the winner.

Which they did.

Dinner was garlic butter spatchcock chicken, new potatoes, corn and creamed spinach.

All delicious.

Bristol City thrashed Sheffield Wednesday in the evening, I then sat on the patio with glasses of whiskey waiting for the Sturgeon moon to rise at ten to ten.

It rose red and angry, but just hanging in the sky, like it was just hung there.

Friday 8th August 2025

Friday, and a day dedicated to our cats.

Again.

Thanks to conversations with a friend, we have a better understanding of feline diabetes than we did, and the poor support we have received from our vets.

Scully was to go in for a insulin curve monitor, while Cleo and Poppy were to have a free health check.

Rounding any more than one cat is difficult, so three requires team tagging.

So, after breakfast, the round up began, with Poppy finding a new hiding place in the wardrobe, which Jools just managed to get her out of. Cleo and Scully turned out to be easier.

Then to the vet: Scully was taken in, and I took Poppy and Cleo to see the nurse and her view was they were in good health, good weight with no issues with heart or stomach.

Scully was to be left until half five, so we were free to leave after paying the bill.

We have enough supplies to get us through the weekend, so no need to go to Tescos, back home before the port traffic built up again.

We had salad for lunch, so that we could sample some of the Kent cheeses we bought Thursday. Sorry, sample all the Kent cheeses we bought.

A quiet afternoon during which little happened. I tried to take some shots, but it was too hot for the butterflies to settle.

I had dropped Jools off at the library so she could do her crafty morning, so sat in the garden without Scully, and how oddly quiet it was.

At five, we went back to talk to the senior vet about the results.

To say I'm not happy is an understatement, but her insulin is to be changed, and we will investigate a change of food.

Back home for supper of bread and artisan cheese. The olive and cranberry bread was stale, so I sliced it thinly then toasted, turning the slices into crackers, which went perfect with the smoked brie, unpasteurised brei and soft blue cheese.

And then the first game of the season in the Championship, Birmingham v Ipswich, two teams that we playing a whole division apart last season: Brum going up, Town going down.

Birmingham dominated play, lead 1-0 going into injury time before a harsh penalty gave Town a point.

45 games to go.

On the ball. Again.

The new Championship season kicks off tonight, with the juicy encounter between Birmingam and Ipswich, who last seasn were two divisions apart.

More tommorow, and all on TV.

Another Sunday.

Then comes the League Cup.

And so begins the madness.

How come there is so much football, Ian? I don't hear you ask.

Well, good question.

Once upon a time there was just league and cup football. And not much international football. No European football at all. And no League Cup.

Four divisions of 22 or 24 teams, playing each other in their respective divisions home and away: 42 or 46 games per season. The cup was the FA Cup, with unlimited replays, mind, so played until one team or the other won the tie. One game, two games, four games. Whatever.

As football was "mass entertainment", entry was a few pennies or so, so that the owners wanted as many games as possible to turn a profit. Players were limited to £20 a week until the beginning of the 1960s.

So far, so good.

Then clubs decided they would like another competition to raise more cash. So the League Cup was born, for the 92 members of the Football League.

Initially, not all clubs took part, but within a few years, a Wembley final and entry into Europe made it all the more attractive.

Until the beginning of the 1950, English Football (through the FA) was happy to believe that its game was the best, so saw no real point in international matches, and only took part in the World Cup in 1954 onwards. International travel was tricky before then too. But a hammering by Hungary in 1953, 6-3, showed that English football might not be the best.

Soon, European football started. But again England was slow to take part, but high profile friendlies made the case, as did floodlights. By the end of the 50s, English teams were playing in European games.

So in a few years, football went from just league and cup games, to having international and European games too. But at no point did anyone think there was too much football.

As football passed through the 60s, the rise of television ownership, and leter, violence on the terraces, meant that attendances plunged, and there was the need more than ever for lots of games.

Football reached its lowest point in 1985, when there was the Bradford fire and Heysel.

Bradford was a disaster a long time coming. Decades of lack of investment in grounds left many clubs with at least one wooden stand, sometimes more, and all it would take was one dropped cigarette butt ignighting a pile of accumulated rubbish.

It happened at Bradford, captured by TV covering Bradford's promotion celebrations. 55 peoople died.

Heysel resulted in English clubs banned from Europe for 5 years, and the clubs created a new competition to take the place of European games among themselves.

Then came Hillsborough, 96 fans died in a crush, 35 years after a similar crush at Burnden Park and 18 years after a crush at Ibrox.

The old stands were swept away. Standing terraces replaced by seats. And after the Taylor Report into Hillsborough, all standing at games in the top two divisions was banned.

Clubs had traditionally charged more to sit than to stand, so carried this on with the new all-seater grounds. Prices surged. And yet, there were more games in Europe, even as the fledgeling Premier League reduced the number of clubs in it to 20.

More and more European games.

More and more International games.

When Aston Villa won the European Cup in 1982, they only had to play 9 (nine) games in total. When PSG won the Champions League in June this year, it was their 17th game. For some teams playing, they might have had to play one or two, or more qualification rounds just to get to the group stage. Taking a possible number of games to 21.

The number of European games has expanded as Europe of the Cold War fractured. Meaning more games, more groups. And then more teams get to qualify for the finals.

The World Cup has ballooned from 16 teams in 1978 to 24 in 1982, then to 32, and will be 48 next year when the fnal are held in the USA, Mexico and Canada. Or not.

More teams, more games. More games for overworked players to take part in.

The extra money that the Premier League brought in for top clubs lead to higer and higher prices paid for player transfers and wages. And the way in which spending caps are calculated means that clubs are encouraged to put up ticket prices to be able to keep spending on players.

This is mutually assured financial destruction, of course.

Player wages in Englad at the start of the 1960s was £20 a week, but now some earn over half a million a week. Some earn far more. This is paid for by TV money and by ticket prices. Clubs do not want to see their number of games reduced lest they not be able to afford the latest wonderkind.

So, the madness continues.

And in a global world linked by the internet there are post season tours, pre season tours. Pretend tournaments played in places where the Premier League, or the club's brand is wanted to grow.

So that some players are now getting to play close to 70 games a season. As well as the associated travel.

So, big kick off tonight, Norwich play on TV tomorrow.

Let the madness commence.

Thursday 7th August 2025

Thursday.

A busy day.

Well, in retirement, anyways.

A week back, I went up Temple Ewell Down looking for the final orchid species of the year, and drew a blank. But it was time to look again.

So, up early and once coffee had been drunk, I was out in the car, through Whitfield to Temple Ewell, parking behind the old George and Dragon.

Once you're up on the down, its a fabulous place. Thing is there's the climb to get up there. In the scheme of things, not that far, but to an old guy with short fat legs, its a hike.

First, up the stops into the lower wood. Some of the recut steps are large indeed, not so bad going up, but a pain going down. Then along the edge of the large meadow before turning up along the path through the upper wood and finally thorough the swing gate out onto the down, before the last climb up the first paddock, through the second gate and along the fence.

Then, one I turned down the slope, I could begin to hunt for the tiny orchid spikes.

The slope was quite lush, with lots of Squinancywort and its tiny flowers sent to confuse.

I got to near the bottom, having found nothing, so turned up and began the climb.

In ten paces, I saw the first spike. This was about two inches tall, with flowers open on the lower third of the spiral. Nearby, I saw a good four or five spikes not yet in flower.

And further up I found more. Then, nearly at the top, ad near mature spike with a fine spiral of flowers nearly to the top.

I snapped that.

The sunny intervals forecasted were mainly brief flashes of sun, and a keen cool breeze blew on the upper slopes meaning there were no butterflies there.

On the way down, I did encounter and snap a Chalkhill Blue and Wall basking in the sunshine, but the 18 species I was hoping for were roosting in their safe places.

Down the steps back to the car and to home, where Jools was making breakfast, so we were soon tucking into bowls of fruit and yogurt.

The U3A new group website went live at midday, and a torrent of mails started with people who want to join the group. Soon the group was full, but the mails kept coming.

So begins the admin for the Churchcrawling group.

I sent out a welcoming mail to the lucky 11, by which point it was quarter past one, and I was late.

Late for a train.

A steam railtour was coming through, and I'd already missed it at Shepherdswell, so would have to snap it at either Dover Western Docks, or at the site of the Old Town Yard, beside Shakespeare Beach.

The second was for the best for shots, but involved climbing down via steep steps, then back up the cliff. It had been some years since I was down there. But its there I would go.

I parked on the road in Aycliffe, walked through the underpass to the cliff path, along to the top of the steps.

Did I really want to do this?

Yes.

So, down I went, one step at a time, with the footbridge visible to the right and far down below.

I made it down, knees sore. I took my place to the left of the tracks, so to get side on shots of the locomotive when she passed by.

A few others came to see the tour, so there was six of us on or beside the bridge.

A Javelin went first at five to two.

Snapped.

Five minutes later, Clan Line rounded the corner near the Lord Warden Hotel.

And once three quarters round, with the snake of carriages still on the curve, the driver opened the regulator and black smoke puffed out of the chimney, and the sound of the hard-working pistons echoed off the cliffs.

In a matter of seconds she was nearly on us, I swapped the DSLR for my mobile, and filmed he as she passed and entered Shakespeare Tunnel, sounding her whistle as she went.

And then came the long, or not so long climb back up. I didn't stay to see the Electrostar pass, but allowed everyone else past me on the steps, while I pretended to look at the view.

Once back on the road, I saw a guy waiting in the bus shelter: do you want a lift into town? I asked.

Shane seemed amazed that someone would ask, and kept asking me if I was sure before getting in.

Instead of dropping him in town, as I had to go to Tesco, I was driving past the end of his street, so dropped him there. Shane had walked from town, up Eastcliff steps to the NT place, then back down, along the prom and beach to the footbridge, getting wet feet due to high tide.

I dropped him off with two hand shakes, before I went to Tesco to buy potatoes and ice creams, then speed back home.

Jools and I have an ice cream and brew in the back garden, then potatoes were peeled, boiled, drained, steam dried before plopped in hot oil, basted and roasted for 90 minutes, so they were super crispy.

Steak and Stilton pies were cooked, fresh runner beans from the garden were steamed, and the gravy warmed up.

A stunning dinner with Presidents XV to wash it down with.

9,000 steps done, half uphill too. I was pooped. We listened to the radio before clearing up and heading to bed at half eight for a shower and bed.

Wednesday 6th August 2025

Its hump day, though when retired every day is hump day, I guess.

And at eight, Jools was off for Qigong class, which she has been doing for several months now. Which left me home with the cats and a fresh cup of coffee.

I messed around online, then sat outside with Scully after filling up the feeders, watching the butterflies, bees and wasps buzzing round, generally collecting pollen and nectar.

The rewilding, and planting more insect friendly plants has been a huge success.

Unbeknown to me, Jools then went to the beach for a swim, and was sidetracked by a Spanish galleon arriving into port, with tugs spraying water as a form of welcome and celebration.

The plan had been to go to Biddenden to the cider place, to restock further for Jools. I called Jools, she had not been swimming yet, but was coming straight home.

Camera battery charged, car packed. We set off, Jools crocheting as we went, up the A20 to Folkestone, then on the motorway to Ashford, where I took the wrong exit, so we had to take ten miles of back lanes to get onto the A28. That's what the sat nav told me.

Through High Halden and keeping going, before turning north west towards Tunbridge Wells.

Kent is much larger than it appears, and it can take over ninety minutes driving from Dover to leave the county, depending on which direction you go.

Anyway, turned off the main road, turned off that onto Gribble Bridge Lane and into the cider farm.

We bought cider, of course, some beer, cheese and crackers, and a bottle of apple juice for the journey.

A short drive into the village was the church. Which is always open. Except this day. Open for coffee Tuesdays and Thursdays, apparently.

We walked back to the car.

Next off, something that becoming harder to say: a new Kent church.

To get there we would have to drive through Goudhurst, the highest point in Kent, and hope of ancient road that is not wide enough for two modern cars to pass, in places.

Lots of nice places to shop and eat and drink there, but we must press on.

We crawl through the village, which looked very different in the bright summer sunshine, rather than the heavy winter cloud and halflight as it was when I last called at Goudhurst.

Down the hill onto the Weald, and finally onto the Hastings road, before turning off into Lamberhurst.

Down church Lane, past huge houses and mansions to the end of the road which terminates in a sort of car park.

I get the camera, not really believing the church would be open. Up the narrow path between hedges, into the churchyard and round to the porch, where ancient doors said the church was open, turn the brass handle. Hard.

The door swung open, and once through the inner glass door, the church revealed itself.

Its a fine mix of ancient and Victorian, with memorials, hatchings and quite the largest Queen Anne coat of arms I have ever seen.

I got the large lens out to record the Victorian windows and other details.

Back outside in the bright sunshine, and an amble back to the car. We set sail for home.

Soon we came a small service area, so we stopped for sausage rolls and a Cornish pasty. Which we washed down with the apple juice from Biddenden.

The sat nav took us the same way back, though traffic through Goudhurst was easier late in the afternoon and then through Biddenden to Ashford, onto the motorway and back home.

The feline welcoming committee was there, so the cats got fed and we made a brew before I prepared Caprese for dinner.

The evening slipped by, all the slower for there being no football.

Tuesday 5th August 2025

In a turn up, I go to the gym first thing.

We have been putting it off, and making an excuse is very easy. However, the time had come to get down on it.

Jools bailed due to a sore leg, so she dropped me at the sports centre so I could cycle part way up a mountain.

Or something.

Listening to the end of a favourite song meant I did an extra two minutes, so happy with that, I walk downstairs and wait for Jools to come back from Tesco.

I end up doing some botanising, and found a large amount of Blue and Common fleabane in flower.

Nice.

I was so into it that I didn't notice Jools arrive.

I climb in, and she drives us home. While I unpack the shopping, she makes coffee before going back out for some aquafit in the pool, back at the sports centre.

I am back home, so I have breakfast and a brew, tidy up, then sit outside with Scully watching nature.

A Green shield bug landed on my leg. I snapped that, and there were a few butterflies about, so I chase those and get shots.

After quite a busy Sunday, after lunch we just chilled and time slipped through our fingers like the cuddly toy of disappointment in a fairground grabbing game.

Somehow, it was five in the evening.

Cats fed.

Jools did dinner, breaded chicken salad with wine.

Yummy.

We listened to I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue as we ate.

So laughed a lot.

Its dark now at half eight, and the fat old waxing gibbous yellow moon hung in the sky.