Saturday 4th October 2025

It is the weekend.

And not much to do, really.

The plan had to have a lay in, but of course, our bodies had us awake soon after six.

So we get up, the cats are fed and the first coffee of the day is brewed.

I tested negative for COVID again, and felt fine to be honest.

The work on the kitchen is now just over two weeks away, and so preparations are under way for the disruption that will come.

We are sorting through things on what we really need in our new shiny kitchen.

We have the radio on through the day, and so get tasks done.

Before midday, I go for a walk to the end of the road. The wind is blowing hard, and its worse as I stopped through the gap in the hedge to see where the maize was harvested this week.

Back home, I clean the cooker. No idea why, its going to the tip in two weeks, but frying the sausages on Friday had splattered fat all over the hob.

So that was done.

And come half twelve, the football began.

Coventry thrashed Sheffield Wednesday 5-0, and then to the sofa to watch Final Score while listening to the radio and the games and updates there.

And no stress from Norwich playing, as that will be saved and doubled for the derby on Sunday lunchtime.

And then another game on the tellybox for the evening, a rip-roaring games between Chelsea and Liverpool, with the home team scoring in injury time, to Liverpool lost for the 3rd time in a week.

o it goes.

Friday 3rd October 2025

I woke up after a poor night's sleep, which was punctuated with bouts of coughing and a rattling sound from my chest.

Once up I had a headache and felt pretty sorry for myself.

Jools went back to yoga after six weeks off, and said she would get a COVID test kit on the way home.

Meanwhile I drank my coffee and continued feeling sorry for myself.

Jools came back, and I unpacked the kit, read the instructions and began to swab my nostrils, then swirling it in liquid A before squeezing out four drops onto the test strip.

Then to wait.

15 minutes. Control line appeared.

30 minutes. No second line meaning no COVID.

But still not sure, so I cancelled the physio appointment for the afternoon, just in case.

Friday was also noteable for Storm Amy, the first named storm of autumn, that blew in, though we in Kent only got the southern flank, so not too bad, but still plenty of rain.

So, not much to do outside, and I really should go anywhere where there were folks about, so I read, listened to music, while Jools nipped to Tesco again, and then to her arty class in the village library.

As the afternoon faded, and behind the clouds, the sun set, the sky turned an incredible lilac colour, with high above, a rainbow could be seen, though neither end coming near to land.

Darkness came soon after, and after an early dinner of apple and blackberry crumble and custard. Lovely winter comfort food.

We were out for the evening, to the village hall for a charity quiz night to raise money for the RNLI. A fiver per member, but no food or drink available, so it was an "American buffet", in that you took your own.

Some tables had a proper cheese and wine party, with baguette, bread knife and stinky cheese. We made do with snacks and beer (or cider), as the quiz started.

It was a good night with our neighbours, Bev and Steve, who are regular quizzers, but between the four of us we came joint second, only dropping five points, behind a team of at least eight that only dropped two.

Thursday 2nd October 2025

Thursday, and pretty much back in the groove.

Up at six and out at seven to the gym, dropping Jools off at the harbour so she can swim at or near high tide, and before the winds build later in the day.

At the gym, I cycle round San Francisco for 40 minutes or so, and enjoy it too, listening to more post-punk.

Then out, and back to the promenade to pick up Jools before returning home for breakfast.

The forecast was for sunny day and light winds, but only mid-teens in temperature: perfect weather, really for butterfly chasing.

But no one told Mother Nature of the forecast, and soon after ten it clouded over, got much cooler and the breeze stiffened, so that it was downright cold.

So I didn't go out butterfly chasing, nor did I feel like walking to the shop, so I drove.

And back.

Then there was a day to fill.

An hour taken with admin for my churchcrawling group, then more train porn after lunch.

Jools went out for an appointment at half two, so I put the heating on and snuggled up with Scully on the sofa.

I went outside at some point to take a shot of the Verbascum which has been flowering since May, and in the last two weeks has sprouted new flowers and growth from the end of it's "branches". So I make this the sixth month it has flowered.

I quickly make dinner of bangers and mash for dinner, with Boston Beans: clearing more out of the freezer as it is just two and a half weeks now before the kitchen is to be ripped out.

And she was off again, to an arts club the other side of Deal, leaving me with the cats and the minor European games on the wireless.

I have a huge backlog of images from my church visits through September, and I have eight churches and Maison Dieu in Dover to edit and post.

Through the day I edited shots from Maison Dieu, and have 125 shots of the stained glass windows to post. And then the churches.

Phew..

Wednesday 1st October 2025

A year ago, my overbearing and micro-managing manager had been fire. Before I could resign.

So, I had been living two days of bliss, before I knew I had to get my tasks under control.

Which I did.

We had already decided to retire in 2025, so I thought I had 11 months to go, in fact I had six.

Since work, there is no stress, really. Scully has been a worry, but we got there, in our time, which wasn't quick enough, but she is now settled and currently sleeping.

Yesterday, I found out that another former comrade of mine, Tiny, had passed away.

When we were going through our promotion course in 1999 - 2000, we used to pass Friday nights playing Football Manager, drinking coffee and eating ASDA custard doughnuts.

We lost touch, but to hear that is a shock.

I decided to skip gym on Wednesday, as the standing for the ceremony and the walking had made my legs ache. I could have gone, but decided that Thursday, Friday and Sunday would be fine.

Even still, I was up at half six for coffee and test Scully before injecting and feeding.

Jools went to her keep fit class, and I stayed home, writing up my adventures in the Midlands and editing shots.

The morning flashed by.

At half ten, I went into town to pick up Jools. We met in Chaplins for breakfast.

Another glorious morning that gave way to clouds and a cool breeze in the afternoon, making sitting outside with Scully too chilly.

So I sat on the sofa to watch some train porn, Scully joining me there instead.

I cook dinner, then after washing up and clearing away, sat through 90 minutes of Norwich trying to play football, and ended up losing 1-0 to West Brom.

Sigh.

Tuesday 30th September 2025

I woke at six after a fairly good night's sleep. Had a shower, got dressed and went down for breakfast, hoping to meet more old colleagues.

There are at least three and a half thousand current and former RAF Armourers, so the chance of meeting more I knew during the day seemed high.

As it was, there was just one other person in the semi-dark restaurant. And although there was food, it was limp and barely warm. Still, it was included in the cost of the room, so I filled by boots with fruit, yogurt, sausage and bacon, and a croissant with one of the four cups of coffee I had.

We were due to meet at half twelve, meaning I had maybe three hours to fill.

With churches.

The Church Conservation Trust is a great organisation, and their churches, although redundant, are open ten to four daily.

There was one less than ten miles away, so it was there I drove first. Out of Burton, going against the heavy traffic which tailed back some two miles over the series of roundabouts and traffic lights.

Back into the country, and down another dead end lane to Streeton-en-le-Field.

A heavy dew lay on the ground, and parkland stretched back towards Burton. Trees stood still against the blue sky, again their foliage, though mostly green, was turning golden brown at the edges of their leaves.

I walk through the churchyard, into the porch and pushed the door. It opened though I was twenty minutes early, but that was because the door had been forced and the lock broken.

Sigh.

Though no damage had been done, at least to my eyes, it is a shame that people treat our historic buildings thus.

I take my shots of the building. It must have been quite ruinous at some point recently, as windows had been blocked up, and the chancel arch rebuilt too using the same simple stones.

Functional, but not pretty.

Once done, I went back to the car and programmed the National Memorial Arboretum, 12 miles away, and set off.

At least I was lead across country. Maybe, I thought, I might pass a church or two on the way.

The road wiggled through the countryside, but came in time to a leafy village called Lullington. The handsome church overlooked the village green, the phone box now a library of sorts.

I parked and went to try the church door. It was locked, but on the board there was a named keyholder, so I called and Mrs Cooper said I could have the key, she lived in the long white building opposite.

It was almost a mansion, and her handyman was tending her flower beds. I went to knock, but he asked me what I wanted, and when I explained he went inside to pick up the key and hand it to me.

The church, although handsome, held no great treasures, though is obviously loved, with knitted flowers woven into garlands over the lychgate arch and the arch of the porch. It was only when close could I see the flowers were knitted.

When I returned the key, the bloke asked what I did (with the photos).

I explained, and then told me in a broad Midlands accent two double barrelled named churches nearby that were good. I didn't catch their real name, but a third sounded easy enough: Haw Cross.

But it wasn't Haw Cross or Hawcross.

Nor was it Haugh Cross.

It was Hoar Cross.

I found that on the sat nav and set off back in the general direction of Burton. Which was perfect.

I was lead across the Wolds, along at one point a narrow lane that went straight as an arrow for five miles, over a series of blind summits, through woods until it came to a junction, just shy of Hoar Cross.

Into Hoar Cross, past the pub on the crossroads with the finest pre-warboys finger post I have ever seen, though I didn't stop for shots as I was in a hurry: it was five past eleven and I hadn't found the church.

I went north, east and west out of the village and saw no sign of a church or a church lane.

And then, on the hill overlooking the village, I saw a tower. Modern, well, 20th century perhaps, but a church, and just a hundred yards beyond where I had turned round.

Holy Angels sits beside what counts as the main road in those parts, what little traffic there is motors past. But beyond a Boston Ivy overed wall and brick lychgate, the church rises, impressive in the autumn sunshine.

Inside it is stunning. Grade I listed, beloved by Betjeman and the highest of high Anglican churches.

I only had a matter of minutes, but this is a seriously impressive church: full of light, he smell of incense lingering, stations of the cross on all outside walls, and as a whole church, is nearly as impressive as Cheadle.

Nearly.

I hated to leave, but I had twenty minutes before I was due to be at the Arboretum.

Down the main street, onto an A road, doubling back towards Burton, then picking up signs directing the way, over a main road and railway, across some marshes and there it was.

Packed.

The parking ticket I bought had said sternly not to arrive before your allotted time. Many knew better and ignored this, so the main car park was full, so had to use the overflow beside the landfill site, then walk back.

Inside the main building a table had been set up for those attending. I signed in, and received a program and small token. I looked around.

No one I knew.

Still.

I bought a drink, sat outside and dozens of people around me and more arriving had our trade tie on, or the waistcoat. Some in uniform too, still serving.

But no one I knew.

I ambled down to the site of the ceremony, more folks milling around. Still no one I knew.

I took shots and enjoyed the moment.

I spied one person I know, another Ian, so I went and we shook hands. He also knew few folks. We chatted and caught up on a decade and a half's news since we last met in Lincoln.

Mark arrived.

He was nervous, as he was the play The Last Post (Taps) prior to the two minute's silence, so he went off to practice quietly, if quiet is a thing you do to a bugle.

One more person I know, though many others knew dozens of other attendees.

A serving Sergeant saw my camera and asked if I would supply him with shots for BFBS, so I did my best. But there were so many people getting a clear view was impossible.

At one, half an hour late, the ceremony began, with a former CO of mine doing the introductions before an Air Commodore, ex-Armourer, read the dedication covering a history of the trade and how family-like our trade is:

"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, colleagues, and friends, It’s a real privilege to speak to you today about a group of professionals whose contribution to the Royal Air Force has been, AND REMAINS, vital and that is the Royal Air Force Armourer. Versatile, ingenious and relentlessly loyal, the Armourer is a strange creature! From the forward edge of the battle line disposing of bombs and munitions, to the comfortable warmth of the armoury and bay, through the enduring domination of the line hut amongst the lesser trades to the demands of the bomb dump, we are unique and ferociously proud bunch.

From the earliest days of the RAF in 1918, through two world wars, the Cold War, and across every conflict through to the 21st century, Armourers have stood at the sharp end of conflict —enabling decisive and battle winning Air Power and combat effect when called upon.

That history is marked around us today, in this most important and impressive National Memorial Arboretum. And it is against this backdrop that I felt it worth taking a moment to reflect on our history, highlight our evolution, and celebrate the critical role armourers continues to play in the modern RAF.

The story of the RAF Armourer begins even before the Royal Air Force itself. In the First World War, the Royal Flying Corps and Royal Naval Air Service employed men trained to handle and maintain machine guns, bombs, and ammunition fitted to fragile biplanes.

When the RAF was founded in April 1918, as the world’s first independent air force, the need for dedicated tradesmen to manage weapons was clear. Early aircraft such as the Sopwith Camel carried Lewis or Vickers guns, with bombs literally dropped by hand in some cases. Armourers were the ones who kept those weapons firing, safe, and effective. More importantly it was the crafty and ingenious armourer who created new and novel ways to win the fight.

They weren’t just technicians; they were pioneers in a new form of warfare.

They had to innovate, often under fire, solving problems that had never been faced before in aviation history.

By the time of the Second World War, the role of Armourers had grown enormously. The RAF’s bomber fleets—Wellingtons, Lancasters, Halifax’s—and its fighters—Spitfires, Hurricanes, and later Tempests and Typhoons—all relied on Armourers.

It was the Armourers who loaded the .303 Browning machine guns on the Battle of Britain’s fighters, often working under pressure, at night, and in all weather. It was the Armourers who fitted the bombs, sometimes Grand Slam and Blockbuster bombs into the belly of the heavy bombers before raids over occupied Europe. And it was Armourers who adapted quickly to new technology, such as rockets and early guided weapons.

Perhaps what is most striking from this era is the relentless pace. A returning Lancaster would land, the aircrew would debrief, and the Armourers would already be preparing it for the next mission. They worked under blackout conditions, often with little rest, knowing that the success of the next sortie depended on their skill and dedication.

After 1945, as Britain entered the nuclear age, the Armourer’s trade evolved again. The RAF was now responsible for weapons of unprecedented destructive power. Armourers were trained to handle and prepare nuclear bombs such as Blue Danube and WE.177, as well as conventional ordnance.

The Cold War also saw the introduction of jet aircraft like the Vulcan, Lightning, and later the Tornado. With these came new weapons—air-to-air missiles, precision-guided bombs, and electronic countermeasures. Armourers had to adapt constantly, mastering advanced technologies while never losing sight of the basics: safety, reliability, and effectiveness.

This period also saw the RAF Armourer community establish a reputation for professionalism around the world. Whether on Quick Reaction Alert at home, deployed in Germany, or stationed further afield, Armourers were essential to Britain’s ability to project power and deter threats.

And let us not forget the Falklands War, whether embarked on HMS Hermes and Invincible with the Harrier Force, preparing the Black Buck raids for their critical and strategic attack on Stanley or on the ground in the most austere and extremely dangerous conditions clearing air delivered munitions, the RAF Armourer once again demonstrated their professionalism and utility.

The end of the Cold War did not mean the end of conflict. From the Gulf War in 1991 through to operations in the Balkans, Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, and more recently in the Middle East, RAF Armourers have remained on the front line. Many of you here today served and fought in those campaigns.

The armourer of today handles weapons which are far more sophisticated than their predecessors: precision-guided bombs, next generation missiles, cruise missiles, and more.

But the essence of the job remains the same, ensuring that when aircrew press the button, the weapon performs as intended.

On operations, Armourers are the bridge between engineering and combat. They work long hours in heat, dust, or freezing conditions to prepare aircraft at short notice. They are also problem solvers—often improvising solutions to keep aircraft mission-ready in austere conditions. Not to mention often establishing the first bar in Theatre!

So, what does an Armourer do today? In the modern RAF, they are trained across a wide spectrum. Like those who came before them, they handle conventional bombs and missiles, aircraft gun systems, countermeasures like flares and chaff, and ejection seats.

On the ground, they serve in expeditionary support roles, providing the capability to deploy weapons and aircraft anywhere in the world. On operations, they are part of integrated teams that keep the RAF’s fast jets, helicopters, and transport aircraft ready for action. At the heart of modern Agile Combat Employment. And just to quash the rumour, we may even still have some Airfield EOD cutting about, perhaps one for a chat for over a beer…..

Today’s Armourers are not just weapons technicians—they are ambassadors of RAF professionalism. They deploy alongside allies, often sharing their expertise and learning from others. They bring a blend of tradition and modern skill, embodying both the heritage of the trade and its future. And much like those early armourers behind the WW1 trenches in Europe, they are also at the heart of prototype warfare, ensuring we can continue to destroy our adversaries wherever they may be in new and innovative ways.

If there’s one thing that connects the Armourers of 1918 with those serving today, it is a sense of responsibility. Handling live ordnance demands absolute precision, discipline, and integrity.

There is no room for error.

But there’s also a deep camaraderie within the trade. Anyone who has worked alongside Armourers will tell you about their humour, resilience, and pride. They may joke about being the “last to let you down”— a nod to their role with ejection seats — but behind that humour lies a serious commitment to keeping aircrew safe and the mission successful.

Our history is full of untold stories: people working tirelessly behind the scenes, ensuring that the RAF can deliver air power when it matters most.

The RAF Armourer’s trade has evolved over more than a century, from fitting Lewis guns to biplanes, to loading smart weapons onto the Typhoon and F-35 Lightning. Through every era of RAF history, they have adapted, innovated, and excelled.

They are a vital link in the chain of air power—a chain that connects the engineer on the line, the pilot in the cockpit, and the strategic effect delivered on operations.

As we look to the future—with the growth of uncrewed systems, directed energy weapons, and ever more complex technology—one thing is certain: the RAF will continue to rely on the professionalism and expertise of its Armourers.

So today, let us not only recognise their history, but also celebrate their ongoing role in defending our nation.

In closing, I would also like to take a moment to thank Squadron Leader Mick Haygarth and the team, alongside all of those that contributed to bring this memorial to life, as a symbol of commemoration and also as a celebration of everything this proud trade continues to deliver for the RAF and Defence.

As many of you know, the father of the Royal Air Force, Air Chief Marshal Lord Trenchard, held the trade in exceptionally high regard, exemplifying his vision of a highly trained technical workforce, who could keep pace with rapidly evolving technology. And perhaps it was this that led him to famously state that “Without Armament, there is no need for an Air Force” or perhaps words to that effect……

Ladies and Gentleman, when my grandfather and armourer, Chief Technician Bill Michie, inspired me to join the Royal Air Force as an Armourer, I was privileged to become part of a wider family which revelled in its history, accomplishments and kinship. While my career has moved on, I will always remain an Armourer and it is with that in mind that I am hugely moved and proud to join with you here today to unveil this memorial and celebration of our family, our kin and our future, The Royal Air Force Armourer.

Thank you."

No Thank you, Air Commodore Jamie Thompson.

Mark sounded the bugle, the standards were lowered, and a silence fell on the place. We stood to remember those we have lost over the years.

One final prayer, then the Lord's Prayer, and it was over.

I looked around, still just three people I knew. Should I stay for the evening's get together in the local 'Spoons, or go home early and be home this evening?

I worked out the route and timings, and thought I would miss rush hour's in the local area, get past Cambridge by about half four and be on the M25 by half five, and be home by half six-ish.

So I drive to the hotel, checked out, grabbed my stuff from the room and threw it in the back of the car.

I programmed the sat nav for home, and it guided me south out of town until I joined the M6 Toll, then south on the M6 before turning off on the A14 again.

A glorious day for driving, and the road was fairly clear until about ten miles shy of the A1 junction, but beyond that it was three lane roads and driving at the speed limit as I pressed on to Cambridge then down the M11.

No hold ups, no jams certainly, even turning onto the M25 wasn't the stressful event it usually is. I made it to Dartford by five, the sun now low in the west, it was in golden light as I reached the midway point of the bridge and entered The Garden of England again.

I stopped off at Burger King in town for supper. I had their Wagyu burger, the most expensive take away burger in UK history, as I had seen a few folks on Facebook try it.

I got Jools a spicy chicken burger, as well as onion rings, cheesy chilli bites, and BBQ chicken fingers.

No fries.

Back home to eat and catch up.

How was the £11 burger?

It was OK.

Just OK.

I had unpacking to do, and then sort my pictures out and begin to write all about it. Whilst listening to football.

But I was back home.

Monday 29th September 2025

I served in the RAF for fifteen years.

I worked in the food industry for five years previous to joining up, then worked in the deep sea survey industry before ending up with wind turbines for the last 15 years before retiring.

I am proud to have served, and made many, many long-term friends and comrades.

I last went to a reunion over a decade ago, where the heavy drinking, I realised, was a thing of the past.

Every year I think of going to that year's reunion, but think better of it.

I was an armourer. That is a trade that deals with anything and everything that goes bang, from bombs and missiles, to small arms, loading aircraft to bomb disposal.

We are very proud of our trade, and are very active on social media in keeping in touch and letting the rest of us know when one of the family is called to the Tea Bar in the Sky.

Two years in the planning and fundraising, was a memorial to be erected at the National Memorial Arboretum in Staffordshire, and this week it was to be dedicated.

I decided that I wanted to be there.

So, hotel was booked and much planning of some churchcrawling to be done on the Monday afternoon and maybe Tuesday.

I thought Cheadle was in Lancashire, but it turns out it is near Stoke in the Midlands, a 40 minute drive from the hotel, so it seemed a good idea that I would visit on the Monday, before turning back south to the hotel.

St Luke was designed by our old friend, Augustus Welby Pugin, and is considered his "gem". It even says that on the brown road signs as you get near to Cheadle.

But before getting there, I had the small matter of driving nearly five hours from Dover, heading north, mostly by a route you'll be very familiar with.

The alarm went off at five.

Early.

I get up, and between us we feed the cats, make coffee, so that by five to six, the car was packed and I was ready to leave.

It was so early that there was no traffic heading away from the port, meaning I had a good run up the M20 past Ashford and Maidstone as dawn crept across the sky, and the sun rose.

Above, the sky was laced with clouds, but mostly blue, though tinged with pink from the early sun.

Amazingly, the M25 was fairly clear. I cruised to the tunnel in just over an hour after leaving home.

Along to the M11, then just head north.

North through Essex. The harvest is in, fields are ploughed and seeded, trees are still green, though edged with gold telling us that autumn is here.

Even Cambridge at eight wasn't busy, though it was coming the other way along the A14. I pressed on, stopping for breakfast at the massive Cambridge Services.

Breakfast was a bacon and sausage butty, a cup of tea and a Twix.

Breakfast and dinner as it turned out.

I ate in the services, then back in the car for the next leg north.

West of the A1, the A14 is still a two lane road, and the trucks that use it, overtaking, cause tailbacks as they creep past other trucks.

Its 42 miles, and it seems to take forever, but the junction at the foot of the M6 arrives, but the sat nav tells me to take the M1 instead.

Once I turned off the motorway, I went through an almost endless series of roundabouts, parkways and strip malls, as one Midland town blends with the next.

Between, sometimes, there are green fields, and rolling countryside, while above a "Simpsons" sky allows lots of sunshine to make nature's colour really punch.

The final 30 minutes were through villages rather than towns, up steeper hills. But I reached Cheadle just before eleven, and once driving round the town's one way system, I found the main car park, a short walk from the church.

St Giles is open every day, once I reached the church, the most striking feature is the west doors, with matching golden rampant lions on a bold red background.

Pugin was here.

I thought Ramsgate was Pugin's perfect church, but St Giles is breath-taking.

There were three others in the church, they sat in the pews and took in the church, talking in whispers.

I went round taking picture after picture, with both the DSLR and mobile.

How do I describe it? How can mere words do justice to a force of natures greatest work?

I guess its like listening to an orchestra, where all the parts combine to make a symphony. St Giles is a symphony in stone and paint and glass for the senses.

I had to leave, as I only had an hour on my parking ticket, so walked back up the main street and cut through back to the car park.

I had asked a friend, Aidan, if there were any churches in the area he recommended, and one was Radcliffe-on-Soar. So, I set the sat nav, and headed 40 minutes back in the direction I had just come.

Ratcliffe is a small village, spread out along a dead end lane, with the church near the end, and would be unremarkable. But decades ago, a massive coal fired power station was built the other side of the main road, its eight cooling towers dominate the village and landscape for miles around.

The power station is now closed and set to be demolished soon, so the towers still stand, stark against the light clouded sky.

Holy Trinity is open daily. I checked. So, I parked on the side of the lane, walked to the porch and pushed open the door.

Inside, the stillness was deafening. The centuries laid heavy on the tombs in the chancel, for it was the tombs that make this church so special.

Five, I think, tombs with carvings of the occupants on top, all in pious poses, though through the untold years, vandals and visitors have broken bits off: nose here, a foot or hand there.

I took my shots, enjoying the peace inside.

But my last church closed at four, it was half two, so should be OK, but you never can be sure.

It was another half hour drive, this time along country lanes winding its way over the Wolds.

The thing with postcodes is that in urban areas are very specific, and you find your destination quite easily. In rural areas a large part of the parish can be under the same postcode, or the whole village.

The sat nav got me to the village, but I could find no church. It suggested going down a road marked private. I decided not to follow, and visited all parts of the village in search of the church.

I found Church Lane, and like me you'd think the church was on church lane.

It isn't.

Or as I found out soon after, the bridge from Church Lane to the church has been closed.

Hmmm..

I checked on Google Maps, and sure enough the church was down the private lane. So I went back, following another car, that was being driven by the keyholder.

This was Widmerpool, the road took me past the outbuildings for a country estate, all now turned into large private residences. I could feel watchful eyes following me as I drove up the road.

I parked at the end, and saw the lady walk up a path with an old gas street lamp indicating it might be the way to the church.

It was.

The lady was talking to a workman who was dealing with a wasp infestation.

"Can I help you?"

I have come to see the church, it took some finding. It should be open today.

"I have the key, I will open it for you".

We went in and we talked about this church, and churches in general, but mainly about people like her who give parts of their free time for caring for these grand buildings.

Apparently there was an ancient church here, but mostly rebuilt in the first half of the 19th century, and again in the second half, what is there is mainly late Victorian, but of a good standard.

I liked it, and the location, far away from the towns that link like spider's webs across most of the Midlands.

But it was time to go to my hotel in Burton. I bid the keyholder farewell, as two dozy wasps buzzed around sounding like two very small bagpipes.

Back out along the private road, across the crossroads, over the railway and back to the main road. And then just twenty minutes to noisy, busy Burton.

In the middle of a retail park set along the main road into town was the Premier Inn, I pull in and check in.

Nothing wrong with the hotel or room. Clean and functional.

I settle down for 90 minutes before going next door to the restaurant for dinner. I had a table booked to make sure.

At half five, I walked over to the "restaurant", and found the place near deserted, the lady with improbable eyebrows who checked me in was double shifting in the bar all evening, and the oncoming shift found supplies were short.

I found out there were no burgers, no chips, no pizzas, no cheesecake, and other things ran out in the two hours I was there.

I couldn't have burger, so had fish and chips. Though not chips as such. Weird shaped slivers or potato. They did OK.

I had a beer too.

And as I was finishing, an old friend, one of the first corporals I worked for back in 1991 walked in.

Hello Mark.

"Hello Ian"

So, we sat down to catch up and found out what we have done in the last 34 years.

A friend of his came in, to eat, but hearing the ever growing list of items they place were running out of, they caught a taxi into town for a highly rated Indian restaurant (which had closed), so I drank up my third beer and went back to my room.

And went to bed at nine.

Sunday 28th September 2025

Sunday.

As I would be away for two day, I thought I had better get some phys in.

So it was that at ten past seven on a glorious Sunday morning, we were driving to the sports centre.

At least at such an unGodly hour there were few other there.

We parked near the entrance, and walked to the entrance out front, before climbing the stairs to the gym.

I cycled round another city, somewhere in the world. I can't remember which, it was three days ago, nearly. But I did forty minutes, and had a good post-punk soundtrack to work out to.

And so it was ten past eight, we were done and walking back to the car, as parents brought their little darlings for a swimming gala.

Back home for breakfast and another coffee, and then thoughts turned what to do with the rest of the day.

The level crossing sign out front of the house looked shabby, and I had been meaning to do something about it.

So it was I was at B&Q at ten past ten, looking at shelves and shelves and rows and rows of paint.

So much paint.

I selected a tin of white and a tin of black smooth Hammerrite. then back home to take the sign down, wash it, and apply the white.

I had bought two brushes too, so with the warm sun on my back, and Jools beside me finishing her blanket, I applied the white over about 80% of the sign.

This was the easy part.

Next would come when I did the black, including the lettering.

That would wait until after lunch and the white had dried.

So, with a steady hand and small brush, I painted the steam locomotive and the rail. But then there was the lettering.

I took a deep breath, and with a damp brush, made sure the black was applied on the top of the letters only.

In half in a hour it was done. Not perfect, rough and ready, but good enough.

We had to wait for the paint to dry, late in the afternoon, before we could put it back.

I think it looks pretty good.

While the paint was drying, I watched football.

Of course.

Then prepared supper of hash, with new chorizo I found in Tesco.

I had another bottles of the Chimay that arrived a couple of weeks back, and it was magnificent.