Welcome to my blog...whatever image springs to mind, be it a hippopotamus, Tigger, red-haired Highland cattle, or a simple kitchen table, 'Unless a Seed' is a four-legged creature. My hope is that having read a Book Review, a Poem, or a What is a Christian? or some random post in Everything Else, you will be kind enough to leave a comment or a short reply. And I hope you enjoy reading its contents
What is a Christian?
Book, Podcast, Film, and Blog Reviews
Poetry
For Writers, Writing and Everything Else
Five Day Trip to Calais
Day One: Bristol to Whitstable in the MG
Not the traditional start of an expedition to France
Day One, Thursday
I don’t know anyone who has slipped across to Calais from Dover on the ferry to actually stay in Calais.
It appears that opinion is divided on the usual purpose for a Dover-Calais crossing three ways (1) Pre-Christmas cheap booze from the local Hypermarché (2) Driving to somewhere more interesting (3) embarked on the ferry by mistake.
Think again!
Here’s how the adventure started…
Leaving Bristol for Whitstable
There was a dual reason for stopping in Whitstable. My grandparents’ grave is at St John’s, Swalecliffe, and I fancied going to inspect the grave and maybe sit there and commune with God in the late afternoon sun.
Before setting off I discovered that the passenger side front tyre had a a slow leak – approximately 2 lbs per square inch (a wonderful scale) per day. So, the first decision of the day was to take the racing green MG (F) 1993 to the Ron Costello’s.
The photo tells you everything you need to know.
Tyre fixed for a paltry £15.00 I motored up the M32 and along the M4/M25/M26/M20 and M20 before entering the feared Thanet Way and descending via Tesco’s to purchase flowers, and strawberries and cream, to Paul and Ruth’s.
Climbing in and out of the MG is never easy but when one has a bad back and severe bursitis in both shoulders it is imperative not to laugh as this will only inflame one or both conditions…but the exit/entrance is not as swift as it could be.
A cuppa tea with Paul and Ruth and daughter Stacey, the first of three defeats on the chess board with Paul, and a fine shepherd’s pie, I drove down to sleepy St John’s, Swalecliffe not far from the sea. Whilst walking through the graveyard to find my grandparents’ grave I was attacked by three large seagulls swooping and screeching just above my head. On the final bombing raid, one of these ecclesiastical creatures thumped into my head, knocking my sunglasses off and digging its claws into my scalp, leaving me with cuts and bruises and a lumpy scab!
The vicious seagull graveyard guard, St John’s Swalecliffe
I pressed on past the killing zone to the grave but couldn’t really settle with the close attention of the birds making their feelings known: I was an invader that needed to be repelled.
As communing with God really was not possible, I made my way back to Paul and Ruth’s for tea and sympathy.
And sleep. It’s up early tomorrow and off to Dover.