I Blamed the BBC - Thank You, BBC!

Facebook is a wonderful facility.  Day after day, it seems, it can present to the user a reminder of what was happening a year, three years, any number of years ago, offering the chance to share these memories with friends again. Last weekend, I was reminded of a journey to Great Yarmouth a year ago and the recollection of a day at the seaside prompted the decision to go to another resort before this summer is out.  With nothing else demanding my time this week, I selected Tuesday for a trip to Lowestoft.

Tuesday began early.  After my weekly bell-ringing practice on Monday evening, and a follow-up drink with two friends in the pub across the road, I returned home to 'put social media to bed' before heading for the sheets myself.  As a result, an e-mail that had arrived during the evening was stuck in my mind and I didn't sleep well at all.  In short, at 3.0 I was sitting at my desk in my dressing gown and typing a reply.  I returned to bed an hour later and slept soundly until 8.30.  Consequently, by the time I actually left for the seaside the clock had just ticked past 10 o'clock.

I was listening to the radio as I drove along the A14 and, whatever the programme was, it so gripped my attention as I passed Bury St Edmunds, that it wasn't until I was going up the hill and rapidly approaching the next junction, that I realised I'd missed my turning.  I rapidly re-calculated my route and decided that it would be rather nice to go cross-country and approach Lowestoft from the south instead of the west. All went well until I'd started heading north on the A12.  I passed a turning signposted Dunwich and, by the time I'd reached a suitable place to turn around, I'd realised that time was passing, Lowestoft was still a long way to go and there was just as much coastal attraction a little closer.  So Dunwich it would be.

Dunwich: view from the cliff-top

Parking there is essentially free, but subject to a donation, and the same conditions apply elsewhere.  After lazing a while on the beach I looked around the museum and walked up the hill to the ruins of Greyfriars Priory, returning to the seaside car park by way of a footpath along the cliff-top.  All too soon it was time to set off for home, deciding to take a more direct route than I'd come, but there was more excitement to come.

Ruins of Greyfriars Priory

I explored a few Suffolk villages that were new to me, and then found myself on the road that I would have used if I'd set off in the morning with the intention of visiting that one-time great port, now mostly submerged beneath the sea.  Soon I was approaching the turning to the village where I lived for six years or so at the end of the '70s and start of the '80s, and which was my spiritual home for well over twice that.  This time I made the decision soon enough, and diverted to indulge in a little nostalgia.  After walking around the corner where I had lived, rekindling memories, I wandered up the hill to the church.  Attracted by a roadside sign, 'Church Open', I crossed over and went inside.

To my amazement quite a number of people were gathered, and a table was being set out for refreshments.  As I turned towards a voice I recognised, and began to chat to the churchwarden, I noticed a woman looking at me with an undue sense of awe.  The truth then dawned and she apologised for her gaze.  "We're expecting a Bishop," she explained, and my friend pointed to a notice about the imminent visit of the diocesan eminence as part of an area event.  The ice was broken, and a spirit of friendship and fellowship enveloped me as I explored and enjoyed re-discovering things I'd forgotten.

Rt. Rev. Graham James,
Bishop of Norwich

As I returned to the gathering by the door, I found my eye returning to one particular young lady.  People were arriving all the time and minutes later, I noticed in the doorway a woman whom I recognised as the mother of the girl I saw in the young lady's face.  After greeting her and sharing the observation that we hadn't changed except for the colour of the thatch, I gestured and asked, "Is that young lady your daughter?"  "Yes," and provided her name.  Overhearing this, the younger lady addressed her mother, "Is that who I think it is?" and then, on receiving in return the same courtesy, greeted me personally.  I was flattered, since the last time she would have seen me she would have been no more than early teenage.

This very delightful experience lasted no more than half an hour but, as I later reviewed the day, I realised that none of these happenings had been planned, and I later learned that, had I made the right turn in the morning, I would have been delayed by an accident on the road.  And thinking further about the Bishop, as this picture shows, the only resemblance is the hair colour and the presence of spectacles.  The inappropriate association has to have had something to do with my wearing of a purple polo shirt behind the cross that is always around my neck.