Sandwiches had been made the night before and put in the fridge, ready to go in a cool bag, along with the essential essentials for a weekend away with a gluten-pepper-mustard-citric-turmeric reacting husband.
Off we tootled to join in with some Nottinghamshire ringers. The organiser had invited us to swell the throng, as they were uncertain how many ringers from the local area would be able to attend.
We left home in glorious sunshine, but somewhere along the M42 the clouds rolled in.
Our first stop was Clarborough - a tastefully modernised church, with a contemporary stone floor complete with this beautiful centrepiece.One of the local ringers filled us in on how they managed to raise the money for the renovations.
"What the significance of the shell?" I inquired, thinking that it may have indicated an ecumenical project.
The local ringer pondered for a moment before replying
"I think it is linked to John the Baptist, as the church is dedicated to him."
The fabulous floor also featured underfloor heating and gravelled borders to the pillars, with inset LED up lighters. Tres posh.
Next stop was the Crusty Cob in Tuxford, where a variety of refreshments were served and consumed with enthusiasm. I chose a cheese scone, which was served warm, the way cheese scones should be served.
Afterwards, we crossed the main road to the parish church.
Here they had a more functional wooden floor, which also featured underfloor heating. I can see a theme developing here...
Saggy cushioned bumpers hugged the bases and lower sections of the stone pillars in the nave, channelling of Nora Batty's wrinkled stockings.
In the undercroft, a significant stash of soft play cushions confirmed that the building was regularly used by groups for pre-school children.
I was particularly struck by the twin tapestries at the back of church, particularly the one illustrating the nearby power station. Much more interesting and unusual than a floral tapestry.
The third tower of the day was Sutton on Trent, but first, it was picnic time.We took the footpath from the main street in the village to the banks of the Trent, where we sat and admired its magnificent murkiness under the unfamiliar, vast cloudscape,
which formed a canopy over the east midlands plain,
in fifty shades of grumpy greyness.
On returning to the village we popped into the pub for a coffee, before disturbing the sleepy slumbers of Sutton with the strident sound of bells.
Inside, the church aisle was covered with a swathe of red carpet, but no indication of underfloor heating...
Access to the ringing chamber was up a rather tricky steep ladder-type staircase. The early arrivals were at a definite advantage here, as they could enter mainly unobserved, and then enjoy watching subsequent undignified arrivals.
Our reward for ringing at the third tower was a leisurely trip to a nearby icecream farm, to build up strength for our final tower of the day.
From outside, Norwell looked normal enough,
but inside lurked a lifesize model of a sheep perfect for sitting on. We decided that they MUST do Open the Book
 |
| Go Bob Doubles |
Other curiosities included handbell ringing mice and a small flock of ceramic sheep of mixed pedigree.
Sunday morning revealed the most challenging floor of the weekend, that of the wet room.
I had only previously seen such facilities, but not actually experienced how they work.
DH had been given instructions and was keen to demonstrate the operation of the shower, at the unseemly hour of 7:15am on Sunday morning.
Unsurprisingly, I did not share his enthusiasm for such early waking,
so requested that he returned in half an hour or so.
He returned precisely thirty minutes later for the wet room tutorial.
Deep joy.
I very reluctantly crawled out of bed.
Obviously, I was not very awake, as I was none the wiser after the demonstration.
I sent DH on his way and decided to work it out for myself.
It was all very well telling me which lever to move to swap shower heads, and which dial changes the temperature, but I actually needed to know how to turn the blessed thing on.
I solved this mystery by trial and error.
Go me!
Wet rooms are so called because they get wet.
Even at this unseemly hour on a Sunday morning, I knew this.
What I hadn't grasped was just how much of the wet room gets wet.
Having finally worked out how to turn the shower on,
I was musing on the abundant generosity of the water from the shower,
when I realised that the water was flowing across the room in a way I hadn't expected,
like a mighty tributary of the Trent making its relentless way across the landscape,
swamping everything that lay before it.
I had imagined that the water would stay close to the shower and just disappear down a drain in the floor, rather than go on a major exploration.
It didn't.
Water also gains speed as it travels across the room.
I suddenly realised that the mighty flood was heading towards where I had left my clothing.
By now the water had now built up a momentum that was faster than I could respond.
Before I knew it, the clothing I had left several metres from the shower,
was being engulfed.
A horrifying thought passed my mind.
"Did I actually pack clean underwear, or did I just think about it?"
If not, I am going to spend the rest of the day with a soggier bottom, than the worst culinary disaster on the Great British Bake Off!
No comments:
Post a Comment