It has been an extraordinary day, made more amazing because it started off just like a normal thursday in a working week.
Usual early start, not as bright actually, mentally or physically because it was pouring down with rain outside again and I had to put on the energy saving bulbed light which took an age to reach anywhere near the equivalent artificial light of its purported 60 watt equivalent. Mundane stuff took place. A bit of paperwork left over from the previous day, catch up on e-mails, buy some Land Registry Title Plans when the e-business portal opens at 7am, say good morning to The Boy as he heads for the first of his many forays into the kitchen in search of chocolate, crisps and coffee.
A first glance at the clock shows that I have been up and active for a staggering time of two and a half hours but it seems more like ten minutes. It is the time to think about getting ready to go to work. I have to be out at the coast by 10am, about 35 miles but across the City and bound to catch the tail end of the rush hour tailbacks so must leave about an hour for the journey.
Within a few minutes I am on the road. There is an episode of Dad's Army on the radio from the 70's - the one where Captain Mainwaring and Corporal Jones are left holding a stray barrage balloon and get whisked away at peril from the alerted RAF, Private Pike with a rifle and a train. Yet another portion of time flies by and the 30 minute broadcast sees me on automatic pilot through the busiest part of the route.
To the east of the City Centre it is just me and a lot of articulated lorries and shipping containers on the road, past the green copper roof of the Prison. The HGV's indicate to move across into the outside lane, those with EU plates and from all parts from Scandinavia to the Adriatic a bit more hesitantly before I lose them to the approach road into the docks. The cruise control is activated at 40mph because today may be the day of the first Police Speed Trap ever on the dual carriageway. The flarestacks, cooling towers and superstructures of the Saltend Chemical complex loom out of the low cloud of the morning and I again remark to myself that if there was ever a double required for the skyline of New York.........................
I am now into open countryside, just a few commuter villages to pass through with those who have overslept left standing expectantly at the bus stops. The open Holderness area is flat and open but nevertheless striking and interesting. For the first time in forty minutes I attain a speed in excess of 40mph but I am not in a hurry. The drive out to Withernsea has been a regular part of my working week, once or twice a week and I have over 25 plus years got the timing down to an exact science, that is farm traffic, caravans and plodding daytrippers permitting.
At Patrington the sky has brightened a bit more but still no blue glimpses through the grey cloud. The St Patricks Church tower resembles Thunderbird 3 with its sharp pointed nose and elegant buttresses. Out of the village the road is more undulating but traffic remains very sparse and I max out at 60 mph before yet more speed restrictions and warning notices of cameras. On the northern skyline stands Withernsea lighthouse, unusually just inland from the town centre but very much a landmark.
I have some sympathy for Withernsea. Two individuals in history exacted a great combined disservice to the town. The first was the anonymous Captain of a ship called the Henry Parr who in 1903 ran into what remained of the Pier and destroyed it beyond economic salvage. He was not the first to attack what was a major example of late Victorian seafront architecture which at its most glorious stuck out some 1200 feet into the North Sea and completed in 1877 for a cost to the proud townsfolk of £12,000. The Saffron started the diminution programme only three years after the opening of the Pier- a lesson to all navigators to update your maps and charts on a regular basis, followed by a hit and run and then, insult added to injury, a collision by an unnamed but Grimsby originating boat. Was this a deliberate attempt to perpetuate the attraction of the nearest competing pier at Cleethorpes? The most significant knee in the groin however came from the closure of the Hull and Holderness railway line in 1964. This strangled the steady flow of trippers from Hull and beyond who could experience a cheap day out and which in the Victorian period had contributed much wealth and status to the economy of the town. Had the rail lifeline been retained then Withernsea would certainly have developed massively as a commuter town and seasonal destination on a par with, say Bridlington. The main through street of the town was looking a bit depressed but no more so than many former thriving urban centres. I did not help the situation by opting for the convenience of a Tesco Meal Deal.
I was feeling a bit jaded after my early start but still had a big inspection to do on a Methodist Chapel farther down the coast. I took slower, more picturesque back roads, two longer sides of a triangulation to Easington village. The roads are single track with signed passing bays, a bit like Highland Scotland. Large puddles of water gave some interest to the route although the thrill of raising a huge plume of mud in suspension ran the risk of the pool of water concealing a huge pothole or tyre shredding debris.
Easington, approached from the north, is not pretty. A clump of slow moving wind turbines give way to the military stronghold of the Gas Terminal which is guarded and patrolled to clearly illustrate its strategic importance to the UK supplies of natural gas. The village itself has in its unspoiled heart some of my favourite buildings. A thatched medieval long barn, a residence with a flag flying tower, sea cobble cottages and the latest addition ,my destination, of the Chapel.
I called at the house of one of the Stewards, a lady whom had never met me before but trustingly handed over a long and intricate mortice key. I apologise at this point to a Mrs Clubley whose hand I enthusiastically shook before she told me I needed to be at the house next door. The Chapel, a squat red brick late Victorian building stood next to the Tower House, in fact attached to its western gable. I pushed the well worn shaft of the key into the heavy panelled external door. The porch floor was strewn with confetti and I was pleased to see that it was still in use in spite of the aged, increasingly infirm but still dedicated members
Inside, a surprisingly cavernous worship hall with pitch pine pews gently inclined away from the carved pulpit. A pine screen led to a smaller vestry and meeting room but cold and damp with flaking paintwork on the efflorescent plasterwork of the walls. My attention was drawn to a dazzlingly polished brass plate in thanks and commemoration of the donation of the first electric lighting in 1931.
Although an old building it had been lovingly maintained and I found that I had completed my inspection in good time. I was conscious of not appearing to be disrespective to the Chapel members by sending in a reasonable but quite fund diminishing invoice and so delayed my return of the keys to Mrs Clubleys neighbour.
I am prone to humming and whilst in such a mode I became aware of the fantastic acoustics of the worship hall. I was alone, there were no neighbours within earshot, I was inspired by my surroundings. From a plastic bag on a pew I extracted a book of hymns and worked methodically through. My C of E upbringing had given me a good grounding in the better known hymns and songs of praise and I am not ashamed to say that I really went for it. Hesitant at first I was soon belting out, in good style, my favourites and the stalwarts of a good sing song.
From time to time there was the sound from a passing car but otherwise it was just me and my maker. It was an extrordinary day.
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