but it seems like only yesterday...
The Welsh Colleges Summer Tour is upon us methinks,
I've beard it's to Boston in the county of Lincs.
Starting on Wednesday - the week to reduce,
Traveling by bike to save on car juice.
With the sun sinking fast we tried every lane,
To find the Parish Hall, our search seemed in vain,
At last, I can see it, I think we've been done,
Kate said it's by Barclays, but there are two banks not one
Soon all were assembled, and as day turned to night,
Liquid refreshment at the Wormgate seemed right,
Many reunions meant much to be said,
It was late by the time we all got to bed.
Thursday dawned bright with the promise of sun,
First stop Fishtoft, then on to Freiston,
Our hosts made us welcome, hardly mentioning The Times
And its front page report of Tower Grabbers crimes!
Lunch after Butterwick, we repaired to the pub,
Oh dear Kate, it doesn't do grub,
Unfortunate cyclists dined at the Spar,
Luckily Leverton wasn't too far.
Lastly to Lincoln via a motor car ride,
A magnificent Cathedral it can't be denied,
On a gentle eminence standing greyly tremendous,
Compelling belief, unquestionably numinous.
Friday began cooler, but no sign of a hill,
Just flower-full churches, and the occasional windmill,
Wainfleet's was different, now bereft of all sails,
It's found a new purpose, brewing Bateman's fine ales.
This is the life, when the worst of your troubles,
Are learning Lincoln Minor, and St Swithin's Doubles,
These went ok, not so the Swineshead,
Revisited at Bicker, in the last lead defeated.
Sutterton bells were sweet to the ear,
The local radio recorded us here,
Martin and Kate were interviewed as well,
Gary joined in on his bicycle bell!
On to Kirton, and the close of the day,
For want of a Home, 6-spliced got away,
Tea in the church brought welcome revival,
While Chris played an impromptu organ recital.
Back in the hall, now ringing had ceased,
The catering corps prepared a hot chilli feast,
Fruit salad for pudding, with custard in surfeit,
The jug full leftover? Darren found a use for it...
A new shampoo has now been invented,
Made by Ambrosia and intriguingly scented,
Chris, our pianist, coiffeured in yellow,
Played on undaunted, what an excellent fellow!
And so to Sunday, the tour's nearly gone,
Oh, a spare postcard, who haven't I sent one?
Packing proceeding, bags looking plump,
Soon everything's in, now for the Stump.
Lincolnshire Royal, I can't learn this line,
Panic set in as the tenor struck nine...
Shall I ever forget what a stillness was there,
When the bell ceased its tolling and thinned on the air?
There was no need to worry, it all came out right,
Though Darren couldn't do Little Bob, try as he might.
Maybe another time, for now it's goodbye,
Until next we meet in Ross-on-Wye!
--ooOOoo--
The Betjeman poem that this was based on had 16 verses
and I remember talking to Darren about potential material
I could have used for another verse. One of the churches we
visited had a former vicar who held a record for hammer throwing.
And I recall Darren saying something about an escapade possibly
involving a late night visit to a Chinese Take Away? The details
are now lost in the mists of time - which is perhaps the best place for
them! So the 16th and final verse is necessarily inconclusive but
hopefully not too disappointing:
I've tried in vain the years to reverse,
In search of the missing 16th verse.
Or have I been censored, the revelation forbidden,
To ensure Father Darren's secret stays hidden...?
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