Churches, Bombers and Ferries

19.5.2013 

Sometimes, on a Sunday morning, I visualise churches we’ve visited on holiday.  Bunessan (Isle of Mull) – scarlet geraniums on the window sills glowing in the bright island sun while a fellow worshipper’s dog sleeps peacefully at her feet.  The Algarve (Portugal) – a little amphitheatre church, white garden chairs on cool terrazzo, verdant bourgainvillea cascading down the walls outside, fallen pomegranites on the yellow gravel.  Bath (England) – a huge former cinema, packed to bursting with around 2000 of the faithful, laughing, cheering and clapping a celebration of the varied roots of the town’s immigrants.  Christchurch (New Zealand) – a beautiful black and white stone cathedral where we joined in a little lunch time service, little knowing that in 24 short hours, the cathedral would fall victim to the violence of that deadly earthquake.  Today it was the Methodist Church in Boroughbridge – a tiny congregation, warm and welcoming.  The vicar gave up her career as a GP when she was called to be a pastor.  Her joy in her new role was very easy to see.

In the sunshine, we find the Aircraft Museum on the site of a World War 2 airfield.  Bill is fascinated by the hangar full of aircraft, from the delicate fabric and wood with bicycle wheels of a hundred years ago to the Harrier Jump Jet, sitting outside like a huge grasshopper.   

But the pathos was what stayed with me.   The little chapel in a Nissan Hut.  The photos of the airmen, so young, climbing into their Lancaster Bombers for another mission – 51% of them never returned.  In the NAAFI, framed poems written by such young men captured my imagination.  One, entitled “Sitting in the Sun”, said it all –

Nissan Hut Chapel

‘Peter, Humphrey and Canuck Joe

Were here twenty-four hours ago.

Peter sat on the old torn chair

By the rose bush over there.

And joked about his deeds and dames

His aircraft sputtered down in flames....

But let us live each moment as it flies

Drinking deeply of the blessed light

For we whose destiny is in the skies

Are down for ops again tonight.’

There’s still a rose bush outside the NAAFI – I saw it.

So off to the ferry.  I left Bill in the cabin, and went off to explore.  Found the stairs, and climbed up and up.  Nobody here.  Door to the deck seems to be locked.  Try the other one – ah, here’s a green entry button.  Press it.  Door pops open.  Odd – no other passengers here.  Can see a couple sitting on some steps on the deck below but the gate to that level is locked.  Back to the door I came in.  Needs a code to get in.  Help!!!  I’m stranded high on the ship, in an area passengers are barred from!  Text Bill in panic.  Call to the people on the steps.  Eventually climb over the 6 bar gate, all too near the railings – that sea looks awfully far away but the drop to it is all to unimpeded.  Phew – safely on the right side of the gate again.

Hull’s truly vast harbour is separated from the open sea by colossal locks to keep the water levels at a standard height.  We watched in fascination not to say trepidation as our immense white and blue ship straightened up and slowly nosed through the lock gates into a space at most 6 inches wider than her broad hips.  And so out into the open sea, Belgium next stop.

Heading out for Belgium/France