St. Andrew's Church

Plymouth

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

 

The eggs are really good at the Bowling Green Hotel, so I’ve been having either scrambled eggs or a cheese omelette, along with fruit, toast and sausages for breakfast.

When I set out in the morning, something was being set up on the Promenade. Maybe the Olympic torch was about to come through. I walked over to the Barbican. It turned out the historian fellow wasn’t much help at all, which was disappointing. Some of my family lived right on the Parade and/or the Quay. It’s hard to tell what’s what because the buildings don’t have numbers and the Parade, I think, runs on both sides of the water, in a V shape.

I wondered if that lackluster visit was going to set the tone for the day, but no. It changed when I decided to pop into the big church to see the windows. I was outside reading a sign when a bright young fellow came along and led me inside. ‘It’s really cool,’ he said enthusiastically.

'Is there a fee to go in?' I asked.

'Pffft, no. We're not like that.' (So I left a donation since they didn’t ask.)

Then I got talking to a pleasant, shaky old fellow. Everyone in there was genuinely friendly. 

 

I remember at the time, just eight months or so after losing my husband, focussing on the dagger through the heart in this window, because that's how I felt.

The church was bombed in the war. Roof was demolished and so were the walls down to 10 feet. Yesterday in the book store I saw a diagram of all the spots in Plymouth that were hit by bombs. It’s shocking to see, at least for me. The Barbican didn’t get it as bad as other areas. Germans apparently made a point of dropping bombs over Plymouth on their way over.

There must be countless stories… like the little boy I was told about who went some place to fetch his dad, but was told by the people in the room that he had just left. The boy ran out and up a staircase just as a bomb hit, killing everyone he’d been talking to moments before. (He and his Dad were okay.) Or another little boy who was under some sort of protective cover under the kitchen table that was flung 100 yards or so when a bomb hit. The boy was extracted but the rest of his family was killed.

So a lot of Plymouth has been rebuilt.

This saying always makes me think of Glenn. I wondered why it was in this church.

Another building was outside around the back.

* * * * *

I’ve been considering a coach trip. The one to Agatha Christie’s house on Friday is sold out. Also on Friday is a trip to the Devon Fair. I would enjoy that. What concerns me is that it makes for a long day. It would be ok in fine weather but the forecast apparently is for drizzle. On Saturday there is a trip Cardiff. But I’m not sure what there is to do there. Sunday - a trip to Longleat, which also includes a safari park, which I find a little off-putting. I’ve wanted to see Longleat for some time though. Actually, tomorrow I was going to bus over to Polperro, Cornwall. It requires a bus change. Went to the depot late afternoon to find the office had closed early due to a staffing problem! Maybe I’ll have a relaxing day in to write some postcards.

I wasn’t sure how to get to the bus station so I asked a man who was heading my way. He wasn’t like the regular sort you see in Plymouth. He was dressed in tweeds and couldn’t have looked more old-time English, unless he’d had a monocle or pith helmet. ‘Cross that road there. You see? Then cross that road, where that chap is now….’ And then he went over the instructions a second time.