Plastering upstairs is done. A white coat covers several rooms and doors are on. On the ground floor the insulation under floor is done in two out of four rooms and plastering is underway. The kitchen remains a mess but the box will appear in the next two weeks when it can be surveyed by the kit hen fitters. Meanwhile we can bring in the wardrobe fitters and sort out some carpets and flooring in the attic and the bathrooms.
It’s all rather encouraging.
Have a scroll through the images to give you a sense of progress.
We left off at the church. From the grand portico and narrow set of steps lead through a narrow passage to the market square. The route I took passed more of the beautifully preserved houses I explored last time. I also showed the carvings of kings on the side of the Kings Head pub. They are worth a repeat. You may want to expand the picture to consider the delightfully unflattering detail.
Now above the river my route took me to an old windmill, Buttrum’s Mill, a beautiful brick structure opposite the private boys’ school, with its stunning brick boundary wall. At the rather severe House of Corrections, there is a narrow set of steps that lead to some narrow streets.
Amongst the houses there’s a converted Baptist church that stands out. This lane leads to the market square with its old fountain and market hall. Another church St John’s interrupts the route to the river and from there back to the station.
It’s a beautiful town and worthy of a stroll. I meandered down the high street, though I was on the phone at the time so the images are lacking. I can say the shops were quirkily independent and local and attractive if that is your schtick. Me, cake and coffee do me.
I’ve meant to get to Woodbridge for sometime. And then, when I did, my phone died so I had to return.
Woodbridge is near Ipswich and was named the happiest place to live in Britain at the end of 2024. Which maybe a great accolade or an inditement of how miserable everywhere else is.
It’s full of beautiful houses, many harking back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it has a well known private school and prep and it sits on the river Deben so has a watery embellishment too.
And while I didn’t visit this time it isn’t far from Sutton Hoo one of the great archaeological discoveries of the last century.
Indeed, one has to ask: what’s not to like.
Today I arrived by train from where I’m currently living and stepped out of the station on a bright cold day. I stress the cold.
Next to the station is a small early twentieth century Electric cinema that was restored a while back and from there it was into the heart of its beautiful streets.
The other thing to note are the number of pubs, a considerable number in fact given so many have closed in the last 30 years or so. Not it seems in Woodbridge where its citizens are doing their best to shore up a lively drinking culture.
Maybe they need to be somewhere to keep out of the cold.
Having enjoyed the variety of frontages including a curio of a wall based shadow clock, a strange kind of sundial, and several blue plaques announcing some historic links to these properties to well known (and not so well known) people, I arrived at this tall brick wall with a small wooden door in the centre.
Inside was a small tranquil little space. This was originally a grave yard for the Quakers, whose House of Friends was next door.
Beyond this the route took me to the church, yet another splendid edifice with beautiful stained glass and a porch adorned with magnificent carvings.
As you’ll know we are basing ourselves in Suffolk while house is reno’ed. Opening the back door the land falls away across a meadow before reaching the flood plain through which the River Blyth snakes. When it floods at this time of year it can be covered in thousands of migrating birds.
Beyond the river plain the land climbs across scrub and farmland before reaching the village of Wenhaston.
And the views, the sunrises and sets, the fog and snow all combine to great some rather special vistas. See what you think.
Apparently Britain’s coastline, apart from being very long, mostly cold and visually splendid is home to forty percent of the world’s grey seal population. And a stretch from the Suffolk-Norfolk border going north is one such spot.
Now if you ask me seals are a sea mammal somewhat short of a sardine or two because they think having a breeding season from November to January is pretty neat. I suppose, when you think any predator with its canines screwed. in would be away in the Azores it has a kind of sense. That and a baby seal can gain some two kg of fat in a day when suckling which suggests they’ve made themselves literally as well as metaphorically cool.
These days it’s a pretty popular tourist gig to go and spot a seal or two though to be fair, given these enormous happy faced sea monsters are around in their hundreds during the season it’s not that hard. This season alone the seal wardens who marshall the closed beaches have logged over 3000 pups which is pretty neat, an Elon Musk level of procreation, though with more fat and less ego.
The three of us – Textiliste, Dog and me – took the hour drive north on a sparkling and neck crucnchingly cold day to have a gander at what the fuss was about. Dogs on leads were welcome though the thoughtful and experienced marshalls keep everyone at least 100 yards away. Recently they’ve had a fair few numpties seeking up close and personal selfies with seal pups. God save me from morons.
I know this is a holiday period, this Twixmas or Crimbo-limbo or whatever you call the dead time between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day but I was surprised at both the numbers coming to this isolated spot and the range of accents we heard. Rather lovely actually, especially as everyone was good tempered and happily accepted the voluntary edicts to keep off the sand.
That was yesterday. Today we took Dog for a short beach stroll. The sky creates some lovely light at this time of year – when it’s not one of those dirty duvet canopies that December thru February can throw up.
Today was one such and led to a rather spiffing sunset later.
We are now hunkered down under blankets, snoozing in 2026. Hope it’s a good one for one and all.
Good King Wences last looked out, in twenty twenty-three, Since then his eyesight's all to pot, it's very hard to see. He asked his serf, 'What should I do; I'm walking into walls?' The serf replied, 'You'll need an op, if you have the balls.' The goodly king did fear the thought, of going beneath the knife, He did what every wisemen does, 'I think I'll ask the wife.' 'Don't be silly, my liege lord,' opined that sagely spouse. 'No one wants a bat'eyed king, who's oft inclined to grouse.' Hieing hence to see the doc, thirsty for his knowledge, The king explained what brought him there,'All I see is porridge.' The doc was good, the op the tops, all was rather splendid. A proclamation was sent forth, 'The king, he is quite mended.' Now the king can look out, everything is crystal, Once again he takes pot shots, at the peasants with his pistol.
Ok, so the house has turned a corner and it’s moving into the ‘oh exciting’ phase from the ‘what have we done?’ Phase.
The top two floors are now wired, mostly plumbed and plastered.
The new stairs to the attic are in and the balustrade, spindles and glass fire doors measured and on order. The window sills and skirting boards are next and then architraves around the doors.
The ground floor is more of a mess still though we do have a box where the new downstairs toilet will go. The kitchen though resembles a bomb site and the walls need insulating as does under the floors.
We have seen half the solar go on the roof and active discussions on digging up the top lawn and installing water tanks continue.
I’m still coming to terms with the myriad of decisions we need to make and we’ve visited wardrobe makes, tilers, chimney piece installers and goodness knows how many on line vendors of door furniture, light switches, wall papers, kitchen makers, bathroom suppliers….
The garden, meanwhile is resting and looking really rather fine by comparison. There are some plans here for some minor changes and a lot of bulbs and seeds to go down to have some colour when, eventually we return.
Phew.
I think I will take a bit of a break until the New Year and wish all my readers a splendid break, a happy holidays and a splendid dash into 2026.
What about a jolly limerick for the festive season? Esther has set holly as our challenge
A miser called Entwistle Solly Had a plan to make lots of lolly. He was said to be pleased, Replacing paper with leaves, Until all that was left was fresh holly.
From a few years ago! What a stoic to put up with us making him look like this.
Someone asked if we planned any travel to get away from the building works. Nope, we can’t envisage that and it is unlikely we will manage it afterwards as we will probably need to spend the rest of 2026 getting things straight.
Which promoted me rooting around in old photo folders in a cloud or two and wondering what my top ten venues would be. I’ve left out a lot: much of Western Europe, South Africa, New Zealand, Japan… but here’s a selection based on some very old pics for your delectation…
Sydney: Iconic view of the Opera House, circa August 1998
We ended up here after touring Oz for 8 weeks back in 1998. Since then I’ve visited three times on business. It is beautiful. The Harbour bridge, the Opera House, the green and cream ferries ploughing the trade.
The Lawyer, aged 8, demonstrating the best use of the Opera House
The hills aren’t ridiculous but give it the sort of topography that a city needs to have character. If a city is flat then it needs walls or canals to compensate.
The Rocks is (are) cool.
The cricket ground a true place of homage. Even its business district has a neat compact charm. I don’t go a bundle on the beaches, mind – Bondi feels like it is its own pastiche. The zoo is quaint and Darling Harbour is all you would expect from a tourist rap but well done none the less. And if I do have a gripe, Sydney goes on for bloody ever: its suburbs frankly take the piss in spreading so far – not so much a sub-urban as post-urban. But the people have always been friendly, the food superb and there are few better ways to sped a few days than strolling around Sydney enjoying another sight or another easy going bit of banter. Go. But have energy; it’s vibrant.
San Francisco:
A classic view of the Golden Gate Bridge as the morning fog is gradually burnt off
This is beautiful. No, it is BEAUTIFUL. But that’s not the best thing. It has the best climate in the world. Stuck between the Bay and the Pacific is self regulates to 72 degrees every day (give or take). Cross the Bay Bridge, head through the mountains and watch the thermometer climb a degree a mile until your vital organs have melted. Ok, it gets chilly in the morning with the fog and it does rain a bit in January but for the rest I defy you not to enjoy it as a visitor.
Pier 39, the sea lions. Boy does it stink!
True, I prefer variety but, at a pinch, I’d take this. And the BEAUTY? Did I mention the beauty? Well, ok it is sitting on a time bomb and one day it will disappear in a pudding of liquefaction so don’t be there then. But the fact it sits between various tectonic plates means the city is made up of small vertiginous rippling hills, best seen in the car chase in Bullitt. oh those beauteous hills…
They alone are worth the visit but drive down Lombard, cruise the Presidio, enjoy the museums. Sniff out a bargain in Chinatown or something retro in Haight Ashbury (it’s now so post post post modern it’s come back on itself); taste the chocolate splendours of Ghiradelli’s or the sourdough along the quay.
December 2013: the Coit Tower in the distance
And do find time for the murals in the Coit Tower – America as a socialist paradise, discuss. And Alcatraz is worth a visit but book.
Tallinn:
Up on the wall; it’s not as accessible as Dubrovnik but it has a more ramshackle charm
We ended one summer holiday here as a result of yet another example of dickhead tours in action. We planned to visit some Scandanavian capitals – Copenhagen, Stockholm and Helsinki (we’d already seen Oslo some years ago) before ending in St Petersberg. Unfortunately I forgot to get visas to enter Russia and only realised in Stockholm. By then it was too late. However as readers will know, dickhead tours’ USP is that while the original plans may crater there will always be an alternative. Tallinn.
The place is full of churches
We caught a ferry across the Baltic – millpond calm it was – and spent three days in the walled city. It is medieval with Catholic and Russian Orthodox churches, beautiful streets full of quaint and quirky buildings seemingly built one on top of the other with bars and restaurants at reasonable prices to suit any palate and pocket. Indeed a few too many booze tours and stag parties end up here so late nights are probably dreadful. But the daytime is a delight. One church, bombed out by the Luftwaffe in the 1940s was rebuilt by the atheist Russian backed government and is now a community centre and art space of much beauty.
The winter palace – and me…
Outside Tallinn the Winter Palace tells of a time of a different Russian domination, under the Tsars. This is a fiercely independent country which has enjoyed a renaissance inside the EU and NATO. Try it before Putin tries to take it back.
Stockholm:
Stockholm is water is Stockholm
As I said above Stockholm was on the same itinerary as Tallinn. By contrast it vaunts its many years of independence and liberalism openly and in Gamla Stan, the island housing the original settlement and the Royal Palace (with easily the most ridiculous household troop of any nation I’ve been to) it has a tiny jewel that warrants two days on its own. It had a Tintin shop, for goodness sake – the ultimate exemplar of civilisation at work.
The model; if this is as it was, Wow!
Highlights include the modernist tapestry in the town hall, the exceptional Vasa, a ship that sank on its maiden voyage in the sixteenth century and lay buried in silt in 30 metres of water in the harbour until being discovered in the post war years and then, amazingly, brought to the surface and preserved. Stunning, gobsmacking. Oh, and do visit the Nobel museum. For a man who invented one of the most deadly of explosives, dynamite, Alfred Nobel has done a lot of good with his cash. The history of the peace prize made the visit for me.
Bristol:
Brunel’s quite breath-taking suspension bridge
My alma mater, where I met the Textiliste, as I sold memberships of the law club during our freshers week in 1976. I remember the utterly beguiling blue eyes, full lip-bordered grin and a scarf that was twice as long as mine. We took our time falling in love but we didn’t stop once we started. You might say the same with Bristol. It is hilly and tiring and in places still shows off its scruffy history but it has corners of beauty and joy.
You get some sense of the hilliness; a bane of an undergraduate who walks everywhere.
The university buildings, built with tobacco and slave money display the sort of grandiose splendour you would expect. The suspension bridge is completely stunning. The docks and the SS Great Britain tourist traps worth the time.
There’s a lot of street art…
But wander Clifton, drink coffee, take in the Downs and the camera obscura, sniff out food and fashion in St Paul’s, find a Bansky stencilled on a wall and you will soon smoulder into a love affair that lasts a lifetime.
Cork:
So old this is black and white… and the cheapest film at the time!
Ireland 1978. My degree done the Textiliste and I headed for Southern Ireland and a hitch hiking holiday from the ferry port at Rosslare to the Ring of Beara and Bantry Bay. We camped; we shared cars with fussy Germans and wacky Norwegians; we stood at a bus stops and discoursed on the existence of God with a George Clooney lookalike, pissed to the point of grandiose articulacy.
Was I really this skinny – the scenery is stunning too!
We encountered generosity and suspicion, good nature and outright hostility. We ate simply, slept when the sun went down until it came up and saw the greenest, most beautiful countryside imaginable. I was too young to enjoy it fully, too old to feel entirely at ease and I knew that I needed to go back and do it justice. One day soon.
Amsterdam:
Amstedam is canals and cannabis cafes, or so the theory has it. But it is also bicycles and book shops. It has an architecture that repeats but is never quite the same. It is slow and at ease with itself and tells you, as does Venice how to work a city without cars. The Dutch are a fabulous people, ireverant and generous. They don’t do shame in the way we do across the channel. Take the nipple: in England the nipple today has the status that a homosexual man had in the 1950s – anxious to stay hidden, unsure and if displayed in public liable to generate sniggers or trigger anger; in Amsterdam the nipple is out and proud – it knows it is both repected and loved and, best of all, broadly ignored. What is not to like about a city, a nation that can embrace the nipple and make it feel welcome?
Bruges:
A happy family Christmas break 2007
Ah Belgium. Name ten famous Belgians? Old joke. In Bruges it has answers to any questions asking ‘what is the point of Belgium?’ Like Amsterdam it has canals, like Tallinn it has a vibrant core that has a historic integrity. It is home to the most fabulous of chocolate shops and cafes.
Just love this scene – very Bruges
It serves 400 varieties of beer, many flavoured (‘your usual arrowroot and cardamom Pilsner sir?’).
Er and you were 15? What on earth were your parents’ thinking?
Go at Christmas for the market – Europe does many a Christmas market but Bruges is excellent – and enjoy the crisp air and the ice show that is stunning; even Bill Murrray in Groundhog Day would struggle to learn these techniques.
Just superb
And now, with Eurostar so efficient (mostly) it is a hop, skip and jump away.
Tobago:
And when it rains…
We’ve been to several Carribean Islands over the years but Tobago takes a lot of beating. It has rainforest as well as beaches. I wasn’t expected to ride a bloody horse which, believe me, is a definite plus. And it stimulated a lot of poetry. Frankly apart from the Turks and Caicos which was a complete disappointment, each island we have been to – Barbados, Antigua, St Lucia and Trindad – has offered something for the visitor if you want relaxation, some sights and a lot of cocktails and time to read – which, coupled with kid’s club is all the incentive I needed for a holiday when the sprogs were d’un certain age. And here’s a poem – I feel like a Vogon, forcing this on you but, hey, who’s writing this?
Sonnet of Sand
The Disco Junk thrums past, a rainbow
On the puckered sea. Rock-like skulls,
Guano iced, are parliament to trilling gulls
Eyeing the coral fish, flashing their tarty show.
Cinnamon frosted babies, paint the beach
With plastic spades; eyeless parents, basted
For spit roasting; happy to have wasted
Their nurtured cash on dark staining their peach
White flesh. Seven days of frantic relaxation,
Spent anxiously checking for zebra stripes,
Are reward for a year’s dead-eyed toil. Gripes
Are banned; they have their compensation
In the form of a booze-induced coma
And the first stirrings of a melanoma.
A Parliament of gulls
Sarf London:
Brockwell Park; the pond, the walled garden where Shakespeare is performed in the summer and a community garden carries on the year round
Home. Heart. Peace. Safety. A bed that knows me. An oven that does my bidding. A space to write and a garden to grow. Streets that fit like worn slippers. Parks that envelope you in parental-like hugs. Nodding acquaintances. Easy access to the best, most culturally diverse place on the planet bar none (on yer bike, New York, you ain’t close).
Me and my loyal companion – the much loved, now departed Blitz – we always enjoyed an ice cream
And his successor in my affections (when a bit younger)
Weather rather than a climate. Tolerance in human form. If I could live anywhere at any time it would be here, now – unless the Textiliste wanted to move then I’d go.
We used to get we snow; and when we do, the world becomes magical. Can’t wait for another visit (I say that until it is actually manifest when it is a nightmare)
Well, I say I’d go, unless she wanted to move to North London. That would be intolerable.
Multicultural moi! Sorry for the egregious appropriation (no, not really)
Penny wasn’t going to let her say no. “They asked for one recommendation and I gave them you’re name. You can’t let me down by refusing.”
Gradually Mazy’s ‘I’m not sure’ became ‘Maybe’ and then ‘Ok’. She wanted to ask why Penny had thought of her but she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer. It was enough for Mazy to assume it was because of their friendship.
When, finally she spent two hours being taken through the steps involved and signed two consent forms, she felt relieved. And the money was certainly better than just ‘nice to have’.
The testing took two days of poking and prodding, giving blood, urine and a stool and an exercise test that Mazy dreaded but which wasn’t so bad. One young tester, a man with a Scandinavian name and accent joked with her about how far back she’d like to regress and she replied fifteen so she could tell her school nemesis Millie Twoberry what she thought of her. He said, in all seriousness they would see what they could do which rather terrified her.
She was nervous, the first day she met Professor Perkins. Ostensibly it was to discuss her results and whether they would admit her to the study. But that was only part of it. When she had been sat down and offered a drink, the Professor didn’t hold back. “I will go through the results in a moment but I wanted to say upfront you will be a great addition to our group as I knew you would.”
Mazy, who had been building up her courage, managed to ask the question that had been bugging her, surprising herself and possibly the professor. “That first day in the park. You said hello but only later left the letter. Why was that?”
He sat back and steepled his fingers under his nose. “Penny pointed you out a few days before. And I knew, even then. I’ve studied a lot of people, each of whom has some exceptional characteristic but you were perfect. So I rather muddled myself.”
“Perfect? No one is perfect.”
He laughed. “What I mean is perfect for our study. From a visual inspection I could see you were average. Height, weight, your face, the size of your hands, feet, everything.”
Mazy looked at her hands. “Bang average. Who knew?”
The professor hinged forward. “Don’t be so self critical. That’s what we wanted, what we’ve been after. And your tests are exactly where we’d expect them to be for someone born when you were and living in a westernised society. Every metric just confirms it. Slap bang in the middle. We can use you – sorry that sounds cold but it is true in our case – to be our control against which we can check our other results. We will clearly be looking for others who fit the same mould as you, but in different racial groups, different sexes and ages but you will be our first. Exciting, isn’t it?”
Mazy sat back. She was unexceptional and that was a good thing, the best thing. She smiled at this strange man who smiled back. For the first time, she was glad she was who she was. “Okay, where do we start?”
There we will leave Mazy, happy being ‘bang average’. But is that the end? Will this study throw up any surprises? Maybe you will find out in due course
TanGental 