Old Bikes,Old Friends, Old Hymns!

This morning we went off on the bike to North Walsham to this place

To be honest, it was a teensy bit disappointing – there were dozens of bikes, but they were all crammed in so closely together it was hard to see them properly and many were crying out for restoration and a spot of TLC.

Nestling between two bikes, Bob did spot a gem – a “Hobbies A1” fretwork machine. Dad had one of these, and my friend Ivan and his family ran the company for years. But you can see how dusty everything in the museum is!

Outside we were able to study some bikes a bit more carefully

We climbed back on the Honda and rode on to the Alby Crafts Centre.

A group of studios and shops and a cafe, home to various local artists and craftspeople.

We looked round, and had some rather expensive teacakes – but decided against paying to walk round the gardens! Back to Cornerstones for lunch then we had a fairly lazy afternoon.

This evening we went for a meal to the home of our friends Alan and Barbara [A is a retired minister and son of Ivan mentioned above] We had a super time reminiscing about the past – a sure sign of getting old! It was really lovely though to share stories of the great things God has done and the way He has worked in the different churches where we have been down the years, and remember other good Christian friends.

All morning, as we rode past hay bales in the cornfields, I had the words of an old harvest hymn floating round in my brain, but was frustrated that I couldn’t remember the first line of it. Barbara – a gifted pianist – was able to supply it for me tonight!

As we drove back to Cornerstones, we passed a field where the farmer was using his combine in the dark, with headlights!

To thee, Oh Lord, our hearts we raise
in hymns of adoration,
to thee bring sacrifice of praise
with shouts of exultation.
Bright robes of gold the fields adorn,
the hills with joy are ringing,
the valleys stand so thick with corn
that even they are singing.
And now, on this our festal day,
thy bounteous hand confessing,
Upon thine altar, Lord, we lay
the first fruits of thy blessing.
By thee the souls of men are fed
with gifts of grace supernal;
thou, who dost give us earthly bread,
give us the bread eternal.
We bear the burden of the day,
and often toil seems dreary;
but labour ends with sunset ray,
and rest comes for the weary.
May we, the angel reaping over,
stand at the last accepted,
Christ's golden sheaves, forevermore
to garners bright elected.
Oh blessèd is that land of God
where saints abide forever,
where golden fields spread fair and broad,
where flows the crystal river;
the strains of all its holy throng
with ours today are blending;
thrice blessèd is that harvest song
which never hath an ending.