Privilege of honour

After  a short spell of accounts work in City Hall this afternoon, I had a bereavement visit out in Ely, prior to a funeral on Friday. I'm standing in for Jan the Vicar, who is away for the weekend. I was warmly welcomed into the family home by the widow and her three daughters, who between them boast ten children and eleven grand children - a happy family indeed, who'd rallied around and supported each other during Dad's two and half years of terminal illness, living with his dying bravely and with good humour, ably assisted by the home care team from George Thomas Hospice. 

There wasn't much for me to do really. They'd chosen the hymns, and there was no place other than the 'Res', as Glanely's Parish Church of the Resurrection is called, for it to take place. All they asked was for me to tell Dad's story with appreciation, and not to make the service morbid or sad. 

I can never get over the trust which families place in us clergy, even when we're total strangers. Pilots, drivers, surgeons, others too who take our lives in their hands, have even greater standing in terms of trust, but it's based on up to date qualifications and their performance record. 

Churches as public institutions which accredit the work of the clergy have taken a hammering in terms of public confidence over decades, yet at grass roots level people are still prepared to trust this uniformed stranger recommended to them by someone else in their community they may not know too well. How it all works is wonderful and mysterious to me, and something of of privilege of honour to be accepted and welcomed thus.

Beautiful Brecon Beacons

After a lazy morning, we drove up the A470 to Brecon. The roads were busy all the way, and traffic slowed down by first a bike race and then a motorbike accident. We bought food for picnic, then headed down the valley to cross the canal at Talybont on Usk, and make our way up to Talybont reservoir for lunch on the lakeside, which surprisingly wasn't crowded at all. We walked along the shore afterwards I took some photos.

The old red sandstone environment of the lake produces a fine sandy shore-line that attracts a covering of thin coarse grass, pleasant to walk on. My curiosity was attracted by oddly shaped arrangements of weathered stones, littering the beach, mostly where camp fires had been lit at some time or another. Also there were the remains of dry stone walls constructed in another era on the water's edge - perhaps remnants of the time before the valley was flooded?

We then drove up and over the ridge to Torpantau and visited the Neuadd and Taf Fechan reservoirs in turn. The fine weather gave us superb late afternoon views of Pen-y-fan.. I noticed that an iron footbridge has been constructed over the railway line at the Scouting centre since we were last up here, seven years ago. The Brecon Mountain railway line extension from Dol y Gaer is built, but trains don't yet run this far, if the BMR website is to be believed. Discussion on a narrow gague railway forum suggests this is due to financial problems, an outcome of the recession. BMR is a real hidden treasure, a tourism venue not nearly as popular as it deserves to be. What more might Visit Wales be able to do to promote it I wonder?

Bank Holiday Sunday

I was at St German's again this morning to celebrate and preach at the Parish Mass. I can't recall when last I used a thurible and censed the altar and the Gifts during a Eucharist, probably 20 years ago. I was pleased to raise a good cloud of smoke and do it without hitting anything or making clanking noises with the chains - which I detest. As it's August Bank Holiday weekend half the regular congregation was away, so another Sunday experience of a small number of people rattling around in a large building. The pulpit, also the altar seemed to me to be high above the people - the altar is on a pedestal of seven steps in fact. Hard to be relaxed and informal here. I found the height and remoteness of the altar from the worshippers quite difficult to adjust to, and, to mix metaphors, I felt a bit out of my depth. The team of altar servers, assistant clergy and congregation were kind and supportive, nevertheless.

Just before we started Julie, formerly of Tredegarville School PTA, turned up at the sacristy with her son Bryan a former pupil, now in secondary school, to say hello and ask if she could make an arrangement for me to christen her new grandson. I explained that although I'm retired, it would be possible to do so with permission. I proposed a date for her to check out with the rest of the family and the mother of the baby. Sadly she didn't stay for the service as she had to ferry Bryan to his Sunday Aikido lesson. A few days ago I met another ex Tredegarville parent and St James Church member outside Maplins and we chatted. His son, a few years older also chose Aikido over Sunday school and now plays at European level. Aikido classes full. Church classes empty. No competition. Such is the way of the world today.

There's no way of knowing if the athletic disciplines involved will suppress spiritual yearnings or nurture them. Time will tell.

Fished out of the Taff ....

I noticed another report of a dead body being fished out of the river Taff on the Western Mail website yesterday. That's the second in a fortnight. This prompted me to search for other reports. So far I have come across thirteen different drowning reports and one attempted suicide in the past eight years, and there may be more I didn't pick up on. Whether these are accidental drownings as a result of late night inebriation, murders or suicides, it's still cause for concern.

Despite posh railings along the river side in town, despite the Samaritans suicide prevention service, and all those who work in social services, crime prevention and mental health care, little seems to have changed in several centuries. Saint John's 18th and 19th church records abound with accounts of the pauper's burial accorded to unknown people whose bodies were fished from the Taff and left unclaimed by family or friends. 

In a city that seems always to be partying about something or other, the shadow of some personal tragedy never seems far away.

The power to heal

Father Roy's away on holiday this week, so I got to celebrate two weekday Masses at St German's, today and yesterday. This is only the fourth occasion since I retired. Each time I step up to the altar these days, I wonder if the habits and disciplines of liturgical ritual will still be there automatically in my body memory, to free my mind to pray as I should, without the need to think about it consciously. St German's has an echoey acoustic. I need to attune to it each time, speaking more deliberately, slower  than usual to be sure I'm heard. As there's never a shortage of people in church who are hard of hearing, being on auto-pilot isn't altogether possible. It's a small challenge in the effort to do things really well. On each occasion, the small band of faithful gathered were appreciative of the ministry they received, and probably weren't aware of any uncertainties of mine. They are in the habit of trusting their priests in an admirable way. It's impossible not to feel privileged, even as a stand-in.

Amanda and James came over to stay the night with us yesterday. I was glad to have the time and opportunity this morning to help Amanda start her own blog, as she wants to develop a useful record of her 25 year struggle to overcome the effects of the rare genetic disorder she suffers from, to help others similarly afflicted. Over a period of time it may also help her to link up with others world-wide, and challenge the medical view that there is little to be done to mitigate the effects of what is considered an irreversible disabling condition. She has certainly found ways to overcome the effects its had on her, and has good news to pass on.

Co-incidentally on the BBC Today programme there was an interview with a man who'd had a brain stem stroke - the kind of stroke that takes away the capacity for almost all voluntary movement and thereby the ability to communicate. One is locked in to one's body, and may die without proper and permanent nursing intensive care. The interviewee had made a significant recovery of his powers of movement and speech, starting from an awareness of his condition and the need to keep breathing steadily. He'd re-learned how to make the connection between brain and muscles. It was most interesting and I was annoyed the interview was interrupted to convey breaking news of the return to UK of a retail tycoon to rebut corruption charges. Not only was it discourteous to him, but indicative that news producers don't always share the real interests and concerns of their audience.

After lunch, I drove up to Nelson to attend the diocesan mission committee for the first time. Former chairman John Webber, who retired just before I did, has recently returned from a busy two months helping out in the church in Bangladesh, where he spent 25 years working earlier. Llandaff diocese now has a twinning link with the Anglican Church in Bangladesh, and one of John's tasks was to visit communities and introduce them to their twin diocese. It's hoped there can be exchanges of visits in the coming years that will be of mutual benefit. We certainly have a lot to learn about social advocacy from Bangladesh, where the church plays a significant part in development work, and helping the country face the ravages of climate change.

Drawing on experience

I had a meeting this afternoon with Paul Keeping, the Council's Equalities officer. He invited me to his office in County Hall to discuss the work he's preparing to start on 'faith equalities policy' - how people of  varied and different religious convictions and behaviour can be regarded and treated with equal respect and consideration by Council and public service workers. This a requirement of the new Single Equalities Act. which seeks to be more specific and practical about the cultivation of proper social attitudes than simply penalising discriminatory practice. 

Paul and I met when we were both invited to attend a local pilot training course on faith equalities over a year ago. Every time we've met since then, we've promised each other to meet and talk, so that he could pick my brains on the subject, as someone with broad experience of faith diversity. Until he mentioned it, it hadn't really occurred to me how unusual and privileged my working life was in terms of encounters with people of so many different faiths and cultures. The Spiritual Capital research project was just the latest expression of an interest that has spanned my working life. One of these days I must make an attempt to write properly about this. Who else might be interested, I wonder?

At St Luke's, at last

We joined the congregation of St Luke's Canton for the Parish Eucharist this morning, visiting the third and final church of the parish in which we now live. We were welcomed warmly by several people we knew, including the Warden of St Michaels and his wife Jan, priest in charge of Glanely. This is where they attend church together when they're on leave. There was a congregation of around fifty there, quite decent for a summer vacation.

St Luke's is the least traditional and best attended of the churches in the benefice of Canton. Modern liturgy was practiced here ahead of anywhere else in the diocese, twenty five years ago. It has an altar in the round placed in the middle of the nave, crafted in wood to resemble a table with a cloth hanging over it. The chairs are arranged in blocks on three sides facing inwards. Fine when it's full, no doubt, but the church is like a barn. One third full in that space feels like we're rattling around in it. 

The congregation sang well and prayerfully. Another unappealing setting of the ordinary of the modern language rite of Mass was used, hard to sing without the music text to follow. I've heard very few modern Mass settings for congregational use that don't sound dated (as opposed to being a decent period piece), which is a pity. But at least the effort at a musical offering to God is made here. For Communion we stood in a circle encompassing the entire nave. It was well organised, and took less time than all of us processing to the altar, but it felt less than intimate to me. It's all a question of what you are used to, I suppose. I wondered how comfortable other complete newcomers might be with this departure from convention. It all depends upon the welcome, I guess.

My only real niggle was that the external church notice board has not been up-dated since the service time changed from ten to ten thirty. To say "everybody knows" is no alibi. I was quite taken aback as we arrived at ten twenty-nine to see ten o'clock advertised outside.

Senior moment

I was booked to meet David Lee for coffee at City URC this morning. Ah, I thought,  I'll pack up some more books I want to dispose of and take them into the Churches Together Bookshop (which is part of the building). The books were so many and so heavy that I took the car instead of the rucksack. Fortunately I was able to borrow a space in the church's own car park. I rushed in with the crate of books, conscious of occupying an assigned space without permission, off-loaded the books, returned to the car with the crate and drove straight home without remembering that I had gone there for coffee to meet someone.

I can't believe in my own lack of attentiveness. Is it a matter of creeping senility or simply the lack of a regular structure to my life in retirement? I don't have to worries any longer. Is that what kept me in focus day after day I wonder?

Valleys visit

The road from the M4 into the Rhondda via Llantrisant is not one I've used much in the years since then. It's been improved vastly, and the valley sides stripped of virtually all evidence of its industrial past. The coal mines and the coke oven plant on the approach to Tonyrefail have long gone and a vista of green and wooded hills again pleases the eye. Dirty scars in the landscape have healed faster than wounds in the community and the workforce, as the sight of shops closed, chapels derelict or converted to other uses suggests. It's not that poverty is obvious or even dire. Valleys communities haven't stood still by any means. They aren't locked in their past industrial glory, but compared to the suburbs of Cardiff they aren't as prosperous.

We drove up to Tonyrefail to take part in the local Ignatian mediation group this lunchtime, hosted on this occasion by Ruth Moverley at the Vicarage. The last time I'd set foot in that house was 25 years ago when I was local USPG representative, invited to preach at special services for Holy Week. Ruth and her curate look after both Tonyrefail and neighbouring Gilfach Goch parish up a side valley - three churches between them. Ruth worked them single handed until her curate arrived two years ago. There are fewer clergy now serving village communities and their remaining churches throughout the former mining valleys, just as in rural areas. Distances to travel are not as great, but the pastoral demands can be very heavy indeed, especially where fewer than ever professionals who serve these communities opt to live in them.

Valleys people are kind and supportive, full of good humour and traditionally resilient in the face of adversity. I wonder how they are faring in the face of one economic recession after another?

Waiting on hold and keeping faith

This afternoon I spent on CBS admin work in City Hall, where we are still camping out in a spare room, waiting for the new office space in 47 Charles Street to be ready for us to move in all our goods and chattels. At five, Ashley and I decided to go over and make an inspection visit as we'd done as much we could for the day. The place is supposed to be fully ready and the contractors gone by a week today. Neither of us would like to wager this will happen to plan as things stand at the moment. After all the place was meant to be ready by mid-June, but deadlines just kept slipping.

A lot more cabling work has been done since since our previous visit, and BT has switched over the telephone number to the new address, and got the broadband connection working. When we checked this was still the case, however, we found we had a phone line but no internet - probably a casualty of the number switching routine. Ashley got on to the BT helpline, and we waited three quarters of an hour before reaching a live operator. Testing, checking and re-instating the connection took another quarter of an hour. It was exactly the same the day the connection first went live - an hour to get operational, three quarters of it kept on hold. How these clever devices bind us to machine minding, just like their giant mechanical forebears of the industrial age!

On my way to catch the 61 bus home, walking down Wharton Street, I heard the sound of tom-toms, guitar and excited voices approaching me. A group of shining happy young Koreans were making their way into the pedestrian area, intent on having some fun together. One of them handed me a leaflet, grinning as he looked intently at me. He then said in halting English: "You look like Sean Connery - very nice." and laughed, as we parted. The leaflet was promoting the visit of a folk dance group from home, and a special speaker whose name I didn't recognise. 

Closer scrutiny of the leaflet revealed that the young people belong to a Korean evangelical church which meets at the Apostolic Church in Cathays Terrace, where the local community offer them hospitality. It's one of three Korean Churches in Cardiff. One has been here perhaps 20 years, the others are newer, and reflect the missionary zeal for which Korean Christians are renowned internationally. I was discussing the continuing arrival of groups of Christians in Cardiff only last week, and learned that Cardiff now has eight different churches of African origin, quite distinct from an equal number of afro-caribbean origin churches which have been here 25 years or longer.

The secular climate of modern Britain seems to have little appeal for those who come to make their home here, for whatever reason. Faith is too important  to abandon in helping them retain their identity, just as Brits discover too when they settle elsewhere in Europe.

At St Mary's on St Mary's Day

Before church this morning, I had to go to Riverside farmers' market and shop for the week's organic veggies and special local cheese, as Clare was still in recovery mode. Then, I joined the congregation of St Mary's Bute Street for today's Feast of the Assumption. Father Graham was in good form, preaching engagingly about Our Lady in the Bible.

I don't think I ever observed the Feast of the Assumption growing up at Holy Trinity Ystrad Mynach, but the first time ever, I do recall. Clare and I went back-packing around Crete, in 1967 just before I started training for ministry at St Michael's Llandaff. We were adopted by Yanni Motakis, an olive farmer who was curious about the rare visitors to his off-the-beaten-track village. He gave us hospitality, showed us around and took us to church on Sunday and for the feast of the Assumption. There was a procession with icons of our Lady around the outside of the church after the Divine Liturgy, with festive music and food in the evening. I couldn't help thinking about that during worship today.

The diversity of dogma, eastern and western on the subject of how Mary's life came to a conclusion fitting for the Mother of our Saviour has always been something of a conundrum to me. I'd rather stick with a measure of Anglican reticence on the subject. Yet, it's always seemed right to me to celebrate the humanity of Jesus through his mother's closeness to his calling and his cause - she who was always there for him, following him, caring for him, and in the end, suffering with him, helpless at the foot of the cross. We can barely imagine what it was like for her to meet him alive again, and to be there with his disciples awaiting the promised Spirit after his departure with the authority and experience of a trust far greater than all the twelve had been through, having known Jesus all his life. It's no wonder that devotion to Mary developed so early on in Christian history, and is still developing today.

Who cares for the carers?

Clare spent yesterday in bed quietly recovering from a bout of food poisoning, so once her needs were taken care of, I went down to St John's and helped out with washing up in the tea-room for the second day running as part of the effort to raise funds for USPG - the church's annual Summer Fayre. As it was such a pleasant day the flow of visitors into church was thinner than usual, but the tea room stayed open later and benefited from the arrival of people seeking out tea and cake right up to closing time. It was good just be be there and enjoy the  welcome, the conversations and good company of church members. I still feel I belong there, although no longer Vicar. It's part of belonging, being at home in Cardiff, for me.

We watched a repeat episode of Wallander on TV in the evening, one I hadn't seen before, about a disappearance and the suicide of a high school teenager. The story was, as ever, carefully drawn and understated but disturbingly credible, revolving around the activity of a paedophile school counsellor. The story was tragic, but the story behind the film was equally tragic. The actress playing the daughter of Wallander committed suicide shortly after its completion. The subject matter had deeply disturbed her and re-awakened unhealed memories from her past which she was unable to deal with. 

With the contemporary no-holds-barred realism of Radio and TV drama and documentary programmes these days, broadcasts are often followed by a statement like: 'If you have been affected by any of the issues portrayed in this programme call this number...' It's a recognition of the potential impact that open consideration of real life issues can have on vulnerable people. It's a 'duty of care' performed by broadcasters, the equivalent of the health warning on the side of a cigarette packet or alcohol bottle. That the actors and producers of programmes may also be affected by the material they handle can be easily overlooked. 

Therapists and priests working with those who have suffered terrible violence or abuse can also be deeply affected by the experiences they learn about, to the point where the defences formed by their professional training can be undermined, and take them to a place where it's hard for collagues to reach them with support. It's such difficult work that case loads generally exceed the supply of  workers experienced enough to cope with them, putting excess pressure on them, leading to burn out and breakdown. In a world where violence, exploitation and injustice seem to know no limits, those in any profession that concerns itself with human beings in their relationships with each other may find their conviction, compassion and fortitude challenged to the core. How is it possible to cope without a measure faith in what is beyond our meagre selves?

A Perseid night

Wednesday night, cloud covered the night sky, so there was no point in going outdoors to look up in the hope of seeing the odd Perseid meteor descending to earth. Yesterday, our friends Keith and Claudine arrived from Geneva, to give Keith sufficient time to prepare for his annual summer organ concert at St John's. After they'd retired to bed, I slipped out and walked out into Llandaff Fields to see what I could see.

Before I'd left the street I caught the end of one bright meteor out of the corner of my eye, but no more during my ten minute walk into the darkness away from the main road. Impulsively, I'd left the house without a jacket, and the light breeze was enough to chill me and drive me straight back home for a jacket. On my second sortie out to the same spot in the middle of the Fields I saw four different trails blazed across the sky in different directions over a half hour period, and thus satisfied, I retired to bed, before midnight, grateful that the sky had been clear enough to allow me to witness this memorable occasion.

The Meteorwatch website crashed under the sheer volume of enquirers wanting to find out, or offer information about sightings. Let's hope that next year this commendably amateur effort to record the occasion will be backed by the technical capacity of the global academic science community, with all their super computers and giant data servers.

Ephemeral grace

We had a visit for lunch today from Richard and Jo Hunt, on their way home from a few days of walking and camping in the Brecon Beacons. Richard was Curate of St Agnes in Bristol and welcomed me into the St Paul's Area parish in Bristol when I was made incumbent in 1975. He lived in the Vicarage top floor flat for the first couple of years we were there. These days he's a Vicar in Chichester getting ready to retire next year, hopefully to the West of England, which will make it easier to see each other. Our last reunion was when we were in Geneva, and they dropped in, en route to walk around Mont Blanc, a favourite route for hardy long distance walkers.

Tonight, one of nature's great spectaculars, the Perseid meteor shower comes to open sky everywhere. It's lovely that there's a measure of popular interest in this special phenomenon. The Meteorwatch website  invites people around the world to use Twitter to report meteor sightings and post pictures, which will then be mapped using crowd-sourcing software. It's a brilliant idea to marshal the curiosity and mass observational skills of people all over the planet, and the outcome will be a unique set of data about the material in the tail of the Swift-Tuttle comet, through which Earth passes, generating the meteor shower en passant.  

There's a delightful tongue in cheek publicity trailer promoting Meteorwatch, here on YouTube. It ends with the injunction 'Look Up', which makes me think of Luke 21:28, and apocalyptic passages about the Coming of the Son of the Man. Meteorwatch invites people across the world to scan the heavens with the expectation of being surprised and amazed by heavenly beauty. There's no desire to look beyond in search of a celestial visitor arriving to rescue humankind from the plight of a world in crisis. Yet, the heavens remain the source of so much awe and wonder. 'Look up' is an invitation to contemplate the beauty and glory of creation, to savour and delight in it without needing to interpret what we see in terms of our own perceived needs. To see just what's there is privilege enough.

We are no longer expected to search beyond for that which gives meaning and purpose to our existence. We are invited to experience creation's awe and wonder, and do whatever we will in the light of this. We are left to look into the depths of ourselves fed by this experience, and find the ultimate meaning we seek. At least, that's what I think Jesus was encouraging us to discover.

Alexander Solzhenitsin debated whether beauty could save the world, which, if I understand him aright is an assertion that any experience of beauty awakens a sense of the higher self in human beings, and reminds us of our true value, potential and calling. It is only from this foundation that humankind can curb impulses leading to chaos, destruction and ugliness, and work to heal and restore the Creator's art to its full splendour.

Whether we have a living faith in the author of all being or not, I'd like to think that looking up to the heavens in wonder has something that can inspire and nurture the souls of us all.

East Anglian visit

Clare, Owain and I spent a pleasant weekend celebrating brother-in-law Eddie's seventieth birthday at their home in the Suffolk village of Kirton near the great East Anglian container port of Felixstowe.

The M4 on Friday afternoon was slow and crowded, giving us warning signs from Leigh Delamere services onwards of long delays on the north eastern quarter of the M25, which meant we'd have to queue to reach the A12 Ipswich Road, or take an alternative route, which we did. First north to Oxford, then East to Cambridge. We also met traffic congestion on this route, but the A14 from Cambridge, south and east was clear all the way to our destination. The usual four hour journey took us six, and driving most of the way took its toll on me, it being the first long journey I've driven (circa 300 miles) in several years.

Kath and Rhiannon joined us to a stay in the Waverley hotel overlooking the sea front. Friday and Saturday nights it was noisy until the early hours with the babble of many young people socialising in the public gardens between us and the promenade. Sunday night, however, was much quieter, possibly suggesting that most socialites had work to go to on Monday, or journeys home to make.

The rain held off for most of the party celebrations on Saturday afternoon, and rain came as guests were leaving. In the evening we strolled through Felistowe town, and guided by an 'app' running on Kath's iPhone, we found a friendly little pizza restaurant for a light supper.

Sunday morning, Eddie came to fetch me, so that I could attend the Eucharist at St Mary & St Martin's, the village church in Kirton,  bi-celebrated by Helen, an ordained local minister who shares the pastoral care of five village churches with the incumbent and two Readers. Eddie and Anne brought Stefan their three year old grandson with them to church. His dad is Greek, and Stefan is growing up bi-lingual, which is quite a delight, as I can use the phrase book Greek I learned in my twenties with him as well as English.

Kirton church is a simple thirteenth century building with plain glass windows, which illuminates the plain whitewashed interior beautifully on sunny mornings like this one, and one can see trees and hear birds singing during worship. Stefan quietly absorbed the service, and walked up to the Communion rail for a blessing holding my hand. 

It touched me greatly, being able to accompany a small child into the holy of holies at this point. It's such a special privilege. I had only holiday time opportunities to do this with my children when they were little, being for the most part on the other side of the rail, giving rather than receiving on Sundays. Sadly, Kath is not in the habit of taking Rhiannon to church, so they were down on Felixstowe beach with Grandma. I wonder how far that choice of habit arises because of growing up with a father otherwise occupied when it comes to being together in church as a child?

Sunday lunch was another big family affair at Eddie and Anne's, with eighteen of us dining out in the garden. We stayed and chatted the rest of the afternoon, then walked the prom in Felixstowe before returning to the same pizza place for another light evening meal before turning in for the night.

We drove home as far as Oxford by the same route, then followed the A40 across the top of the Cotswolds down into Gloucester, before driving alongside the Severn estuary back into Wales along the A48. The latter part of the journey is very varied and beautiful, so we arrive home more refreshed than tired.

Speedy Swiss bureaucracy

To my amazement this morning, a letter arrived from the Swiss criminal records office in Berne certifying that I have no recorded convictions there - a necessary procedure for applying for permission to officiate in the diocese in Europe. I also needed to obtain a letter of recommendation from my Bishop, and this I received in the post I opened on returning home. 

That's just six working days since I posted the query prepared on-line in Geneva. The website stated that I could expect to wait up to a fortnight. Admittedly it was a simple query for the authorities, with their computer database of all registered foreign residents, past and present, but in the mid-summer holiday season, it's a tribute to the efficiency of an organisation that handle thousands of similar queries annually. Just try obtaining a similar CRB clearance in this country - it can take months.

Without completing all the edits, I impulsively uploaded nearly 650 holiday photos for viewing today. Some explanatory captions are done, lots more need adding, and some of the pictures still need working on, but I just felt I wanted to have them up there to share, even if it's a work in progress. Take a peek at the photo albums here, if you're in the mood.

I met with Ashley this afternoon to start catching up on Cardiff Business Safe news during my absence. The temporary office in City Hall now contains boxes of our goods and chattels. The printer is set up and working, but we lack a landline and have to use mobile broadband, with the dongle parked in a fabric  loop used to tie back the opulent curtains in room 136, to improve signal strength. We went down to have a look at our promised new office base in 37 Charles Street, in the company of the Civil Parking Enforcement officers, at the moment, confusingly called CEOs, rather than CPEOs, making the place sound as if it's a Directors' club.

We have a working phone line, and were able to use it to get the broadband signal working, although it wasn't all that stable, and won't be until the newly installed line has been running for a while. There's still a lot of work to be done, unpacking furniture and installing equipment. Re-wiring is still under way, and the work deadline is in three weeks from now. If we can get our telecoms connections stable, it may be possible to move in early and camp out, to make things easier. Meanwhile, City Hall is no bad place to be arriving for work.

Home again to Cardiff

Our friend Gill came by early this morning with fresh croissants and pains au raisin for breakfast before taking us to the airport and seeing us off.  We said farewell to Keith and Claudine our hosts, and to their dogs which we  looked after while they were away. They'll be with us in a couple of weeks time when Keith plays a lunchtime organ concert in St John's on Friday 13th August.

For the first time air travelling, I logged in to the EasyJet site and printed off our boarding passes. This  meant that all we had to do was use one of many auto check-in computer terminals to print luggage labels and queue to drop off the bags. It also meant that I didn't have the awkwardness (plus the queuing) of a 'manual' desk check in. It doesn't sound much but most modern passports have a bar code to scan, but mine is nearly ten years old, it was issued in Geneva as a second passport for Middle East travel when I went on sabbatical to Jerusalem - and the long passport number has to be keyed in, something now needed far less frequently.

The airport was heaving with people, heading off on holiday, and we were there as people were arriving to take USA flights, and cars were queuing to enter the departure drop off zone, so Gill dropped us off in an empty lane where taxis and buses usually unload, giving us an extra walk, but taking far less time. Yet despite this, when we arrived in the EasyJet zone, check-in took ten minutes, and despite seemingly endless queues to pass through the security portals, we were through to the duty free area in a total of 25 minutes from entering the terminal. Very impressive efficiency.

The flight left on time and arrived early. We stepped out of Bristol airport main door and straight on to the shuttle bus for Temple Meads, and when we arrived there was only ten minutes to wait for a train to Cardiff, where we stepped straight on to a number sixty one bus to take us home to Pontcanna. It was all so seamlessly smooth. Ben deigned to greet us with requests for food when we got in. He's looking very sleek and healthy, obviously full recovered from his nasty abcess. The only disappointment was that the car battery was totally flat, after three weeks of idleness, so food shopping had to be done on foot. Nevertheless, it was good to be back in our new home once more, and celebrating by cooking us a nice paella in my new pan.

Now I have to update computers which have been switched off and idle for the past three weeks. With Linux, it's no fuss, simple, but Windows partitions with all their out of sync warnings, and anti virus and system updates require permission to restart several times, it's always a question of machine minding, and this just should be the case for something supposed to be user friendly.

Confederation Day

Yesterday slipped by with visits to friends across the border and in town. This morning we went to the early Eucharist at Holy Trinity Church. It was the first time in many years for me to attend a 1662 Book of Common Prayer service, and probably nine years since I last officiated using this rite. It's so familiar that I can pray my way through it with understanding, without difficulty. However, in moments of detachment I wonder what any church is doing declaiming as this service does, the un-redacted Ten Commandments, enjoining believers not to covet their neighbour's ox or ass. Their neighbour's BMW or share portfolio maybe, but really .... for all the great literary and poetic merit of Tyndale and Cranmer's original language, we religious folk make fools of ourselves by our compulsion to pretend we are still sitting at the feet of Moses, as the people of Israel once did.  

After a leisurely coffee and chat with friends in the Hotel Bristol, we went back to church at the end of the later service and chatted with a few more people before accepting a lift back to Meyrin for lunch, taking  another chance to chat with dear friends Alec and Anne-Marie en route. Instead of having a siesta, I went back into town to take photographs of the Confederation Day fun fair and market stalls all along the lakeside Quai Wilson, closed to traffic for once. It was crowded, and it seemed as if all the nations of the world were out there having a good time, to judge by the languages spoken and the clothes being worn.

I passed an African family, parents and many children, all decked in Swiss national flag tee shirts (white cross on red background). One of the handed me a nicely produced booklet in French, which turned out to be a collection of prayers and mediations for the holiday month of August, issued by an organisation called 'Christ Embassy Lausanne'. I saw many muslim women, walking with girl friends or spouses. Some were veiled in black from head to foot, but many more had coloured headscarves and colourful, even stylish clothing, revealing the great cultural diversity which exists within the house of Islam. In Geneva all feel free to be who they are without fear of reproach or censure.

When I'd had enough of the hot sun and of taking photos, I took the train towards home, but stayed on it all the way to the end of the line at La Plaine, before returning and getting off at the correct stop. After passing through an industrial zone the train roughly follows the Rhone through the vineyards of Satigny and Russin right to the end of the Canton and the French border. Here I got off and took a few more photos and got back on the train at the front, closest to where I would leave the station at the Vernier-Meyrin stop. The train driver then got on, nodded and smiled to me as he went through the compartment to reach the driver's cab. Then he stopped, turned around and asked if I'd like to ride in the cab with him!

I had an unique chance to take photos, and chat with this young man about the new commuter train. He was was most proud of it, especially its smooth powerful acceleration and braking. It has pre-set cruise control speeds for different sections of track and can work at several different voltages, as French, Swiss and Italian train networks all run at their own national power settings. This feature enables this type of train to work on cross border routes. I still can't believe this happened to me on my last Sunday afternoon in Switzerland.

After supper, Clare and I walked to Meyrin village to see the fête arranged by the commune in honour of Switzerland's national day. Scores of stalls selling food and drink in honour of local voluntary groups were set up, with benches and trestle tables, outdoors and in a grand marquee, for a cast of thousands. There was a stage with a live band, and the essential bonfire, to be lit after the speeches and before the official fireworks. There was also an enclosure set aside for people to light their own fireworks - a nod in the direction of safety, but it was rather crowded and seemingly unsupervised to my eye. Again, the fête participants were of every cultural and ethnic background imaginable whether or not they were Swiss. 

We got back just before ten, and then the fireworks began in earnest, both in Meyrin village, half a mile away, and in the centre of Geneva, about four miles away, much grander and visible from the garden. Half an hour of loud bangs and flashing lights in the sky kept the dogs in doors and subdued once they'd had a look and declared their disinterest. By eleven, all the other communes' firework displays had ended and quietness descended. Tomorrow, after all, is for most people still a working day, and not a holiday in lieu of a Sunday fête nationale.

Confederation Day

Yesterday slipped by with visits to friends across the border and in town. This morning we went to the early Eucharist at Holy Trinity Church. It was the first time in many years for me to attend a 1662 Book of Common Prayer service, and probably nine years since I last officiated using this rite. It's so familiar that I can pray my way through it with understanding, without difficulty. However, in moments of detachment I wonder what any church is doing declaiming as this service does, the un-redacted Ten Commandments, enjoining believers not to covet their neighbour's ox or ass. Their neighbour's BMW or share portfolio maybe, but really .... for all the great literary and poetic merit of Tyndale and Cranmer's original language, we religious folk make fools of ourselves by our compulsion to pretend we are still sitting at the feet of Moses, as the people of Israel once did.  

After a leisurely coffee and chat with friends in the Hotel Bristol, we went back to church at the end of the later service and chatted with a few more people before accepting a lift back to Meyrin for lunch, taking  another chance to chat with dear friends Alec and Anne-Marie en route. Instead of having a siesta, I went back into town to take photographs of the Confederation Day fun fair and market stalls all along the lakeside Quai Wilson, closed to traffic for once. It was crowded, and it seemed as if all the nations of the world were out there having a good time, to judge by the languages spoken and the clothes being worn.

I passed an African family, parents and many children, all decked in Swiss national flag tee shirts (white cross on red background). One of the handed me a nicely produced booklet in French, which turned out to be a collection of prayers and mediations for the holiday month of August, issued by an organisation called 'Christ Embassy Lausanne'. I saw many muslim women, walking with girl friends or spouses. Some were veiled in black from head to foot, but many more had coloured headscarves and colourful, even stylish clothing, revealing the great cultural diversity which exists within the house of Islam. In Geneva all feel free to be who they are without fear of reproach or censure.

When I'd had enough of the hot sun and of taking photos, I took the train towards home, but stayed on it all the way to the end of the line at La Plaine, before returning and getting off at the correct stop. After passing through an industrial zone the train roughly follows the Rhone through the vineyards of Satigny and Russin right to the end of the Canton and the French border. Here I got off and took a few more photos and got back on the train at the front, closest to where I would leave the station at the Vernier-Meyrin stop. The train driver then got on, nodded and smiled to me as he went through the compartment to reach the driver's cab. Then he stopped, turned around and asked if I'd like to ride in the cab with him!

I had an unique chance to take photos, and chat with this young man about the new commuter train. He was was most proud of it, especially its smooth powerful acceleration and braking. It has pre-set cruise control speeds for different sections of track and can work at several different voltages, as French, Swiss and Italian train networks all run at their own national power settings. This feature enables this type of train to work on cross border routes. I still can't believe this happened to me on my last Sunday afternoon in Switzerland.

After supper, Clare and I walked to Meyrin village to see the fête arranged by the commune in honour of Switzerland's national day. Scores of stalls selling food and drink in honour of local voluntary groups were set up, with benches and trestle tables, outdoors and in a grand marquee, for a cast of thousands. There was a stage with a live band, and the essential bonfire, to be lit after the speeches and before the official fireworks. There was also an enclosure set aside for people to light their own fireworks - a nod in the direction of safety, but it was rather crowded and seemingly unsupervised to my eye. Again, the fête participants were of every cultural and ethnic background imaginable whether or not they were Swiss. 

We got back just before ten, and then the fireworks began in earnest, both in Meyrin village, half a mile away, and in the centre of Geneva, about four miles away, much grander and visible from the garden. Half an hour of loud bangs and flashing lights in the sky kept the dogs in doors and subdued once they'd had a look and declared their disinterest. By eleven, all the other communes' firework displays had ended and quietness descended. Tomorrow, after all, is for most people still a working day, and not a holiday in lieu of a Sunday fête nationale.