Disconcerting news

I was saddened to learn yesterday evening that Malaga is soon to be without a priest again, as things didn't work out for Fr Paul with the congregations there, so he's moving to Gran Canaria next month. After such high hopes of a new beginning last Pentecost, this is a crushing blow for the church there. Fifteen months ago it was suggested that I might go there for an interim year of ministry to help the church move on from a succession of shortened ministries and long interregna. A part of me regrets not taking up this idea. At present I'm not in a position offer them any kind of help, which adds to the regret. Well, I can still pray for the resurgence of new life despite everything going on.

I had an email from Emma today asking if I could do a funeral in two weeks time, when she and all the serving clergy of the diocese are at Clergy School in Santiago de Compostela. This takes 'Pilgrimage' as its theme, though why it's necessary to fly everyone to Spain for a few days for this when you could do the same at St Beuno's in Denbighshire or St David's in Pembrokeshire puzzles me. This comes as Parliament debates the global climate change emergency and people are on the streets protesting that not enough is being done in response to the crisis of this magnitude. Increasing the diocesan carbon footprint to such an extent won't do anything to enhance the credibility of the church at this moment in history. I see it as a spectacular own goal.

Emma told me that the appointment process to find a new Team Rector was unsuccessful and will have to be run again. So the interregnum is now set to continue into the autumn. She also asked me to do a Christening at St Luke's next month, on the day of the Benefice Confirmation service. It's one of those situations when it's not practical to do this during a main service. I'm happy to help out with this. This a rare treat for me these days. I did one last summer in Montreux, and one the previous autumn in Villars, and before that, I cannot recall.

It was otherwise a routine day, with a visit to the wound clinic, the weekly grocery shopping to do, and bereavement visit arrangements to make. I needed extra rest too, as the weekend's travel drained my reserves. I still can't get used to this, and hope it's nothing more than a consequence of on-going wound healing.
   

Remembering old friends

After a comfortable night and picnic breakfast in our hotel room, we walked around and acquainted ourselves with Beaconsfield town centre. It consists mostly of pleasant looking red brick eighteenth century half timbered buildings, and a fine 12 century Parish Church. There seemed to be rather a lot of elite fashion boutiques, few typical high street retail stores and no visible municipal buildings. It had been a village in times past, but nowadays it's a commuter dormitory town from which people travel by car to shop out of town. We bought sandwiches for lunch, and then headed to the suburb to the north of the town where our late John and Elizabeth lived, and attended the Parish Church of St Michael and All Angels, where their Memorial Service was going to be held.

Like the housing area in which it is set, the church nave was built 1915-16, with the sanctuary added in 1954-55 and the Lady Chapel in 1963. It faithfully reflects the architecture and style of the 'Arts and Crafts' movement, and the Anglo-Catholic liturgical design ethos associated with the name of Percy Dearmer, simple, light and airy, expensively crafted. It's quite a treasure, and a rather special 20th century Listed Building. 

A congregation of about seventy people gathered, and the service was led by Camilla Walton, the recently retired priest in charge of the church. Despite working abroad for much of their life together, Beaconsfield was the place where they made the home to which they returned, so a large number of people in the congregation had known them since well before they retired here twenty years ago. Others had come from far and wide, long standing friends, colleagues from the aviation industry in which John spent his entire working life. The euolgies reflected remarkable friendships they both made, lives spent at the service of progress in world travel. Our lives touched during the eight years we were together in Geneva when John worked for IATA and they both attended Holy Trinity Anglican Church.

John was notorious for his sweet tooth, and in his memory the refreshments served with tea after the service consisted entirely of a huge variety of cakes, beautifully presented, with nothing savoury. For Clare and I it was a matter of looking for the least sweet thing to eat, which in this case fortunately, was scone with jam and cream. After half an hour chatting with their daughters who were hosting the event and other guests, we set off for home, just ahead of the rush hour traffic. It wasn't easy to find the least congested route back to the M4 from there, and I'm still unsure we went the way that Google Maps proposed, as the criss-crossing of major roads in that area easily confuses. Clare drove the full distance, as she did yesterday, as I couldn't settle comfortably in the driving seat again, in spite of my best efforts. It's just like that some times - annoying, but I have to put up with it.

I was good to reach home, as 'The Archers' were finishing, in good time for me to cook supper, glad and relieved to be back in my comfort zone yet again. I took one computer with me to Kenilworth, and returned with three - Kath's broken Acer Aspire laptop to try and fix, and two notebooks, the little Acer I loaned to Kath last year when the bigger Aspire malfunctioned, and Rhiannon's HP. So much for downsizing! The HP I'll keep for the time being, before deciding what to do with it, but the little Acer I installed Linux on. At first I tried my usual Mint edition, but found the trackpad didn't work, so I downloaded and installed Ubuntu, but found the trackpad didn't work with this one also. Is it a mechanical fault or an operating system glitch? It remains to be discovered. Perhaps by trying yet another Linux distro first.

   

Low Sunday blues

I woke up early and went to the eight o'clock Communion service at St Nicholas' Parish Church. I sat outside beforehand, on a park bench saying Morning Prayer from my phone. I'd have felt rather self-conscious fiddling with my phone in church, where it's customary good manners to switch off and attend to God without digital support.

Much to my surprise, the 1662 Book of Common Prayer liturgy has been supplanted by a select Easter booklet derived from the CofE Common Worship prayer book data store. A youthful looking retired priest five years or so older than me took the service and preached an excellent resurrection homily. I couldn't help but notice that congregational numbers are now down to twenty, having been thirty plus on previous visits. There can be a variety reasons for this, including a changing profile for the church going constituency with perhaps fewer older traditionalists attending. Older people may stop getting up so early, and move to the main service of the day, whether they like modern liturgy or not. Still, in this heartland parish of protestant middle England, I sincerely hope that use of the 1662 BCP hasn't entirely been abandoned.

Apart from me, everyone got up late. We had a late breakfast, and then after a good walk through Abbey FIelds and around Kenilworth Castle and back, lunch mid-afternoon, before parting company and heading down the M40 to Beaconsfield, for a night in a Travelodge hotel prior to the Memorial Service for a friend from Geneva days, John Meredith. He died last summer, six months after losing his wife Elizabeth. It's been lovely to get away, as we have done, but how tiring these days we find both the displacement and the effort.

Surprisingly, wi-fi had to be paid for in the hotel, but the phone signal was good enough for this not to be necessary. I leave mobile data on these days, and find I rarely if ever exhaust my rather meager weekly allowance, since I don't need to stream music or video. The room had a telly, we we were able to watch tonight's episode of 'Line of Duty', and be kept guessing for another week about the identity of the most corrupt cops of all - although I bet there are some corrupt politicos involved in all this as well.

    

Techy day

A clinic visit Friday morning, then bag packing and loading up the car for our late afternoon drive to Kenilworth for the weekend. In the afternoon, I went about resetting my Windows 10 laptop for use by Rhiannon, as she's not been getting on well with the little HP laptop I gave her a few years ago. This innocuous task proved to be something of a nightmare, taking five hours for a scrupulous date file wipe and re-installation of the operating system. I could have set up four Linux devices from scratch in that amount of time. I hadn't suspected, and was reluctant to abort the process in case this would leave me with an unusable Windows machine. So we left two hours late, much to Clare's exasperation, unfortunately.

The roads were quiet all the way there, but I drove less than half the distance, as I couldn't settle comfortably (and therefore safely) in the driving seat for a sustainable length of time. It happens like this occasionally, and it's difficult to work out the reason for it. Thankfully, Clare is still confident driving on familiar routes. We arrived just as 'The Archers' ended on the radio, and soon sat down to a delicious risotto supper and a couple of superb bottles of 'Easter' wine - a Rioja and a Primitivo. There was lots of catch up on, with Kath, Anto and Rhiannon back from Sta Pola the previous day, with photos to show, and grumbles about the horrid wet and windy weather they had there, in contrast to the hot and sunny weather here in the UK, a reversal of usual conditions this time of year.

I had a message from Sheila's son John to tell me she had died early this morning in Holme Tower. The funeral is proposed for 9th May. I wrote and told Laura, feeling sad for her that her dear friend didn't live to see her one last time, and that she will have to return to Romania before Sheila can be last to rest. They'd known each other for fourteen years, since Laura met her during a specialist placement in geriatric medicine at Llandough Hospital. They became firm friends, despite the age difference between them, and had been part of the reason for her annual return trips to Cardiff.

I spent a good deal of Saturday setting up Rhiannon's account on her new computer, and trying to figure out what the problem was with her previous one. I found that her OneDrive account was full, mostly with videos she'd taken, so there was no room for scores of folders containing photos she'd taken in recent years, over sixty gigabytes in fact. These were only on the laptop drive. I decanted all these, plus documents on to a portable storage drive and transferred them to the new device. 

Then there was another little Acer laptop to update and reclaim, which I loaned Kath last year when her own laptop keyboard started malfunctioning. She doesn't need it any longer, as she's converted all her work flow entirely to Mac, with a desktop Mac Mini and a Macbook Air. Good luck to her. I was tempted to buy a classic second hand Macbook a couple of weeks ago, but relented. For me it's not worth the expense, with so little written work coming my way these days, and little else that needs more than a Chromebook to get done. I maintain Windows and Linux devices to keep my skill set alive, for when I get asked for techy type help.

In the evening, I watched 'Follow the Money' using the tidies and updated little HP laptop, as others wanted to watch something different on telly.

Easter Week blossom

I returned to St German's yesterday to celebrate the Wednesday morning Mass for nine people, but on this occasion no Tredegarville school children as it's still their Easter holiday time. Most of the congregation weren't there on Monday evening, so it was a pleasure to be reunited with a different small group of the faithful, who help make the church such a friendly welcoming place. 

After the service I went over the Splott to visit my old friend Graham Francis, who lives just around the corner from St Saviour's Parish Church, where he's happily made a home since his retirement a few years ago. He's living with stomach cancer nowadays and faces this truthfully, stoically with admirable courage. His energy level is much diminished, but not his interest in life, or ability to talk about this of mutual interest. We both share an interest in the variety of Christian groups from the Middle East and Asia that meet in South Wales, if not Cardiff itself. As I've been thinking lately with Roy Thomas about reviving the Spiritual Capital research project, it's great to have someone like Graham around who is a mine of current information as I'm hopelessly out of touch eleven years on from the last publication of our research data 

To be there on time I needed to cancel a clinic visit, but with a slow improvement I'm getting back to a state in which a daily visit isn't strictly necessary. We need to be careful not to run out of medical supplies at home, and with a weekend trip to Kenilworth coming up it was essential to check and stock up more than usual.

In the afternoon, I went to UHW to visit 92 year old Sheila, to whom I was introduced two years ago by Dr Laura Ciobanu, during her annual visit here from Romania. Laura arrives on Mayday, and we plan to meet. She's aware that Sheila hasn't long to live and had recently asked Laura to ask if I'd get in touch with her, as she'd like me to officiate at her funeral. Her son and daughter in law were at her bedside, but despite being frail and weak, she recognised me, and in a no nonsense way asked if I'd take the service, and proceeded to discuss the hymns she'd like. Although she'd only met me once, she said she thought we'd made a good connection at the time. I reassured her that I was willing and felt honoured to be entrusted with this task. And then, we said our farewells. She's due to go into the Holme Tower hospice in Penarth tomorrow, a lovely place to spend her last days in this world.

Today, Russell and Jacqui came over for an early lunch, unfortunately overlapping with my clinic visit. Coincidentally, the timing was just right for me to catch a 61 bus in both directions, so I wasn't away for long. The walk is part of my daily exercise regime and if I take a convenient bus, it's due to leaving it a bit late to leave the house and needing to be punctual. Not that it matters, as often the schedule runs late, especially in the afternoons. Anyway, I did get out for a walk in Llandaff Fields later in the afternoon. The leaves on the park's many chestnut trees are growing rapidly to full size and covered with tall white 'candle' blossoms. A magnificent sight. Pink and white cherry blossom has dropped this past few days due to wing and rain, their colour briefly transforming nearby grass. It's one of my favourite times of year.

Surprise park meeting

I was glad of a good night's sleep and leisurely start to the day. I went to a mid morning appointment at St David's for a dressing change, then after a post-lunch siesta we walked to Bute Park. While we were having a drink at the nursery end cafe, in came our friend Fran, accompanied by Mark Elton, a local musician we got to know through Rachel when she lived in Cardiff twelve years ago. Not only did he play violin on one of her recordings, but also led a scratch orchestra for a charity sing along 'Messiah' at St John's around the same time. It was a surprise to discover that they know each other.

We chatted for about half an hour, but then I had to take off in haste and walk over to Adamsdown to say Mass at St German's, to give Fr Phelim a small Easter break. It's the first time in a year since I was last able to visit, and wonderful that five of the regulars turned out to welcome me and worship together. I was given a lift back to Canton Cross by one of the regulars who lives in Penarth, which meant that I was back just as The Archers was finishing.

Another quiet evening resting, catching up on iPlayer. That was quite a long walk, and although I can manage 4-5 miles in a day, it does leave me tireder than I'm happy with, as if my energy level and general fitness is on a plateau and not improving. Perhaps it's inevitable  until that new wound really closes. There I go, ever the impatient patient.

    

Not so happy Easter

This morning, I presided and preached at the St Catherine's Easter Sunday Eucharist, with about sixty adults and a dozen children present. Despite the lovely weather, and the enthusiastic efforts of the choir, somehow I felt the general mood of worshippers was subdued. We had, after all, woken up to news of mass murder by terrorists bombing churches in Sri Lanka. I found it hard to awaken the kind of responsiveness that's often possible in celebrating Christ's resurrection, perhaps because of so much disturbing news. I was pretty tired on my way home after, and throughout the rest of the day.

Owain came for lunch and spent the afternoon with us. We exchanged greetings with Rachel out camping this weekend with Jaz near Flagstaff Arizona, and Kath, Anto and Rhiannon in wet and stormy Santa Pola. We've had far kinder weather than both, for a change. After Owain returned to Bristol, I caught up with 'Follow the Money', and then watched 'Line of Duty', which yet again was too explicitly violent and gory at the end. It's simply un-necessary, detracting from the complexity of the plot lines. 'Follow the Money' has its share of nastiness on top of its complexity, but it's handled with greater care in my opinion. Thank heavens mainstream news broadcasting is generally more circumspect in what it shows of horrifying incidents.

  

Most holy nights

On my way back from the Cathedral last night, I caught sight of the Passover moon just as it rose above the city's roofscape across Llandaff Fields. I dashed the last stretch home and took my Sony  HX300 to the attic, and got a fairly good picture of it as it emerged above the houses beyond. Not quite my best and sharpest moon pic, as holding the camera on the edge of an open Velux window was all I could manage - no time set up a tripod to capture such a huge low lying night time image with pale orangey brown hue.

Due to the routine disruption of the bank holiday weekend, I mis-calculated what medical supplies would be needed to see us through, and was obliged shamefacedly to call the out of hours nursing service and ask for a home delivery. This happened at tea time, with a cheerful nurse, at the end of what she described as the day's 'insulin run' - treating, I imagine, diabetic patients who cannot inject themselves. There so much with home nursing services that goes on quietly 24/7 which one never hears about normally.

After a quiet restful Holy Saturday, I returned to the Cathedral as the sun was setting for the Paschal Vigil, which had the virtue of being at eight, just at sunset instead of eight thirty. I was last there for the Vigil four years ago, Archbishop Barry's penultimate. Again, it was lovely to be on the receiving end, even if Bishop June's sermon around the harrowing of hell seemed a bit off the point after the proclamation of the Gospel of the empty tomb. It was good just to pray, enjoy the music and sing a few favourite Easter hymns loudly with gusto. There were about a hundred present, half of them congregation, half choir and servers. I can't think of a better place to come and renew my baptismal vows, if I'm not on duty officiating somewhere. 

I value this occasion more than I do the Maundy Thursday Chrism Mass, with renewal of ordination vows introduced only in the 1970s by Pope Paul VI. Anglicans for the most part followed suit with this innovation. To my mind it's unnecessary, as baptism is the one thing that unites all Christians. Ordination sets people apart to serve others, but is it really so helpful to emphasise the distinction and status it confers, for bettor and for worse? It's something about which I always had misgivings.

I got back just after ten, and having missed the first of this week's double episode of 'Follow the Money', decided not to  bother the catching up, but to saviour without diversion the joy and peace of a calm warm Paschal night-time "... when heaven is wedded to earth". He is risen indeed! 

Good Friday - same story, same questions

I woke up at six and said morning prayer early for once. Mid morning I had a wound clinic visit, then walked to Llandaff Cathedral where I joined a congregation of about 200, with the choir and sanctuary party adding another fifty to those attending. Fr Mark was 'Preaching the Passion' with the Liturgy of the Day to follow. I appreciated his gentle thoughtful style, making space for the hearer to enter into his reflections on some detail in the Passion Story, not telling you what to think but rather allowing you to imagine for yourself. It was just what I needed.

The Liturgy which followed and hour and a quarter's food for thought was both traditional but also very contemporary. It started with the Tallis 16th century Litany setting for the Book of Common Prayer, and during the giving of Communion we had Byrd's 'Ave Verum Corpus'. St John's Passion Gospel was from the Jerusalem translation, sung to a remarkable setting composed by David Price, Organist and Master of the Choristers at Portsmouth Cathedral, (b.1969). It's remarkable, due to his decision to give the voice of Christus (traditionally assigned to a priestly celebrant) to a trio of singers, soprano, alto, tenor. Exquisite dissonant harmonies gave it an other-worldly, ethereal quality - divinely human, or humnaly divine. Having a less than familiar Gospel translation also stimulated the attention. Quite an arresting experience. A modern setting of the Reproaches that I'd never heard before, composed by Richard Lloyd (b 1933) was also sung, and this fitted very well. 

Good Friday has always been a taxing experience for me, preaching the passion along with having to officiate at one of the most intense liturgies of the year, often unsupported, as regular servers have had to work or are away on holiday. Only rarely have I not preached on Good Friday over the past 50 years. I admit that I missed this, or perhaps missed the hours of preparation required to re-interpret the mystery of the Cross in another time and place. It's as enriching as it is also draining. Anyway, I was on the receiving end, and came away feeling invigorated by the experience, and grateful for the change of scene. Clare was in town after going to the gym, so she attended St John's, our old church. 

I cooked us a chick pea and vegetable cazuelo for supper, and feeling pretty tired after the sustained effort of sitting still and upright avoiding discomfort for most of three hours, I went to bed and again watched the live TV stream of the evening's processions from Málaga, and looking through my photos from last year - so profoundly moving with several tronas dedicated to the moments after end of Christ's crucifixion, when his body is taken down, mourned over by Mary and laid out for burial. These are reminiscent of modern photographic reportage of a tragedy, and due to the quality of the sculptures, most vivid, but more contemplative too. Ancient art sought to tell the story much in the same way as contemporary photo-journalism, to make stop and think. Such rage and such tender pity, all centred around this one man's broken body. This man.

The church dares to proclaim him as divine with good reason, even if arguments are resisted and challenged by skeptics and agnostics. Trust in the dogma and institutions of Christianity is perhaps weaker and less widespread than it has been for centuries, but the story Christians strive to tell still challenges us to ask 'What do you think of this man? Who is he for you?'

The Gospels teach us to ask these questions and to decide for ourselves. It's different from stating unequivocally 'This is what you should think of this man if .... etc'. I wonder if Christian mission and evangelism has morphed into an exercise concerned more with just telling than asking? Have we become afraid of asking these questions? Of having a conversation of this kind?

Holy Week Wednesday - Spiritual Capital Cardiff revisited

I've had an exchange of text messages with Roy Thomas who's out in South Africa at the moment, we have been sharing thoughts about discerning vocation recently, but today we shared thoughts about a possible re-opening of the Spiritual Capital research project we ran together 2006-8.

Funnily enough, responses to Monday's Notre Dame fire got me reflecting again on the economic and social role of religious edifices and institutions in this post modern era. The majority may stay well away from church, yet the presence and activity of religious faith based things, still seems not to be a matter of indifference to everyone. Even if ideas and opinions on these matters can be ill-informed, they can't be ignored or barred from consciousness. They continue to pose questions that challenge our sense of self anf our values.

Thoughts about Spiritual Capital were particularly prompted by an invoice from internet service provider Servage for another two years registration of the sarcic.org.uk URL which was used as our project web page. It's still active, although it looks terribly dated, and a few of the links are broken. We used two Google blog sites as well. Both are still there, frozen in time. The steering group blog final entry was in mid July 2008. Entries on the Spiritual Capital blog petered out over the next eighteen months as I wound down towards retirement, with one stray entry two years later.

I gave up access details to Parish web assets, including the Spiritual Capital material, when I retired. St John's web presence has changed since then, and old stuff is unused. I found a written record of old access codes, and they still work, but Google's beefed up security protocol showed its worth. Neither my present IP address nor the devices were used then, so confirmation of my access privilege was automatically required from current keeper - St John's tower captain Bob Hardy. I emailed him, and he confirmed he'd received a security alert, and I reassured him of the reason for this surprise, while he is away on holiday. We'll see to it when he returns next week! Meanwhile I need to draft a way of linking current aspirations and interest in Spiritual with those last expressed over a decade ago to discuss with Roy.

After lunch, I went to the wound clinic, and then collected this week's veggie bag from Chapter, before walking down to Blackweir Bridge before supper. I saw a couple of baseball teams out on the Fields at match practice. Baseball came to Cardiff a century ago. It's not at big as cricket, but it has always had a core of keen followers. After a few days of cold weather, it's warming up again, so it's quite pleasant to be out and about,

As it's Holy Week in an interregnum, there are no mid-week morning Masses, just a single evening Mass for the Benefice. Tonight, we were at St Catherine's, with twenty in the congregation and ten in the choir, as predicted by Clive. This would work if all who attended mid-week services regularly in the morning were to come, but they don't. Some older people, though not all to be fair, aren't keen  to venture out after tea. If changing routine is a big effort, they miss out. It's a bit sad, but reflects a time of change. No news yet of a new Team Rector, the appointment process seems still to be a work in progress.

Tuesday in Holy Week

It's been interesting to follow today's news stories in the aftermath of the Notre Dame Cathedral fire - with half a billion euros for restoration funding pledged by big corporations, some in the construction industry. They have an eye on investing in skills training for historic conservation projects by the sound of it, although it seems France is already well blessed in this employment sector.

This crisis offers a public opportunity to celebrate the bravery and persistence of firefighters whose untiring efforts prevented total destruction of the building. It's astonishing that the ancient organ has survived, despite the deluge of water and molten lead. It's damaged no doubt, but hopefully it can be restored. How good to hear different voices expressing what this sacred edifice means to them, even if they never darken its doors to worship God. Interesting to hear commentators speaking about people grieving at the loss of a building. 

Photos of the fire damaged interior are remarkable - the cross suspended in the sanctuary over the high altar defiantly still in place. And people again out on the streets, singing and praying, city church bells tolling, acts of public witness by the faithful minority in a secular society, where many ancient church buildings are now monuments to a Christian past, museums of cultural history.

Interesting too, how this has awakened memories of the York Minister fire, and the Windsor Castle fire, affording an opportunity to review the fruit of post inferno restoration work, and speak to some of those responsible. It's raised discussion about the Houses of Parliament, needing restoration after only 150 years of life, subject to the same vulnerabilities, before restoration and eventually during the process. There doesn't need to be a lightning strike to start a fire. A faulty electrical connection will do, either in permanent or temporary lighting, not to mention neglected gas powered appliances. Nothing can be taken for granted when working in these conditions. 

Thinking about 'building grief', it seems to me that destruction of heritage architecture awakens more of a sense of loss nowadays than it did fifty years ago. Modernising our cities led to redevelopment plans that sacrificed many ancient buildings in those days, perhaps because they were too expensive to conserve or find a place in new grand urban schemes. Much was lost due to wartime bombing, but not always rebuilt from old plans, as happened across Europe, but rather replaced. The emphasis was 'out with the old, in with the new'. It gave us Basil Spence's masterpiece Coventry Cathedral, but also an ugly unappealing neighbouring town centre with few reminders of what had been lost.

Apart from walking to the wound clinic, and walking to church this evening, I didn't do much. I don't know why, but I lacked energy. I'm waking earlier as the days lengthen, and getting to bed earlier to compensate, though not always successful in getting off to sleep, and some days miss out on a siesta. I need a total of 7-8 hours daily one way or another, and if I don't, I can expect to pay for it. There were seventeen of us for this evening's Benefice Eucharist at St John's. It was quite late when I got around to looking at today's Málaga Semana Santa photos and video on the Diario Sur website, plus my own from last year. I'll pay for it tomorrow, no doubt.

Monday in Holy Week - fire tragedy in Paris

Another Monday with shopping in the morning then an afternoon clinic visit, but not quite routine,  having taken time during the day to look at photos posted on-line of Semana Santa processions in Málaga, and looking at my own from last year. And then, a walk to St Luke's to attend the Mass of Monday in Holy Week, along with twenty others.

On returning home, news was breaking about the roof fire in Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, and I followed this for the rest of the evening, watching stunned and helpless with the rest of the world, but praying also with some in the crowds that gathered beyond the safety cordon, singing Marian devotional hymns. Four hundred firefighters, striving to save whatever can be saved of this great World Heritage site from destruction. Thank heavens, nobody has died.

Already powerful sentiments are being expressed by French leaders and others across the world, expressing the profound impact this is having on secular as well as religious people who treasure the cultural and historical, not to mention economic importance of this great building. Before President Macron pledged that Notre Dame would be restored, I had already begun to think about the scale of such a project and what it would take - I'm guessing several billions of Euros. 

Apparently, just last year, a high resolution 3D scanning project put on record a detailed image of the building, which can be put to use along with architectural plans made over centuries to aid a faithful restoration. Dresden's Frauenkirche, destroyed in the horrific firestorm of 1944 was rebuilt from archived plans. What can be done today is just as remarkable today in a different way, though it all relies on having the skilled artisans to do the job. Maybe this tragedy will inspire more people of a younger generations to offer their working lives to the pursuit of such craftsmanship.

Above all, however, it's the prayer of the faithful throughout, from tragedy to triumph, which make this much more than just a project to restore a great monument to human creativity. Without those 'living stones', the place would be no more than an empty shell.

  

Holy Week here at home

After a slow morning start, yesterday, I drove to Penarth. It's the first we've been there since our first outing with our new VW Polo last September. We had fish and chips al fresco from a booth by the pier, then walked along the coast path, almost as far as Lavernock Head. It was another bright sunny day, even if rather cool for mid-April. How good to be out and about, walking in familiar lovely places again! I watched this week's double episode of 'Follow the Money' in bed again. It certainly holds one's interest. I think i even care about it's two main characters - the baddie and the goodie, both flawed and weak in their own ways, driven their contradicting goals in life.

This morning I presided over the St Catherine's Palm Sunday Eucharist, with two dozen children and over fifty adults. The processions was only around the interior of the church, but it gave me a small opportunity to start the service by teaching the kids to sign the 'Ho-ho-ho Hosanna' chorus to get the liturgy started. And we sang it again at the end when they returned from their Sunday Club outing. I enjoyed the playfulness of this encounter, as it contrasted with an attentive dialogue Passion reading. The adults seemed happy and at ease with this. Perhaps because they know they don't have to put up with me every Sunday!

In the afternoon, Clare went to Bristol for her study group, and I languished in bed after my clinic visit, disinclined to go walking, happy to listen to a succession of Passiontide concerts broadcasted live from Riga, Copenhagen and Prague, while looking through my Semana Santa Palm Sunday photos from Malaga one year and three weeks ago. I also found the live feed for the processions broadcast on the internet from a Malaga TV channel. I'm set up for the week now. If I can't be there to enjoy it all over again, I can peep from a distance, hear the distinctive sounds, catch memorable images, and maybe even get a better sense of the routes used with an overview.

Hatching what?

With a late afternoon clinic visit today, I went out before lunch, taking the bus to town, then bought a snack, took some more photos of the St David's House demolition, and walked on down the Taff Embankment to the Bay. The eastern end of the the site being worked on that the moment is the broadest in relation to the new HMRC building next to it. I recently noticed that a service ramp runs for three quarters of the length of St David's House, which means that most of the old building is ten metres further away from its neighbours, giving double the amount of space between old and new. This will most likely hasten the pace of obliteration of a not-so-iconic late sixties building. But, we shall see. It's interesting to watch others work at things on this scale. I'm enjoying this as much as did during the year the St David's II centre site was cleared for rebuilding.

The Bay wetland nature reserve was quite quiet, perhaps because its inhabitants are preoccupied with brooding over their latest batch of eggs. I caught sight of a crested grebe sitting on some broken reeds in the middle of a reed bed, hatching eggs maybe? I heard heard the mating call of a bird that I felt I needed to check on to be sure what it was, and then I saw it, one of several in the same stretch of riverbank. The distinctive face of a Goldfinch high up on a bare tree. I was pleased with the photo I got as well. 

I took the bus back to the city centre from Plas Roald Dahl, then wandered around for a while before heading back to Riverside Clinic. Somehow, I mistook the time and arrived half an hour early. Ah well, never mind. Time to complete the days dose of DuoLingo Spanish. And, I've started reading one of the Poveda novels Kath gave me - 'El Profesor'. 

I found it easier to engage with than the last one by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It's in contemporary Castilian Spanish and its narrative style is a bit more, familiar from stuff I read in the Spanish thread of my Google newsfeed. The author lived in Warsaw in his early thirties. I don't think this is an autobiographical tale, but it certainly draws from his experience of living there, and even reading it in a second language gives me an impression of the modern Polish capitol.

That was a lovely walk this afternoon, but I was quite tired by the time I reached home, so I idled the evening away, lying down rather than sitting and fidgeting. I'd love to feel that I could be more creative, more productive. Unlike the wildfowl I'm hatching nothing at the moment.

  

Birthday boy

When I switched on my phone this morning, the first birthday greeting I received was from Darren in Singapore, sent about half an hour after the time I was born seventy four years ago, in the early hours of this day. That made me smile. There were also greetings from Andalucia the Swiss Canton of Vaud, Gothenberg and Rachel in Arizona during the day. Very much a reflection of the life I have been blessed with since leaving the Valleys at eighteen fifty-six years ago. It was great to have long phone calls today with both my sisters, that much older than me. So glad they're both still around.

When I opened the bedroom curtains at half past six, the sun was shining and the sky was clear blue. What a birthday gift! We had a great breakfast with porridge, escargots and cold chicken pieces for a treat before opening presents and cards. I have a new Barbour all-weather cap from Clare. It's hard to believe that its predecessor, so pale with a broken peak, was once the same royal blue colour. Kath gave me two Spanish novels by Pablo Poveda, knowing how keen I am to read and improve by comprehension of the language.

I stood in for Emma again, and celebrated the St John's midweek Eucharist, then returned home for lunch before my afternoon clinic visit. It's a week today since the second operation. I'm getting used to having this sizeable extra wound to live with. The original continues to dry up slowly, although it is not yet completely healed. It's wonderful the way the body copes with and repairs the injury, given the right treatment, even if it is slower than I'd like it to be. So far, so good anyway.

From the clinic, I went into town, intending to buy a replacement camera for my broken HX50, but failed again to act upon my resolve. At the moment I'm doing fine without, perhaps because I'm not travelling, and use existing kit for brief outings without needing to carry something that conveniently produces good results anywhere I go. Having a suitable 'travel camera' evidently depends on opportunities to travel, which I don't have for the time being.

     

Without a vision...

Yesterday, I had a late clinic appointment, so I went into town and took more photos of the St Davids House demolition. A big bucket excavator was at work clearing the mound of rubble and loading it into a lorry to take off to landfill. The site area is too confined for the demolition machine to work at the same time. Lorries park tightly in a cordoned access area where the pavement used to be, next to the site, and buses turn part the site a couple of meters away on a road used in the routine city centre bus turn around. There's scant margin of error for drivers and operators involved in this dance of heavy vehicles.

This morning I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's and straight afterwards was picked up and driven to Thornhill Crem for the funeral of a 92 year old lady, attended by just half a dozen. She was a young back office clerk during the war, helping to keep the airmen operational in the Women's Royal Air Force, so I wore my Royal British Legion chaplain's scarf to show my respect.

Parliament still fails to agree a plan to leave the European Union. As another deadline extension is reached, another delay is being sought. Some eurosceptic politicians and media brexit advocates are starting to admit to misgivings about making it happen, because of the complexity of the process and its impact. Polls indicate that a majority now favour remaining in the EU. As knowledge of the real consequences of the rupture is absorbed, I believe people are realising how misled they were by simplistic rhetoric, downright lies and a failure to envision future relationships between the EU and Britain after brexit.

A former EU diplomat on the radio reflected on the success of the separation of Czech and Slovak republics into separate nations. This was done swiftly and efficiently without disturbing incident and both countries remain EU members. Having acknowledged the peoples' call to undo the legacy of a state created by the secession of two distinct regions from the Austro-Hungarian empire in 1918, the 

negotiations were preceded by discussions about what both regions valued about their heritage and wanted to take with them into the future. 

In other words, they began from a vision of the future, not from a present sense of grievance generated by things they resented and rejected. If only Britain had been so constructive, envisaging a post brexit future! But maybe it's impossible anyway. The European project was born from a desire to create a shared environment in which post-war reconciliation and peace-making could flourish. I cannot understand why this hasn't featured in the brexit rhetoric of the past few years. The persistent idea that 'we won the war' unaided is a fantasy, an illusion. We are as we ever were, 'members of one another'.

  

A post-modern felix culpa?

This morning Clare went to the gym, and after a wound clinic visit for a dressing and acquired fresh medical supplies for home use, I did the week's grocery shopping and cooked lunch. Clare decided it was time to spring clean the garden shed. The question arose of what to do with my bike, which has been taking up space now for several years. 

Sad to say, I'll never ride one again, not just because of a back end vulnerability which may persist, but also because my knees are hinting at a level of ageing wear and wear which I don't want to exacerbate un-necessarily. I have a theory that bike riding during the spell of hot summer locum duty on the Costa Azahar back in 2012 may have contributed initially to the condition which developed in summer last year.

Anyway, it was time to dispose of the bike. It's worth little and could do with an overhaul. We don't now have a car big enough to accommodate a bike safely on a journey to the municipal recycling site, and n either Clare nor I fancy riding it there. Should we advertise it for free on the 'Nextdoor Pontcanna' neighbourhood social network or on 'Freecycle', to see if we get any takers? 

Jokingly, I suggested just parking it outside against the house railings unlocked, and see how long it takes for it to get stolen. Bike theft is one of the most common petty crimes which happen in our area, although many of these are expensive rides, stolen from bike shed break-ins, in our newly gentrified locality.

While I was out shopping, Clare took my suggestion seriously, pumping up the tyres and propping it up against the wall outside our front bay window. Within two hours, it was gone! Problem solved. I did an extra circuit around our neighbouring street to see if it had been ridden a short way and then dumped, but there was no sign of it, so it must still be working, even if a little stiff and rusty. So, no, you can even leave a cheap old bike unlocked in a quiet urban street for very long without it getting stolen, conveniently or otherwise.Any more than anyone can leave their doors unlocked nowadays. Such are the times we live in. And for most of my life we tended to believe we were making social progress, building a brave new world. Materially we may be better off, but morally? Spiritually?

  

Post-op Sunday day three

We went to the Parish Eucharist at St Catherine's this morning. Given the uncertainty I felt about coping with the new wound, I decided to stand throughout with my back to a pillar of the nave. This worked out well, reminding me of having to stand while attending Mass at one of Málaga's churches in Passiontide last year. Memories of that Semana Santa are still vivid in my daydreaming without needing to look at the photos I took.

After the service, I went to St David's clinic for a dressing change. I was delighted to see that Tracey was duty nurse, as she's seen me at least once a week since last December. She wasn't alarmed at the dramatic new wound. She said this was nothing unexpected after the operation and reassured me that it would heal normally in coming weeks. So, it's more of the same. Thankfully, it's not painful, just a little tender to sit on directly. It means that I'll be blogging lying down with my Chromebook for a while to come.

This evening, as Clare wanted to watch 'Victoria' in the 9.00pm prime time ITV slot, I went to bed watched the second episode of BBC One's 'Line of Duty' on the Chromebook. It was full of surprises again, and like missions of other viewers I was left puzzling over which corrupt suspect was being fingered in final a tense interrogation scene. Great entertainment.

Post op day two

Something seems to have gone wrong with the wound dressing I had on since yesterday's clinic visit as it slipped off rather too easily. When I inspected the new surgical incision using a mirror I was shocked to see that it was gaping open, not superficial as I'd thought, but quite deep. I wondered if I had done myself some damage by not lying carefully in bed, or getting in and out. The incision was not secured by staples or stitches, just like the previous one. As I'd not seen the surgeon after the op and not received a promised phone call. I had no idea of what had been done or what to expect. This I found worrying enough to phone and ask for a District Nurse home visit to ask for advice.

The nurse arrived just after lunch, inspected the wound, and changed the dressing done earlier by Clare, but was unable to pass an opinion on how it was meant to be post surgery. She'd not seen the surgeon's referral letter, though I had, so I recounted to her what it said, which wasn't much. She said that if I was worried I should go to A&E at UHW and ask to be seen, since Llandough's out-patient surgical ward closed over the weekend. 

The thought of spending 4-6 hours on a Saturday afternoon waiting to be seen in A&E, was as far as I'm concerned, out of the question when I knew I wouldn't be able to sit for any length of time, and couldn't guarantee that a colorectal surgical consultant would be on call - learned from experience of waiting on previous occasions in A&E. To stressful by half, the same as phoning the on-call GP service and having to repeat one's story thrice in order to get an appointment to be seen. As it didn't hurt much, and showed no sign of infection, lie low, be extra careful and do nothing seemed to be the least worse option. I found the surgeon's work mobile number on my phone from her previous contact with me, and left a message stating my concern. If she's not on weekend duty, I don't expect to hear from her before Monday. Just a little more explanation about what to expect post-op would have spared both Clare and I a lot of worry, and not made an extra nurse call-out necessary.

Owain came over to see us, a belated Mothering Sunday visit, and he brought a nice take-away salad lunch for all of us to share. We walked around Pontcanna Fields afterwards, then he left us to go to a local friend's 20th wedding anniversary party locally before returning to Bristol. We see a little less of him now that he has a place of his own to call home and manage for himself. It's only natural.

This evening's BBC Four scandi-drama was the third in the Danish series 'Follow the Money', about the investigation of crimes which have a particular economic dimension to them'. This series has a few of the same characters as in the previous two, and focuses on the intricacies of narcotics trading international organised crime and money laundering from top to bottom. It's very educational, and does a good job of exploring through personal stories the complex reasons why different people get drawn into the web of exploitation and subterfuge. First class watching.

Post op day one

I thought I'd drop off to sleep naturally last night, tired after a long and eventual day, but I lay in bed wide awake, quite relaxed, enjoying being comfortable and warm, listening to the quiet music of the wind and rain outside. After three hours, I switched on my tablet, wrote emails reporting the op to a few people I'd not got around to sending last night. Some time after four I dropped off and slept until a quarter to eight, in time for Thought for the Day. 

Jasbir Singh was talking about cultural vandalism of historic buildings associated with their religion in the Sikh homeland, due to modernisation which wasn't conservation minded. Co-incidentally last night I read an article on the Spain's 'Politico' news blog, that was a withering attack on the long standing Alcalde de Malaga, alleged responsible for the destruction of 18th-19th century streets and buildings over his nineteen years in office, in the name of modernisation and redevelopment. 

Spain still suffers greatly for municipal corruption, but in the past half century of tourism has grown from a poor, rather decrepit historic city into an expanding place of welcome to international travellers, dominated by hotel and holiday apartments and suffering from a decline in urban native population as citizens move out into the suburbs and travel in to work and play. 

It's a familiar pattern in other parts of Europe and other parts of the the world, where redevelopment ambition clashes with social and architectural conservation. A hundred thousand people may take part in forthcoming Semana Santa activities, but ten times that number will visit the city to watch, creating huge challenges for transport, both public and private, disrupting regular activity. There may be a net benefit to the city's economy, but this begs questions about quality of life, and there are varying opinions as to what this consists of. Slower, more considered controlled growth, would make a difference, but the temptation to make bigger profits has a tendency to hinder this. 

We've seen the same in Cardiff too, where parts of the Victorian street plan and buildings have been obliterated not once but twice since the Luftwaffe's wartime raids. We have conserved some of the facades but lost interesting interiors when buildings have been gutted for internal modernisation. The great Post Office building on Westgate Street has been unused for many years, and is now to be turned into an hotel. Only its imposing entrance hall is scheduled for conservation, the entire internal layout is likely to be gutted apart from this, I learned from my recent chat with Ashley. I wonder when that work is due to start?

My clinic visit was mid afternoon and by that time the schedule was running half an hour late, not that I minded waiting, with not much else to do, and not that uncomfortable after yesterday's op, and not really so tired after a night with so little sleep, but I made an effort to rest. Finally I got around to finishing the Gabriel Garcia Marques novela 'Crónica de un muerte anunciada' which I received from Kath on 10th January. The Latin American vocabulary and literary style made it hard work but mainly worth the effort. It describes in detail the same set of tragic events as experienced by each of the people who were in some way connected to them, circling around the core of this story of an honour killing in a small rural tropical riverside town. Having to pick over the detailed vocabulary to get the richness of the storytelling was slow, and towards the end a bit tedious, but I go there in the end. I'll pick something a bit easier for my next excursion into Spanish literature, I think.

Op day number two

After a somewhat restless night's sleep, I was up cooking breakfast porridge by 6.45am this morning, under instruction from the hospital to eat before 7.30 in preparation for afternoon surgery. I walked to St John's in the drizzle to celebrate the ten thirty Eucharist with seven others, and Clare was waiting for me in the car outside afterwards to take me to Llandough hospital. I arrived at day surgery Reception half an hour early and waited even longer than last time to settle on a ward as it was pretty full with the morning's intake.

I was shown into a waiting room and my registration details checked, a little later. I was interviewed by Magda the anaesthetist, who checked my medical history and reviewed last time'snuse of anaesthetic. Then we fell to chatting. As I was wearing my cross, he felt free to tell me he was an Egyptian Coptic Christian and treasurer of the South Wales Coptic church community with its base in an old church building in Risca. What a delightful conversation!

It was nearly one by the time a bed was free on the surgical ward. More interrogation, changing into theatre gown and pants, then a conversation about the operation plan with  Mrs Cornish the surgeon, followed by two hour's relaxed siesta, against the background sound of nurses coming and going and talking with patients before and after surgery. Several of them had come in for carpal tunnel surgery it seems. It was gone four by the time I was wheeled to the lift and taken up to theatre, sedated and worked on. By ten to five I was back on the ward again, given a cup of black coffee and a round of chicken sandwiches and allowed to recover.

Clare arrived to collect at half past, but I wasn't ready for discharge until ten to six. She'd cooked a delicious chicken soup for supper, and despite the coffee and sandwiches in hospital I felt hungry and ate with relish. No post anaesthetic nausea or hangover. An inspection revealed I'd been dressed with a large loose absorbent pad. It wasn't uncomfortable and I wasn't in pain. How very fortunate! A wound inspection revealed that the Seton's sutures had been exchanged for a single, much finer one serving the same purpose. I was delighted at how comfortable sitting became, despite having a new vertical incision intended, I think, to drain remaining fluid trapped in the area around the first fateful puncture wound from August 31st.

Once again tonight feeling mildly elated, extra glad to be alive and no longer inwardly tensed up, awaiting the return of discomfort and pain from the pressure of sitting for more than half an hour. No analgesics were given me to take, and if I had received intravenously any during the op, they would have worn off by now, I'm used to being careful and avoiding undue pressure on an open wound site. I guess the elation could be an aftermath of anaesthetic, but I'm not sure that would lead me to add the Te Deum to the recitation of Evening Prayer!

Another milestone reached on this tentative trip into the world of modern surgery with all its delightful dedicated inhabitants, and so thankful to all who looked after me.

Digital bemusement

I had a clinic visit yesterday morning and was seen by one of the regular nurses who's been on leave for a couple of weeks, so she observed a significant difference in my wound condition, and hoped this bode well for Thursday's surgery. It's thanks to her and a dozen or so of her colleagues treating me since Boxing Day last that I've recovered this well with no significant setback. What lies ahead is far from certain, and depends on Mrs Cornish the surgeon.

After siesta, another walk around Pontcanna fields with my DSLR. It was colder and quite cloudy with intermittent rain, which made for interesting landscape shots. A quiet evening without telly.

This morning, I celebrated the Eucharist with seven others at St Catherine's. We talked a little about the interviews for the Team Rector job, due to take place this time next week. We've no idea about who the candidates are, only that a lot of interest has been shown in the job.

Somewhat belatedly, I saw a belated April Fool's spoof article in my newsfeed. It was a clever satire on the common style of digital camera review journalism, featuring a Minolta Dimage V from 1996. Its range of features was described enthusiastically and critiqued as if it was a recent state of the art camera, and it actually made amusing reading. Talking of newsfeeds, over this last week or so I've noticed a sharp increase in the number of articles in Spanish from Malaga news sources. It's really useful for improving my reading comprehension ability, as well as interesting, and I get reports of things going on in the city, including news of Semana Santa preparations. 

Why this should suddenly start to happen now makes me wonder what's going on. I went to Malaga for a last locum stint there at the beginning of March last year, and at that time began to get local Spanish news articles displayed. This stopped some time after I returned home at Pentecost. Strange to say but I didn't get that much contextual news in French any time I was in Montreux. And now I'm at home, and not in either place. What's this all about I wonder? 

Late afternoon, I went into the city centre to take photos of the progress in demolishing St David's House. Comparing these with ones taken last Friday is interesting. Superficially it seems as if little progress has been made in the three working days since then. Hollowing out the interior has to be done very carefully, before the external wall twenty metres from the brand new HMRC building can be pulled down into the void created. Being pushed outwards and collapsing would be an expensive disaster in the making. I imagine the demolition experts wishing they could have started the job a good year earlier, while the HMRC building was still no more than a neighbouring steel skeleton. Timing on such a major project is so complex and very difficult to get perfect in such a tight space. 

Ashley called as I was taking photos, and as he was also in town and nearby, we went to John Lewis' for a cup of tea and an hour's catch up chat before heading home in time for the Archers, supper and early bed, so I can be up in time for a very early breakfast before fasting for surgery, and not for Lent this year!

Not funny

Well, April Fool's day passed, and the only pranks I noticed were a photo on Twitter of euro bishop Robert posing by a small private jet, with a caption suggesting that it's his new diocesan re-about, plus a Media Wales news story about a zip wire to be erected above the old Severn Bridge offering a new tourist adventure thrill ride. Both implausible and lame. If there were others in the daily news I missed them.

Listening to the news coming from Parliament in Westminster, one could be excused for thinking this too was some kind of April Fool gag, but it's all become deadly serious as national anxiety levels escalate. There's no room for pranks as each party contends for its own position by rubbishing the suggestions of others. It's all become a matter of bitter confrontation not dialogue. If I say it's diabolical, that sums it up "An enemy hath done this", as the parable of the wheat and tares observes, talking about the father of lies about its business.

This morning, Clare went to the gym and I did the bulk of the week's grocery shopping, then cooked lunch. After a siesta, I walked to Blackweir and re-took some of the photos I didn't get yesterday. The bonus picture was of one of the Taff's resident herons keeping riverbank vigil on the other side about 60 meters away. My 15x DSLR zoom lens doesn't give such sharp results with a small subject compared with the 50x zoom of the HX300 at that range, even though the image sensor of the latter is nine times smaller. I simply didn't have the right camera with me. Never mind, there'll be another time, hopefully.

In the evening I completed watching the remaining episodes of 'Baptiste' in bed again, for comfort. Despite recent wound improvement, sitting upright for any length of time isn't comfortable, and not much on telly is worth the effort of so much fidgeting while persisting in viewing.