Not brexit, but All Hallows Eve

Well, we got to Brexit day, and we're still in the European Union. Despite the blustering rhetoric and political gaming of Boris Johnson and his cronies, the rule of law and persistent critical efforts of most parliamentarians has so far prevented Great Britain from being hoodwinked into a departure from the EU, which one way or another will lead to continued imbalance in wealth, power and social injustice, no matter what 'deal' is brokered and push on the referendum majority.

Whatever sacred status is given to a first past the post referendum, it should never be regarded as more than advisory in my view, an expression of public opinion to be taken seriously, but weighed against the consensus of expert analysis of what is really in the common good for all citizens. It's bound to be complex and a difficult to reach a stable conclusion in an ever moving social and economic global environment.

After three years of trying to establish what the country really wants from brexit, and hopes for in an autonomous future, it's still worryingly unclear what lies ahead apart from a damaging impact on the British economy which may take a decade to recover from. Only opportunist optimists are convinced we'd be better off freed from the checks and balances of Europe wide governance and accountability.

What is sovereignty in reality? The reins of power in Britain are in the hands of a successful moneyed elite that can manipulate the way in which common people perceive the world, through control of the mass media. How much do they really know, let alone care about the privations of poorer people?

We are now faced with another general election, and already the media seems to be framing this as an opportunity to vote in a parliament which will 'get brexit done', another content-less mantra like Mrs May's 'brexit means brexit', inviting trust in those who got the country into this mess in the first place, by proposing a referendum.

It was intended to free Britain from the inevitable difficulties faced in its continued dialogue with a European system of governance that many Europeans already agree is highly unsatisfactory and in need of reform. Disengaging from that process is the last thing Britain should have considered.  But it happened. Whether we brexit or not in the New Year, Europe will not be any better for the absence of a critical British voice in the collective conversation, and Britain will be harder to re-unite that the same opportunist optimists think. It'll take more than World Cup Rugby glory to do that.

More low cloud, strong wind today and chilly dampness in the air. I needed more wound care supplies, so in the afternoon we drove to the nearest pharmacist in the village of Scurlage on the way to Port Eynon. We wanted to look around as well. It's twenty five years since we holidayed there, on leave from Geneva. It's changed very little but all the houses look more spruce, better cared for. The car park was empty, and the wind was so strong, blowing at us from the sea out of white mist and low cloud, that fine sand was piling up all around the roundabout on the car park approach road. A slightly dystopian image of a seaside holiday resort - admittedly without the usual litter!

In Scurlage, opposite the village mini-market, is a modern GP surgery with a pharmacy attached. It's called 'The Well Pharmacy' - a completely new name to me, but it turns out that Co-operative group of pharmacies changed hands and was re-branded as 'Well', and its the third largest group in Britain now, and the largest in Wales. An interesting discovery. We were 'well' impressed by the service we received.

Mission accomplished, we returned and then walked to the village shop to have a drink and buy a card to send to Emma and Nick, congratulating them on the safe arrival of their daughter of Eleanor Renee. It's been a tough pregnancy for Emma, and it's just great to know that everything has turned out the way we all hoped it would.

Weather bound

More high winds today, and colder. We walked as far as the hotel and back to the shop. It's called 'The Dunes Gift Shop and Eatery, and it's open this half term week to cater for holidaymakers out of what remains of stocks at the end of season. Then it closes until next Easter. The snack bar side of the shop is open and doing reasonable trade, hot drinks, freshly cooked fish and chips. Clare had a decaf coffee, Lavazza, freshly brewed, I had an ice cream. 

Rain was threatened so we returned for lunch, just in time to welcome the two cheery women who look after the holiday bungalows, bringing us fresh towels. The also hoovered the carpets and cleaned the bathroom. All while we ate lunch.

The rain arrived late and we spent much of the day indoors, keeping warm. Clare is now afflicted with the same cold as I am recovering from. I spent several hours writing more of my latest story. More ideas about the characters keep coming to me. It's grown from short story into short novel. Two dozen pages - a surprise to me!

There was a limit to how much I could write as sitting for very long periods over the past few days has started giving me trouble with the wound opening and not drying out and closing as it has slowly doing. It's a worry, being away from home and the clinic. 

Early bed again this evening after watching an episode of Inspector Poirot on ITV3.

  

Through the dunes

We were promised a dry but overcast day, yesterday, and it came with high cirrus cloud and a 30mph chilling wind off the sea. We made an effort to get out early with sandwiches and walk to Three Cliffs Bay. As we left the man in the next door bungalow appeared, on his way out like us, clad in his angler's gear. He told us proudly that the previous afternoon he'd caught a four pound Sea Bass late afternoon when the tide in the Bay was highest. It was good to hear it's still possible around here for those willing to brave the elements.

Instead of going along the shore, we took the Coast Path through the dunes avoid the brunt of the wind's harshness. It's a walk full of surprises along footpaths with fine golden sand, underfoot, a water-course lined with young woodland, marsh grass and dry scrub-land, with occasional bright wild flowers and patches of autumnal mushrooms. There's a small herd of young inquisitive mostly white horses, in a neighbouring enclosure, and occasional glimpses of birds hard to identify. A natural wonderland.

We stopped for a picnic lunch in the shelter of a woodland clearing after walking for an hour and a half. Bearing in mind the necessity to retrace our steps on the return leg, with another hour's walk to reach Three Cliffs Bay, we decided that it was beyond reach and returned to the Bay hotel to book for Sunday lunch and have a warming drink.

The wind remained fierce all the way back to the bungalow. We'd done six miles, but it felt further.
After supper, more story writing, then bed by half past nine. Symptoms of the cold are receding now, but it's easy to drain my energy reserves and nod off no matter what I'm doing. Too much sitting writing is giving me wound trouble too, although it's less inflamed and painful than before, making it easy to sit for longer without causing grief. It's better when I'm active or lying down rather than sitting writing. So frustrating!

  

Shore and hilltop walking plus writing pleasures

The weather was brighter today. Adjusting to the hour's time difference didn't include getting out to walk any earlier however. I had an idea for a short story with a strong conversational element, based on a real experience I had on the night of the St Paul's riots, April 2nd 1980 when we had a Parish Confirmation at St Agnes Church  it took me just under two hours to write three pages. Meanwhile, Clare wrote and went out to post five holiday postcards. And then we walked down to the beach.
As the sea was as far out as it can go, we walked the half mile down to the water's edge and back before returning for lunch. A lovely experience enhanced by the haunting cry of a solitary oyster-catcher that we couldn't see.
After lunch and a rest, we walked up the ancient lane bordering Bayview holiday properties land. It's over arched with unkempt vegetation and neglected trees, quite enchanting, but hardly looking its last. The lane rises a hundred and twenty feet or so, and joins a road leading up from Oxwich village to Oxwich Green and other small neighbouring hamlets. There's another footpath then, across to Oxwich Castle and beyond to Oxwich Point. The hilltop area is famland, some of which is given over to camping sights, or holiday villages with bungalows or static vans. It was an interesting path of discovery.
Back then for supper and another evening of story writing, encouraged by cousin Dianne.

A taste of luxury, but to what end?

The weather couldn't have been worse yesterday. Visibility was terrible, with rain and gusts of wind through the day until mid afternoon.
Since we've been here at Oxwich, I have developed a streaming cold, due to a bug exported from Kenilworth by Kath, we think. The symptoms are much the same. It was an effort to walk on the beach and when I started to get chilly, we turned back for the Beach House Restaurant, where Clare had succeeded in getting us booking a table as we set out. Demand is so high that reservation in advance is essential. We were lucky to get a cancellation, thanks to the vile weather.
It's a gourmet dining venue, specialising in nouvelle cuisine, popular not only because of its setting just above the tide line, but also its highly reputable chef and a world class wine list, unaffordable to the likes of me. The entry level house red and white are eight quid for a small glass, and sixty quid a bottle. Main course dishes start at twenty five quid. That was all we could manage.
What we ate was tasty, excellently cooked and presented but main course portions were small. It was a much more pleasant experience than lunch at Heaneys in Canton, which also serves gourmet food on similar terms. But, I still don't 'get' the idea of food as entertainment - lots of minimal portions at great expense, often thanks to rare ingredients.
I love to cook and eat good quality food that I know I can enjoy, but the modern gourmet way is to my mind, eating for the sake of it. Small portions may be a step away from gluttony, but craving so many sensory experiences and packing them in to one meal, the price per head of a week's family shopping, seems to me like consumerism gone mad.
We went back to the bungalow afterwards, for coffee and a fruit 'n yoghout dessert. Clare and Owain then went out again and walked up the Bay and back for a couple of hours. I went to bed to try and shake off worsening symptoms but couldn't settle, so I worked instead on my new story until they returned.
The rain had cleared away and they'd seen a spectacular sunset. Better weather to come, but Owain won't benefit as he had to return to Bristol  at lunchtime today.
We watched this week's double episode of 'Spiral' together. Unmissable French drama for him and I.
This morning we benefited from the extra hour with the clocks turning back. As soon as breakfast was over, Owain was watching Wales get beaten (just) in the Rugby World cup semi-finals. Clare and I went to St Illtud's Parish church for the 10.00am Parish Eucharist, and met the warm, friendly congregation of about twenty people. The church sanctuary has sixth century foundations, and a twelfth century nave.
A beautiful well looked after building, good singing, good preaching by Fr Justin the Vicar.
We didn't stay for coffee as we had to take Owain to Swansea station. We missed one by a couple of minutes, but he was nevertheless home in two and a half hours. A bus took him from Newport to Bristol Temple Meads, due to work on the main line and/or Severn Tunnel, and this worked to his advantage for a change.
I felt well enough for a walk in the dunes in the hour before sunset, now at five. Then I set about changing the clocks on the cameras I brought with me. My Samsung phone stubbornly refused to update the clock all day, perhaps because it isn't as capable of getting and holding a weak cell tower signal. The Blackberry on the other hand, is fine.
On the ridge above Oxwich Bay a cell phone relay tower is prominent, visible, in line of sight, but it is a Vodaphone or O2 mast. In Spain roaming between service providers is often possible. It parts of Wales suffering from poor connectivity  for the past twenty years, only now is roaming between local service providers being discussed, but not yet in place. Nobody benefits in the end from making life harder for others. Sure, it's all about protecting vested interests and rights, but enough is enough.

Weekend company

It was overcast and it rained all day today. I was brimming with story ideas again when I woke up and spent three hours writing from after breakfast until lunch.
Neither of us wanted to brave the elements so we only went out by car in the afternoon to collect Owain from Gowerton station. We left early enough to stop at a supermarket to buy extra supplies, things forgotten yesterday.
Then, we were early enough to meet the train to allow us to have a drink in the Commercial Inn two hundred yards from the station. It's quite a tradition pub, with a billiard table and dart board in the main bar it was the sort of place which, in the old days, would be a plain working man's pub, the kind you pop into on your way home.
It was well looked after, benefiting from a new coat of paint and modernised toilets. There were several women in there with their spouses, and two children with one couple. A more congenial atmosphere than in times past.
The return journey took ten minutes less than the outward one. The road from north to south Gower was traffic free after the peak congestion hour of the school run. Dusk was approaching, thanks to low cloud when Owain stepped off the quarter past five train and dark when we got back to the bungalow. Clocks go back an hour on Sunday. Already!
I cooked a pasta meal for supper and we drank a special Utiel Requena red wine with it which Owain brought. Then for the first time since arriving we watched telly for an hour. A not very funny comedy quiz show. I'd have preferred to spend time writing instead, but never mind, we have our son for a couple of days. Such a shame about the lousy weather.

Settling in where saints have walked

We walked along the beach to the river that flows out at the far end of Oxwich Bay today. Then we drove out to hunt for a grocery store to get some things we had forgotten to pack, for our two week stay. After supper I started writing a new short story about a modern troubador.
This morning's weather was warm and sunny  again with interesting clouds. First, we walked to St Illtud's Parish church a couple of hundred yards beyond the Oxwich Bay hotel.
It's a 12th century church on the site of a 6th century hermitage, with a churchyard that is two thirds of a circle. The coast path runs straight alongside the church on the remaining side above the shore. It may have been established at the time Illtud's monastic school in Llantwit Major began to operate. It's  forty three miles by road now, then it was at least two days walking, so it was quicker, more direct to sail across twenty five miles of coastal waters. The church was closed but there's a Eucharist there this Sunday so we will attend.
The coastal path to Oxwich Point from the church involves long flights of steps, ascending and descending nearly a hundred metres. Getting to the top alone was tough going which drained me frightfully, so we retraced our steps and walked along the beach instead, and had a picnic lunch on the edge of the dunes.
The beach is quite free of bottles and cans, but in one section, perhaps as a product of complex sea currents, the sand contains thousands of pieces of thin coloured nylon twine, from one to twenty centimetres long, of the kind used used in fishing nets. There was also a mound of broken net washed in by the tide. In a short stretch of shore, where the sea current may be strongest, I collected four handfuls of broken lengths of net  twine, the breakdown product from a large piece of net abandoned to the sea.
It's a toxic product of modern fishing practice. Why can't the industry revert over time to biodegradable hemp twine, as originally used?
The short story I started to write is developing into a novella. Ideas and words just flow, I've written four thousand already. Goodness knows where this all comes from. I'm quite excited by this creative growth spurt.
  

Return to Oxwich

Yesterday morning, straight after breakfast, I was collected and driven down to St John's for an early funeral service. This was followed by cremation at Thornhill at ten thirty, but despite heavy morning traffic we were on time.
We were in the Briwnant Chapel again, and after the brief committal ceremony, the funeral director's effort to accompany the mourning party out through the correct exit foundered. The door mechanism was stiff and hard to push open. Thanks to a few seconds delay, instead of following him smoothly, the family faltered on leaving their seats, then habitually turned and left the chapel the way they came, in much to the embarrassment of the F.D. The new one way traffic arrangement in chapel isn't working yet!
I think the family were too stunned by early bereavement to notice. Mam had died at the same age my mother died fifty years ago this month. Her two kids, the same age roughly, as I was then. I could see myself in them as they stood there, poised between numbness and tears.
Back home then to pack my bags and then squeeze everything into the car. Clare had taken much time to pack food supplies that will more than give us a head start in self catering. We won't need to visit a supermarket until the weekend, when we fetch Owain from the station.
We reached our well appointed holiday two bedroom holiday bungalows by four, on quiet hillside estate with a distinctly suburban feel to it, grass lawns, bushes, tarmac'd roads and plenty of parking space. It's situated just above the old main village street, now devoid of shops. The old Post Office has been a dwelling place for decades. There's a whitewashed thatched house with a plaque affixed to its front, recording five preaching stays on visits made there by John Wesley. Some dwellings are up market holiday lets, others are elite commuter residences or dream retirement cottages. As for village life? Oxwich Parish church overlooking the bay still has regular services, and there's a fair sized a rebuilt Community Hall hosting a variety social activities, just below the bungalow estate. But no food shops just a seasonal holidaymakers store the  beach snack bar and the Hotel we last stayed in fourteen years ago. Its prices have doubled since then.
After unpacking and storing foodstuffs, we walked to the beach to watch the sunset. The tide was way out, and we saw a flock of about fifty Dunlin scurrying about like ants on the wet sand of the foreshore. The temperature dropped and we called into the hotel for a drink before heading back in the dark. We heard an owl hoot in the woodland above. No traffic noise, pure fresh night air, silence.
The bungalow takes time to heat up so extra layers of clothes are needed indoors. Clare cooked a delicious celery soup for supper, and I sat and got started writing another story, on the largest of my three Linux laptops which I brought with me, as it works well without needing an internet connection. No wifi here, and an often flaky 4G phone signal, no good for tethering. It's normal for parts of rural Wales, but never mind, there are far more important and enriching things to fill our time with around here.

Festive high tea

I drove to Thornhill for a ten thirty funeral this morning, meeting with a family that had driven over from North Devon with grandfather's ashes to scatter in a garden there, following a funeral service in the recently refurbished Briwnant Chapel. It's acquired upholstered pews after a quarter of a century with chairs. Now there's a catafalque with curtains set diagonally in the left hand corner and the usual lectern on the right side, video screen up behind it with an exit door in the right corner. And no altar.

This is already a commonly used layout, adaptable for ceremonies of any religion or none. There's a candle and a crucifix if you need one, though you have to make up your mind beforehand about where you want to place it in relation to the coffin and the congregation. On this occasion the curtains were left closed as the catafalque was redundant. There was a small covered trolley, used for a child's coffin, of a suitable size to take cross, candle and the decorated cylindrical disposable 'scattering tube' as it was described containing the ashes of the deceased. A new experience for me in this context.

Thankfully there was no rain and the ground had dried out when we walked outdoors at the end of the service for the scattering, straight on to the ground beneath some trees, with poor grass cover. I had envisaged a flower bed or some shrubbery rather than a leafy glade. Instinctively I positioned myself in the circle where the slight breeze wouldn't bring the fallout dust in my direction. After scattering the ashes formed a circular cream coloured pool, in stark contrast to down trodden red soil and grass beneath our feet. 

I found this a little incongruous, and wondered how long the stain of this human bone meal deposit would be so starkly visible to passers by. Would a sprinkling of earth be made to cover it or not? Would a sprinkling of water or rain make a difference? I wondered. I must ask when I'm back here again tomorrow for another funeral. The Church's insistence on burying cremated remains suddenly acquired a different perspective for me, even if it does go against the tide of common culture and practice.

When I got home, I found that yesterday's cooked crab apple pulp had yielded a couple of pints of juice. With added sugar this made five standard and two small sized jars of jelly, although it was very runny. It needs more reducing, Clare says. Right now it would make an exquisite sweetish coulis, to use with roast meats, paté, or even a nut-roast, I suspect, as well as with ice cream or thick yoghourt.

I cooked lunch alongside finishing off the jelly, as Clare and Kath had gone for a swim, but I ran out of time, as I had to St John's for a very special Mother's Union tea party. Ruth and John Honey are celebrating sixty years of marriage this week, and they invited MU members from other branches and diocesan MU officials. There were about forty people there, including several husbands, and I was just a few minutes late. I'd agreed to attend and lead special prayers for the occasion, but the MU president had already started with a few prayers by the time I'd arrived. Not that it mattered. They were in good hands already, and they didn't give me a hard time when I explained about the crab apple jelly bless them!

The MU's own prayer booklet is very nice piece of work, though I haven't had occasion to study it or use it properly before, but I asked for a copy to refer to, and adapted some of its devotions to fit in with the overall anniversary and family life themes, as I led them in a quiet reflective act of worship, using a chorus with them that some would have known anyway. They sang, albeit a little shyly. It's not something they're often asked to do unaccompanied, I suspect. It flowed naturally, and I could tell from appreciative faces afterwards that I'd struck the right note. I really enjoyed speaking to God and the occasion.

A traditional High Tea with cake and sandwiches followed, served by two of Ruth and John's three daughters, ending with cup cakes topped with the number '60' in sugar icing letters to take home. Emma is now on maternity leave so she didn't attend, nor did Frances, whose ministry in the parish starts tomorrow. I wonder if anyone thought to invite her. It would have given her a positive preview of a significant element of parish life and fellowship. I think they both would have enjoyed this.

   

Crab apple harvesting

I celebrated and preached at St Catherine's this morning, and we had a christening during the service as well. As I approached the church porch, members of the baptismal party were assembling outside and greeting each other. I could hear Italian being spoken, and realised that Nonno and Nonna were here to welcome the latest addition to their family. They'd come from Sardinia to be with their son and daughter-in-law. A good night's sleep meant that I was fully alert and was able to greet them in Italian, without lapsing into Spanish, which is my default second language these days, after five years of daily learning. The ten month old infant was well behaved, and only just started to grumble when we reached the font. Mum held her as I poured water over her head. She went quiet and looked surprised when I did this, and it caused everyone to laugh with delight.

Kath arrived in time for a late lunch. She has an evening's work tomorrow as a 'Dr Who' film extra up in Ystrad Mynach, my home town. The filming takes place in Tredomen, where Caerphilly Council's new offices are located, or the site of a former engineering works. The engineer's office and laboratory, dating the early 20th century was where my mother's father was based when he was an installation engineer at the works. The laboratory was where I had my first summer job as an assistant in a Coal Board pollution monitoring station in 1964 nearly forty years later. That old building still survives, but is dwarfed by the imposing new glass and concrete municipal headquarters.

Clare left early for her monthly study group, so I cooked for us, and then we went for a circuit of the Taff and Bute Park. Near the tennis courts and bowling green on Llandaff Fields are two crab apple trees crammed with brightly coloured cherry sized fruits, which add a splash of vivid colour to trees whose greenery is fading. A lovely sight.

On my walk Thursday afternoon, I gleaned a raincoat pocketful of them within reach on lower branches of the smaller tree. This yielded over half a pound of fruit. Clare found a recipe, then I prepared and stewed them to pulp in a pressure cooker, and strained off the liquid through a mesh bag overnight. With sugar added and further cooking, we ended up with two jars of a delicious spicy jelly.

Kath and I tackled all the branches we could reach on the larger of the two trees, even more densely packed with fruit, and came home with four pounds of fruit. It took ages to prepare them for cooking, and the mass of pulp left straining overnight was the size of a melon.

I went to be early after supper, as I needed peace and quiet to write a special letter of greeting to an old friend from Geneva days, Philippe Chambeyron, who turns seventy at the end of this week. He and his wife Julia, were part of the small group who worked to build the mission congregation at Gingins, and develop the now thriving La Côte Anglican chaplaincy between Lausanne and Geneva.

We've stayed in touch since, but haven't visited them for seven years. Lack of a car when we were in Montreux in summer 2018 prevented us from visiting them at home, due to the difficulty of getting from the train at Nyon to the village of Vésenex outside Divonne les Bains where they live. It was the end of 2000 when we left Geneva. We continued to visit most years even after I retired, but then I started locum duties in Spain and the years simply seem to have sped by since then.

Housewarming

This afternoon we drove to Mountain Ash for the housewarming party of an ex-colleague of Clare's. The house which Gareth and Sophie bought a year ago at a good price and are now renovating is in a side street terraced row up the eastern hillside above the town with lovely mountain views. Theirs is perhaps a century older than the other houses, perhaps where an official or landowner had lived, or even a Manse maybe. They have enough land around for a garden and also to extend the house one day. Gareth has made a garden tree house for his young daughter, and he loves it.

There was hardly anyone there I knew. People were in family groups with young children and pets to manage, so that limited the amount of conversation possible. I ended up talking with a convinced and well informed euro-skeptic, which was probably good for me. Some of his analysis didn't ring true as fact to me, but who am I to fact-check the rhetoric of others when it borders on conspiracy theory? I don't do any political homework after all.

Thankfully we needed to return after a couple of hours, as Clare was being taken to St Edward's in Roath to  a rehearsal before an evening concert by the Fountain choir and Roath recorder ensemble. I  stayed home to finish tomorrow's sermon, and watch this week's double episode of the outstandingly good French flic series 'Spiral'. The concert will be repeated soon at Insole Court, half an hour's walk from home. That suits me better.

Writing and planning

Wednesday morning I celebrated at St Catherine's and Thursday morning at St John's. Next Tuesday we go to Oxwich Bay for a fortnight, and from that evening Mother Frances our new Team Rector will take charge of the Parish. She'll need to familiarize herself with the routine of daily worship as it's distributed between the three churches, and meet those who turn up regularly to pray. She knows when I'm back if she needs cover. I will need to look at my weekday plan to worship as member of a congregation. My Sundays are already booked with one exception, for more locum duties elsewhere. That's just how it goes.

I spotted a window of opportunity in which I could go to Malaga at the end of November, and stay in Rosella's apartment in Rincon de la Victoria, but finding suitably convenient flight dates proved to be a deterrent. With twelve days free, I could only manage a stay of five. Not enough time to organise myself domestically and relax, so I gave up the idea. Now I'm looking at a longer time in January instead.

The past couple of days, in between routine task, I have written a third  short story that I'm pleased with, about a street evangelist who was out and about his business in Ystrad Mynach when I was a teenager. I shared both my earlier efforts with Cousin Dianne to get feedback. She's done a proper writing course since retirement and has her writing experience to share plus constructive advice to offer. She's made encouraging remarks abut them and I'm enjoying our email exchanges. Writing for pleasure isn't so easy when there's a fair amount of writing for work to do and time to be spent on keeping abreast for brexit news.

This week I have the pressure of a Sunday sermon and two funerals to prepare for use before we go on holiday. The temptation is to work into the night, and I want to avoid that, at least while I'm still recovering full health and functionality. I'm looking forward to a quieter time for the rest of this year.
   

A new adventure

Last night I finally made myself sit down and try to write a story. Only rarely now do I write poetry. My output is mainly in the form of correspondence, sermons, eulogies and this blog. I feel, however, that I could derive even more pleasure if I tried my hand at creative story-telling, but where to start. My first effort was about writer's block. It was all I could think of, faced with a blank page and no ideas of how to start. It needed more editing this morning until I was pleased with it, and that led to writing a short story about childhood influences which shaped my path in life. The initial outline draft came to me easily, but it needs working on to complete.

In the afternoon, I walked to a street at the Leckwith end of the Parish for a bereavement visit, It was sunny when I left, but an unexpected downpour started when I was over half way there. After the visit it didn't rain again, so I went for  longer walk and called in at Canton Rectory to welcome Frances our new Team Rector to be, and apologise for not being at her induction next Tuesday, as we'll be down in the Gower in a bungalow at Oxwich starting our fortnight's much needed holiday.

Then it was back to writing again after supper, to complete my second story. I'm enjoying this, though I have no idea whar anyone will think of my efforts.

Grass roots pastorate

A few weeks ago I was in touch with Fr Chris Reaney, a friend and colleague, since the days when I worked as Wales USPG Area Secretary in the eighties. He's been Vicar of Troedyrhiwgarth in the Llynfi Valley near Maesteg, and we haven't seen each other since his induction, nine years ago. So I arranged to meet him for coffee and lunch in Maesteg, and travelled up by train rather than using the car. As the day return ticket only cost me £5.50 with my rail card, cheaper than driving and better for my carbon footprint!

I went to the station by bus and missed the 10.18 train, due to a lengthy traffic queue on entering Westgate Street. If I'd known, I could have got off the bus a St David's hospital and walked half the distance to the station in good time. The trouble is extensive sewer repair works in the lower section of the street creating a choke point for buses and commercial vehicles accessing the city centre. Still, it gave me time to pop into a Market shop and buy some memory foam cushion insoles, as the ones in my winter shoes have worn thin enough to make them uncomfortable to wear. It left me with plenty of time to queue for a ticket and take the 11.18 instead.

The fifty two minute journey is pleasant, passing through a still verdant rural landscape after leaving  Cardiff suburbs behind. There are touches of autumn colour here and there, but most of the leaves are now darker, almost olive green, as a result of milder air temperatures and no frost. The train takes the main line westwards, passing St Fagans and Pontyclun, then turning north after Bridgend to enter the broad Llynfi Valley. 

There were once coal mines lower down the valley, but Maesteg was built on the benefits from the early iron industry, and is the main town of the old Borough, with an ancient Parish church, Llangynwyd, first planted in the sixth century on the hilltop ridge road, as with other ancient Celtic Christian sites in South Wales.

Chris met me at the station, which is quite close to the town centre. Just beyond the end of the line is an Asda supermarket so there's a large car park, to support both shoppers and park and ride travellers. A useful late twentieth century re-purposing of old railway properties, I think. We walked to the main square and had lunch there in a cafe opposite the town hall, an All Day Breakfast for both of us.

The town hall itself is a huge complex of well used buildings, with a covered market at ground level and a large auditorium above it, an outdoor market and the Town Council offices adjacent. The covered market is redundant since the outdoor market acquired a collection of retail units around its periphery, and is being re-purposed as a library. It's an imposing collection of late Victorian municipal buildings, substantially built in stone and brick, visible across town as they rise above the three storey shops in the main street.

We had much to talk about and shared worries about the continued contraction of the Church in Wales and its public ministry, in the Valleys as well as the city. He worries, as I do that the organisational changes which group Parishes into larger entities in which fewer full time clergy chase around looking after a smaller, more dispersed and mobile membership, will detract from the traditional pastoral role of being present and available in the community for all, knowing people and being known, whether church members or not.

Given our shared history, inspired by world mission through our relationship with USPG it's not at all surprising that we both see the present and future of the church based on the call to flourish in the grass roots of local community, growing its plans for witness, service and proclamation from the bottom up not the top down.

While we were in the cafe getting lunch, I noted how many people Chris stopped to greet and chat with as they came and went. His Parish is the neighbouring one, although he also works Maesteg town itself, and after nine years is a familiar local figure uo and down the Llynfi Valley. That's how it should be for an Anglican Parish Priest.

I've never doubted the need for structures to hold us all together and support us, but they're still too top heavy, to my way of thinking. Perhaps grass roots mission won't flourish again until much of the top heavy component withers away. It's possible this will happen, and one of the casualties will be the loss of its paid professional ministries. It would hurt badly. It would be tough getting there and recovery would be far from certain, but an entirely voluntary kind of ministry for most pastoral purposes would only take us back to where the church started from at the beginning. Would that be so terrible?

I was home again by four, and then did the week's grocery shopping before supper. The train I was on advertised that it would stop at Ninian Park station, fifteen minutes from home at the other side of the Parish. I was pleased at the prospect being home earlier, but the train didn't stop, it sped on to Cardiff Central, and had the usual 61 bus journey back instead. A programming error in the heads up display probably, using a Match Day train schedule instead of the standard one, most likely.

  

Not quite a protest, more a gentlemanly warning

For the third Sunday in a row I returned to Grangetown to celebrate and preach at both churches. I had been asked to do a baptism during the service, but was contacted by the churchwarden midweek to say it had been postponed, as a godparent couldn't get there. The couple and their young son and his baby brother were in church anyway, and I had a chat with them after the service. They hail from Sri Lanka. Next week I'm back at St Catherine's, so it won't be me. I'm just a little disappointed.

As I was driving home afterwards through Canton there was a long queue of slow moving vehicles on Cowbridge Road East, mostly tractors great and small, interspersed with a few cars. Were they returning from a city centre protest? I wondered. Apparently not. It was part of a rally of agricultural vehicles, ancient and modern, seventy five of them, which started out in Wenvoe and paraded into the city centre and back. A great way of showcasing Welsh agriculture. 

It wasn't Not quite a protest outing on this occasion, although publicity quotes did highlight Welsh farmers' concern about threats to their business viability due to the current state of brexit induced uncertainty. Not so much a shot across the bows, more of a gentle 'don't forget we're here' reminder. If leaving the EU without a deal betrayed the Welsh farming industry, I for one would get out and cheer on a city centre gridlock farmers protest.

This afternoon it was sunny with clouds with a light warm breeze, perfect for walking. Almost all the equipment for yesterday's athletics meeting had either been taken away or was stacked neatly, ready to remove. A 3km strip of mud around the west wide of the park was all that remained of the running track, and the footpath verges were pretty broken and muddy too. I wonder what'll be done to remedy this, if anything? If only it hadn't rained so much last week. 

I took my HX90 and LX5 cameras out with me, so take black and white as well as colour photos. As the sun was low in the sky, and shadows were long, I got some satisfyingly atmospheric monochrome pictures to add to my collection. As Clare remarked when she looked at them on-line, it takes a little time to get used to seeing the content of a photo in shades of grey, now that we are so used to colour in almost all photography we see, movies and stills.

I intended to spent the evening watching 'Non uccidere', but ended up spending the time before bed updating this blog instead. Ah well, it'll keep for another dull uneventful day, no doubt.
   

'Spiral' returns

Nick and Sue stayed overnight in a dog-friendly AirBnB on Romilly Road, and breakfasted at the Brod Danish cafe nearby. This allowed us to have a lie-in before we met up to take Digby for another walk down to the weir and back before lunch and their return trip to Edinburgh. 

Llandaff Fields was hosting 'Cardiff Cross Challenge', a huge junior outdoor athletics meeting with races around a 3km long circuit around the park for children of different age groups from schools and athletic clubs. There were hundreds of children and parents milling around, watching, consuming refreshments or queuing in an orderly for one the dozen portaloos on site. There was an assortment of stalls, selling kit, promoting membership, selling food and drink, all of which had arrived and been set up, along with an enclosure for running events in the past twenty four hours. It's a pity the ground was still sodden by this week's rain. It'll look terrible for weeks to come. Still, it's for a good cause.

After a brisk walk, down to the river and around Pontcanna Fields, we returned, consigned Digby to his bed in the back of the car. The Nick and Sue took us to Heaney's restaurant in Romilly Crescent for lunch. The decor is distinctly minimalist, and the gourmet nouvelle cuisine menu is equally so. Even with an explanation from our waiter, we found it hard to understand the various menu options. 

The dishes I chose were tasty enough but the portions were small. I an additional plate of veg and some french fries would have satisfied my appetite, as we normally eat in the middle of the day. It's a pity we didn't go to Stefano's, a few doors up the street instead, but Sue was intrigued with the style and setting of Heaney's, and  was keen to try it, a good enough reason reason for going there.

We returned home for coffee and a slice of Clare's bara brith, then Nick and Sue too their leave of us and headed back to Scotland. In the evening BBC Four screened the first double episode of French crimmie 'Spiral', with a same lead actors playing Parisian detectives, judge d'instruction, and a bunch of dodgy lawyers. The series has been running for fourteen years, two years less than the original US top rated NCIS. I think 'Spiral' has killed off fewer key characters over the years too. Season seven opens up with the murder of a senior cop who has overseen the careers of Laure and Gilou down the years. The investigation trail uncovers a huge protection and money laundering racket. Promising!

With a much grander budget and global demand NCIS has screened seventeen series with 381 episodes, only a handful of them double episodes. There have been fewer story-line threads linking certain episodes. The eighth series of 'Spiral' is currently screening on French networks only, and there have been seventy six episodes altogether, but each series is bound together by a narrative thread which is much tighter and more complex. Subtitling for non Francophone audiences leads to a much longer cycle between releases, but it's always worth the wait. Beautifully filmed with superb acting and strong plots, relevant, never fanciful. Saturday evening excitement and interest as autumn turns to winter is guaranteed!
  

Another opera premiere night

Having driven down from Scotland with Digby their dog (not big and scruffy haired, but slim, short haired, an athletic hunting dog), with an overnight stop in North Wales, Clare's cousin Nick and his wife Sue arrived after lunch, for a visit to the opera with us this evening. We took Digby out for a five mile walk around Bute Park to exhaust him, so he'd settle for an evening out confined to the back of their BMW estate car.

Then we ate an early supper before driving to the Millennium centre. The opera was Janacek's 'Cunning Little Vixen', one that none of us had seen before, and once again it was the premiere of this particular production. It's based on a Moravian folk tale, I think, in the tradition of Aesop's fables, about the cycle of life, love and death, conflict between animals and man. I don't know if it was written with a young audience in mind, but it's relatively short and simple to follow.

The audience for a matinee dress rehearsal was arranged with parties of school aged children in mind, a brilliant idea, reminding me of my first visit to a WNO performance of 'The Barber of Seville' in the New Theatre, when I was eleven. The cast includes children as well as adults, singing and dancing in animal roles. It was superbly done with a cleverly designed bucolic set and a libretto translated from the Czech into idiomatic modern English, funny enough to have the audience laughing out loud on several occasions. It was a delightful evening, which all of us were seeing for the first time, and much enjoyed. Happily, Digby was asleep when we drove to the Millennium Centre, and asleep when we came out and drove home.

Recollections of a camera addict

I celebrated the Eucharist at St Catherine's yesterday morning. Paul and Ann were back again after a sailing holiday in the Ionian sea. They showed us some lovely photos of blue sky and ocean afterwards at coffee, a cheerful antidote to a another day's unending rain showers. 

I had a phone call after lunch from Pidgeons about a another funeral at St John's on the Tuesday morning when we leave for the Gower. Last week, I agreed to cover a different funeral at St John's the same day, but then it was re-scheduled for the following day, so I had to pull out. The one I have accepted to do is earlier, apparently the only time slot available for cremation following that day, or else the family has to wait for another week. This time is actually better, as we can have lunch before we travel in good time to take possession of our holiday bungalow.

With the arrival of autumn the number of calls on clergy and the churches for funeral services tends to increase. With Emma approaching maternity leave, in and out of hospital at the moment, and our new team Rector not yet installed I'm happy to help as needed until we go away. It'll be rather tough on Frances to start work in a completely new environment, and be faced with this kind of demand on her own as soon as she arrives. Thankfully Emma's still around on the end of a phone to support and advise her, even if reception in UHW is sometimes flaky.

Another glum day today, low cloud, bursts of rain, but I walked to St John's to celebrate the Eucharist without getting wet. I was missing taking photos, and hand't done so since since Sunday, so when I walked into town in the afternoon, I took my Panasonic DMC-LX5 camera with me, set to take black and white photos, to see what kind of results I could get in the day's lighting conditions. Although it came out nine years ago, it's still a capable camera that takes sharp pictures. I was lucky to buy this one in 2014 for a quarter of its original list price. I wasn't disappointed with the results (see here).

On reflection, I realised this was the first time in 45 years that I last took black and white photos. Clare had a Zeiss Icon film camera, and it stayed with us until we were in St Agnes Parish, when it was stolen from where it was hanging on the back of a door in the Vicarage by someone we invited in for a cuppa, or perhaps a playmate of one of the kids. It was several years before we could afford to replace it with a Praktica SLR, and by that time colour photography was more affordable, and I never looked back.

I still have an unused Praktika and set of lenses, the second of its kind, since the first developed faults due to humidity when I was travelling around Jamaica in 1982. By that time I'd acquired an excellent small 35mm half frame Ricoh which I took as well. I was developing films in a Kingston photo-shop using my travel grant money, as I didn't need to spend it on hotels. Just as well, as I discovered a shutter fault had ruined many of my pictures. The little Ricoh came into its own in this crisis, and I was able to re-trace my steps and fill in some gaps in a photo collection, which was destined to serve as an educational resource when I returned home.

I can't tell which photos were shot with the Praktica and which with the Ricoh. Foolishly, I got rid of it when I bought an equally pocketable but more sophisticated Olympus Trip. This was the only camera I took with me to Mongolia in 1999. Then in 2001, on a return visit to Geneva from Monaco, I bought the first of ten Sony digital cameras each of them increasing in power and sophistication, with three of them currently in use.

Questionable security ethics

At last this morning, a response from the funeral director in Barnstaple about the proposed Memorial Memorial service the day before we go on holiday. It'll be a full funeral in the presence of the ashes of the deceased, after private cremation over there, and scattering them will follow in a rose-bed after the service. I was given the phone number of the next of kin, and made contact for a preliminary chat before starting to prepare the service.

Then, at midday I was collected by car to go to St John's to take a funeral. About a hundred mourners attended - not surprising for a woman of 85 with twenty great-grandchildren, twelve grandchildren, and five children of her own. I read a fond humorous tribute written by her sister, whose husband's funeral was taking place in Spain at exactly the same time. This was followed by burial in Western Cemetery. Thankfully there was a break in the showers of rain punctuating the day, and the sun shone while we stood around the grave.

I noticed as we were waiting for the hearse to arrive that the re-opened grave was back to back with that of a man called Peter Brito, who died three years ago aged 92. This was such a coincidence, as I'd first met Peter in 1967 when I was training at St Mike's, and became a night shift volunteer with Cardiff Samaritans. I believe he was one of the Deputy Directors at the time. He was a member of the serving team at St Mary's Parish Church in Bute Street, so we met there too, when I attended Mass on a solemn festival day. He was also an early Community Relations Officer in Cardiff, having come from a small island Caribbean family. He always spoke with a proper Kerdiff accent, with no trace of the Lesser Antilles I wonder if he grew up here? If so his parents may have come over after the First World War.

Tonight I watched the last episode of 'The Capture' on BBC One. It's been a little difficult to follow on times, and maybe the sense of confusion generated was intentional, as disinformation was a major thread running throughout. The story highlights the development of highly sophisticated video editing technology which forges video footage, so that the recorded activities of one person are made to show another instead. This technique is already being deployed by superpowers in efforts to blackmail individuals, or to fabricate evidence to warrant military or political action it has been alleged recently. Old nuclear arms race arguments are dusted off in the interests of security to justify being a party to such questionable activities.

What is discussed in this drama is whether such tools can or should be used to entrap terrorists, or other law enforcement actions. It's an extreme instance of cynical pragmatism based on 'the end justifies the means', and 'greater good for the greater number' thinking.  Frankly, I found it disturbing to think about.
  

Return to Oxwich in view

A lethargic start to the week, but I did get around to doing the main week's shopping before lunch. We've been deliberating about where to spend our two week break all over the weekend, having made the vital decision that it should be somewhere in the Gower, since it's only an hour and a half drive from home. It was one of our favourite places to go in times past. When I checked through my photo archive, I found that we'd been there six times - twice for a week's stay, and four day trips over the past fourteen years, all before I started spending lots of time in Spain.

It's hard to believe we haven't returned there, not even for a day trip since October seven years ago, and it's ten and a half years since we last stayed there in the Oxwich Bay Hotel. At that time the place had a passing resemblance to 'Fawlty Towers', but since then it's undergone a makeover and been transformed into an up-market place to stay with a gourmet menu - including, as Clare recounted with delight, an Argentinan Malbec on their wine list, labelled bi-lingually in Welsh and Spanish, as it comes from Patagonia.

Sadly the prices are well beyond of our budget now, but after agonising over a fortnight at a house in Newton, part of Mumbles, and a holiday bungalow in Oxwich Bay, we opted for the latter. No wi-fi and a flaky phone signal, but within earshot of the sea, and a wonderful stretch of saline marshland behind the beach, designated as a Special Site of Scientific Interest - a great place for birdwatching, if my memory serves me well. Lots of wild nature more than compensates for a slender digital diet.

It's all booked now, and we'll be getting ready to go there two weeks from now.

A face from the past on the bridge

Two services to take in Grangetown Parish this morning. I preached what I'd prepared at St Dyfrig and St Samson, but couldn't repeat this at St Paul's as it was a Family Service Sunday, with a dozen Sunday School children in the congregation for the entire service, with children reading, bringing up the offerings, leading intercessions, and one small boy assisting as a server. All was nicely organised, so all I needed to do was deliver a Ministry of the Word that engaged them. I found it impossible to prepare in detail, an didn't quite know how I could make it happen until I got to St Paul's and saw the congregation taking their places.

Neither the Old Testament nor the Epistle were easy to read, let alone make sense of, and the pair of eight year olds who read showed that, despite their good effort and confidence, standing and reading in front of the congregation. I introduced each reading with a brief explanation of what they were about. I didn't then need to repeat this in my homily after the Gospel, centering around the mustard seed and dutiful servant themes it contained. For this, I didn't need use my script, and it was easy to engage my audience. The last hymn was 'We are marching in the light of God', evidently a favourite as the number of people who started swaying with the rhythm of the music grew from verse to verse and joined in the clapping when I launched into it. 

It was a happy fun moment to end on, and people left smiling. I had both a banns certificate and a copy of baptism certificate to fill out afterwards, and was asked if I'd be willing to baptise the child of a church attending Indian family when I return next Sunday. A marvellous opportunity. 

A small boy came to the vestry door to thank me for an enjoyable service, and asked if I would come and be their new priest! I explained that I'm much too old now, and suggested that when he grew up maybe he could come and do this. Well, you never know what a small seed of an idea might lead to.

Talking of which, when I was out for my afternoon walk crossing the Taff bridge on Western Avenue, I was overtaken by a young man walking his white Scottie dog. He looked across and asked "Are you a priest?" "Yes" I said. "Were you ever at St John's church in town?" he asked. "Yes" I said. "I wonder if you'd remember me, it was all of ten years ago I came to church and talked to you a few times."

His face was faintly familiar, but then he's ten years older now. When he said his name was Stephen that jogged my memory. We had talked about basic matters of belief in God, creation and Jesus on a few occasions, there were things he wanted to know, was trying to clarify in his thinking on religion.

He then told me that he'd grown up on a rough housing estate surrounded by drugs and crime, but he decided he wanted out, something more, something better in life. I don't think I was by any means the first person to introduce him to the Gospel message, but he was still getting to grips with it. 

He said that talking to me then had helped him on his way in his journey of faith, to a new life as a member of the church. He didn't elaborate on that, but when I asked him what he was doing now, he said that he was halfway through a degree in Biology, I guess after catching up on his 'A' levels, as I believe he'd left school after GCSEs. He thanked me for those conversations which made a difference for him ten years ago. Then we shook hands and went our separate ways, the other side of the bridge.

I was astonished by this, that he should have remembered me after all this time, having played but a small part in the life of this teenager who didn't want to go off the rails. I often 'loitered with intent' in the church during the working day. The idea of advertising times when a priest was on duty available to listen to all comers didn't occur. There was a pattern of regular weekday worship, but if I wasn't out and about on the streets attempting to know people and make myself known, I'd hang out in church. It seemed in reality to be a more useful place to be recognised and approached by random visitors. That way I met many different people arriving from places far off and places near. Give the place time, and the place gives back to you in unexpected ways. 

This encounter on the bridge was such an unexpected surprise, a blessing, for which I thank God, giver of every good gift, from the bottom of my heart.

    

After a coast walk, a thoughtful movie

Clare made pancakes for breakfast again, then late morning we drove to Cold Knapp for lunch at the excellent Mr Villa's Fish and Chip Restaurant. But first after parking above the marvellous pebble beach, we walked around the headland and back. After lunch a walk along the clifftop to Porthkerry. 

The climb from the car park up to the continuation of the Coast Path is steep - 115 steps and then a further climb up to the top, as rise of about 150 feet. I was surprised at how stiff my legs became as I climbed, despite going up and down thirteen stairs at home a dozen times a day. I had to stop and rest several times, to avoid getting utterly breathless. It made me realise that the thousand odd miles of keep fit walking I've done have all been on the flat, so there are some leg muscles which have had far less exercise, and need working on. And, I need to work on exercise that will raise my heart rate too, in order to retain as the cardiovaascular condition possible. We live and learn. If we don't we die.

The weather was overcast, and a shower of light rain dampened our return journey to the car, but we covered five miles. That's the furthest Clare has walked for some time, so it did us both some good.

In the evening BBC Four treated us to a marvellous, beautifully crafted Norwegian movie called the King's Decision, all about the role of King Haakon in the run up to the Nazi occupation of Norway in April 1940, when Quisling's coup d'etat took place. 

I hadn't realised Haakon was the first Norwegian King to be elected. He saw himself as a champion of Norwegian Parliamentary democracy. Hitler wanted him to endorse the Quisling regime, but rather than do so he abdicated and went into exile in Britain, returning only when the war ended in 1945. 

Hitler rose to dictatorship by exploiting populist sentiment. The King believed firmly that only a Parliament freely and legally elected by its citizens had the right to govern his country. Showing this film when the British Parliament is under attack from populist fervour whipped up by right wing  movements and tabloid newspapers couldn't be more timely. I wouldn't be surprised if the BBC now gets castigated for its selection and scheduling of a European movie of such thoughtful quality.

Busy at the keyboard

An unusually busy day for me, writing at the computer. I'm so grateful I can now sit for much longer than I could before the last operation. To be so productive in a day feels like approaching normality again, after a miserable year, even though there's still a few months more until closure is possible.

First there were corrections and edits to make on the reference, then drafting an order of service for next Tuesday's funeral, and then a sermon for Sunday services in Grangetown. The only down-side to all this was feeling rather stiff in my upper back, neck and shoulders, being unused to spending a long time in this posture. I wasn't expecting that!

I had another request to do a funeral at Thornhill Crematorium, just before we go away. It's for a family travelling with the remains of the deceased from North Devon. The man in question lived in Canton before moving in his latter years to be closer to the rest of his family. I wonder if he specified the return home in his will?

The waters of the Taff were high again after the rain of the past few days. A heron was standing close to the entrance of the Blackweir fish ladder when I passed by on my daily walk. I got one good shot before it flew off, and would have got a better one on the wing if the HX90 hadn't taken a couple of seconds to save the first one, and the auto-focus struggled although I had the bird full in frame for once. I don't understand why it should take so long to save a shot. The SD card is far from full, and the auto-focus with zoom extended isn't as good as I expect it to be. The older HX300 auto-focus is far better. I mut go into the shop and discuss this with one of their technical people.

In the evening I watched last week's episode of 'Non Uccidere' on my tablet, while this weeks was on live, rather than watch them in the wrong order, as there is a family drama sub-plot running alongside the case of the week. Last week's episode involved school girl prostitution, not initiated by organised crime, but by two youngsters wanting more money than their parents allowed them, making use of a Tinder-like social network to find clients. Evidently, a social network without age-related safeguards. 

Unusual encounter

I celebrated the Midweek Eucharist again at St Catherine's yesterday morning. After lunch a phone call from Jacquie, the UHW Patient Care Coordinator, told me I've been booked to see Mrs Cornish the surgeon on 14th November, six weeks from now. It's a long time to wait, but it does mean that we can now book a fortnight's holiday over half term.

Rachel posted a photo on WhatsApp of her lounge pile high with boxes waiting to be unpacked. This week she has moved from a condo apartment into a house with a garden, somewhat nearer Jasmine's new school, I think. I hope it'll give them both the space they need.

I celebrated the Eucharist at St John's this morning, then went to the surgery at lunchtime for a 'flu jab. It rained heavily thereafter, which was annoying as I had  bereavement visit to make at five thirty on the other side of the Parish. I walked there, clad in my new waterproof trousers and jacket. I was given a lift back, although by that time it had stopped raining, but it meant I was back in time for the Archers and supper with Clare.

The deceased who lived in Canton her entire life, apart from a spell in the Womens' Army Corps in the early fifties, had five children. Unusually all of them still live locally. Auntie Carol was also there, sister of the deceased. I soon learned that she was the Minister of Cardiff's Spiritualist church, located in my old Parish of St John's. In contrast to her sister, she seems well travelled, due to her ministry.

Co-incidentally, her husband died yesterday in La Marina on the Costa Blanca, where they had a holiday home for some years, and where he preferred to spend his latter years than in Cardiff. It's the next settlement down the coast from las Salinas de Sta Pola, a favourite bird-watching haunt of mine.

She joked about sitting next to me as we chatted; "In the old days your lot would have preferred to burn me at the sake." Rather than say we're more tolerant nowadays, the best I could manage was "No we can't be bothered any more." I wanted to say 'Health and Safety', but couldn't get it out, as people were already laughing.

She won't be at the funeral as she needs to go to Spain straight away and deal with all the legal formalities concerning her husband and his remains, but thankfully she's able to help draft a eulogy for a grandson to read before she goes. It's one less task for me to take on.

During the day I received an e-mail asking for the reference I volunteered to give to me friend Rufus who has been shortlisted for a job in Hereford diocese. I spent the rest of the evening working on a draft to send to him for fact checking. It has to be returned by Monday.

A story re-told from a different angle

Clare and Ann went to the spa for a swim Monday morning. I did the weekly grocery shopping and prepared lunch. Then, I rang Jacquie the patient care coordinator to see if there was any news about my next surgical pre-op appointment, as it's due around half term week. We'd like to take a holiday when it's Clare's school half term, so it was worth checking in case a date clash arises. We wouldn't want to cause any further delay in this long process. So far, Jacquie said she could see nothing in the surgeons' diary, but she promised to enquire and get back to me tomorrow. It rained intermittently, but cleared enough to go for a walk before supper without getting soaked. 

Ann returned by train to Felixstowe this morning. I'm looking forward to us visiting her for the last time in the family home in Kirton before she moves into a smaller more manageable house in Felixstowe. The Parish interregnum ends with the induction of our new Team Rector Frances Wilson on October 22nd. Then Emma goes on maternity leave, so there may be more local calls on my time after that, but I am determined to take time out, and get away from Cardiff, both to East Anglia and further afield, if opportunity presents itself. But plans remain on hold. Jacquie called again to say that the surgeon's secretary is meeting Mrs Cornish to plan dates tomorrow. 

A request came in from Emma to take a funeral at St John's a week today. It's two months since I last had one, rather a long time compared to the usual demand, often threatening to overwhelm the clergy in a populous parish like Canton. Apparently there's been an unusual dip in the Summer death rate, accounting for this, and it's meant less work for some funeral company employees as well.

Ann left me a copy of John Le Carre's recent book 'A Legacy of Spies' to read. It's a reprise of the tale he told half a century ago in 'The Man who came in from the Cold', featuring some of the key players in his spy-catching masterpiece 'Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy', but all looked at from the perspective of participant Peter Guillam, now retired and in his eighties. This time the tragic events of the original book are examined in the context of secret service politics and internal bureaucracy. Fascinating and enjoyable to read.