Remembering The Few

Warm and sunny weather has stayed with us this past few days, perfect for walking, and outdoor sports pursuits as well, despite new restrictions imposed on numbers able to meet, whether at home or in the open air. At last, face mask wearing in enclosed spaces has become obligatory, something I approve of and have continued to practice since my time under Ibiza in lockdown.

Yesterday afternoon I walked into town to visit the Castle Welsh Crafts souvenir shop opposite the Castle. Last week Clare bought a face mask there, made of material printed with 'Y draig goch' the Welsh national flag on it. Sister June said she wanted one, and I thought it was time I flew the flag as well. A small way of recognising and complying with the Senedd's independent health regulation policy. Though devolved governance, the three Celtic nations exercise judgement in tune with local data received, like autonomous regional governments in Spain, and that's no bad thing as Westminster issues confusing mixed messages and changes them inexplicably at short notice, or so it seems to those on the receiving end.

There was a TV news item about the making of Welsh dragon face masks last week. I was lucky to be able to buy a couple as the shop had almost entirely sold out of both designs on offer. The staff were delighted with the attention the broadcast won them with orders coming from far and wide.

Out on Llandaff Fields early evening, four volleyball courts had been set up, there was a junior football match going on, a weight training session going on, a junior rugby training game going on, and several dozen boys and girls plus parents and coaches of Cardiff Junior Athletics club also in a training session, not to mention a mixed age Parkrun group, which seems to meet in the Fields several evening as week. Indoor gyms and pools have re-opened, but some prefer to continue fitness training outdoors while the weather remains kind. I stick to walking my 10k quota each day, still with a high measure of success.

This morning I drove out to Thornhill for a funeral at midday. I assumed it was in the smaller of the two chapels, as there were only going to be a small congregation, so I was confused when I arrived to find that nothing was scheduled to take place in the smaller chapel until the afternoon. Fortunately I was very early and soon discovered that the service I was to take was listed in the larger one. We were nine altogether, in a chapel which even with socially distanced seats can take twice the permitted number of thirty. We didn't sing, but three well chosen recordings of Welsh hymns by Treorchy Male voice choir were played instead, and I gave a eulogy written from notes provided by the deceased's son-in-law.

Clare went out picking blackberries in Pontcanna Fields after tea, and I went and joined her later, as I was relaxed and dozing when she announced she was going out. I had a good idea of where she's go and easily found her in a bramble hedge near Blackweir Bridge. We returned with over 550 grams for cooking and sieving to give us more jars of delicious blackberry puree.

There was a lovely programme on BBC TV this evening celebrating the 80th anniversary of the Battle of Britain. It told the story of those critical weeks of August and September 1940, and included footage of interviews with surviving pilots taken ten to twenty years ago. What was new was a retired RAF Tornado pilot, fulfilling a boyhood dream of of flying a Spitfire. Actually it was an excellent narrative device for showing what sort of training regime lads of around twenty years old were given, learning to fly, some of them from scratch in a matter of months - first in a Tiger Moth, and then a heavier Harvard, before being allowed to learn to fly a Spitfire. Such a contrast to several years of training required for a RAF pilot half a century later. For me a happy hour's recollection of tales I heard and read about my boyhood heroes who saved Britain from Nazi peril.