Engineering empowerment

This morning we drove over to the Mall shopping centre on Cribbs Causeway to meet Amanda, our first face to face catch-up in two years. In recent months her life as a disabled person has been transformed by the acquisition of a bed which incorporates new assistive technologies which enable her to get in and out of bed without needing help from a carer.  She's also acquired an electric wheelchair, enabling her to go out unaccompanied, to go shopping and travel on buses. 

The Mall is a couple of miles from where she lives, and there's a bus that will take her there. We met there as her way of showing off her independence, reclaimed after years of being housebound and reliant on carers. She was in great form, so much enjoying all the possibilities available to her again. She's already thinking about a trip to Cardiff to see us. What a triumph of determination and courage enhanced by really useful modern technology! She attends St Gregory's Parish Church in Horfield and is looked to as their advocate on disability and access issues, something which her early life as a nursing assistant and a shop manager has equipped her for. She has a sharp analytical eye when it comes to noticing what empowers or disempowers people, and that's a real asset.

In the evening I wrote a sermon assessment for Ross the St German's ordinand, who preached two weeks ago. Then I watched a documentary about the events of 9/11 as experienced by the teams of both the President and Vice-President, with interviews, news footage and photographs taken in situ by the official photographers in attendance. It was superbly constructed, and took me back to the few days in Monaco when I followed the news around the clock and opened the church for passers by to pray in.

Twenty years on, just before the anniversary of the attacks the American military finally conclude their twenty years of intervention in Afghanistan, long after their primary objective of neutralising the threat from Al-qaeda was achieved. The modernisation of Afghan society which was their secondary aim, has only partly been achieved, and its main effect has been in urban society. The gulf between rich and poor in the country still remains, as does endemic corruption, not surprisingly given the three trillion dollars invested in the American invasion and occupation of the country. The world now wait to see how the Taliban takeover will change the country, and its relationship to the rest of the world.

Tale of two Kaths

Another long night's sleep and then checking out after a hotel breakfast - not bad at six quid each for a 'continental' with brioche, toast and jam, cereals, fruit juice and lots of coffee. We drove up to Kath and Anto's place and relaxed for a couple of hours, then had a light lunch before setting out for home. This time we were accompanied by a fellow partygoer and friend of Kath's for thirty years, forever known as 'Little Kath' since they both did dance boot camp at the Rubicon in Splott - yes, she is a head shorter than our lovely daughter, and a larger than life character.

In her day, she's been a daring outdoor sports enthusiast and travelled a great deal, then several years ago she had a stroke which nearly killed her. After eleven months in hospital she recovered enough to go and live with her parents until she found a bungalow near them and sold her house. She lives independently, and needs a carer daily to help her wash and dress. Then she gets on with her life with all the energy and good humour she can summon. She travelled up to the party by train, thanks to the available support staff rail companies provide for disabled people, via a mobile phone app. It's her first visit to Kenilworth since her stroke, and the first time Kath realised the challenge caused by there being no handrail on the stairs. It didn't take the two Kaths long to figure out how to meet the challenge!

It was a pleasure driving back into Wales in the company of an irrepressible Valleys girl - stories about places, then taking a shortcut off the A449 through Usk and Pontypool to reach her Valley, the Ebbw Valley at Newbridge, to go south to Crosskeys where she lives. She knows where every radar speed trap is on the journey, which is very helpful. It's an east-west route I seldom take, now there are motorways. The stretch of country road from Usk to Newbridge reminds me of childhood excursions and trips home from Birmingham to see my parents when I a student chaplain in Brum nearly fifty years ago, before the motorway network was fully developed.

We reached home just before six and Clare speedily cooked a veggie soup for us. I worked on recording and editing the audio input for this Thursday's Morning Prayer, then went for a walk in the dark around Llandaff Fields before turning in for the night.

Sunday on the move

I didn't expect to sleep so well after my journey home, as there were things I still needed to do before going to St German's to celebrate. I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about books I promised to give to Ross the St German's ordinand, and ended up hunting for them on my study shelves, half awake, before I could settle again. After breakfast I printed copies for distribution of the draft proposal I've been working on for a short study series on church and society, drawing from features in the life of St German. Then I was ready to leave in good time.

There were twenty three of us at Mass less than usual due to the Bank Holiday weekend, but there were forty odd for the christening afterwards. Ross wasn't there, takign advantage of the Bank Holiday, no doubt. By twenty past one I was on the road again, heading for Kenilworth, eating the bacon sandwiches I made for lunch as I drove. Traffic was light, no queues. I reached there in two and a half hours, and went and joined Kath's birthday lunch party at the restaurant where they were still lingering over coffee. 

The evening was taken up with youngsters and adults taking turns in the hot tub on the patio which had been hired for the weekend of partying, and other convivial pleasures. We walked back to our hotel at ten. I was soon ready to turn in, pleased to have had such a busy day without ill effect. It's so good to feel well and have enough confidence to make unusual extra effort, a real sign of slow steady healing that's gone on in the three months since the last operation. I'm feeling very grateful.

Birthday journey

After a long night's sleep, I seem to have had lots of bits and pieces to do after breakfast, including a trip to Tesco's for wine to take with us for Kath's birthday weekend, and some emails. I was rather chaotic in getting everything ready to leave on time to rendezvous with Owain at Newport train station for the journey to Kenilworth, and as a result forgot my medication, and had to turn back for it after stopping for fuel at the Tesco Extra filling station on Western Avenue. We lost a quarter of an hour queuing for a pump and altogether were half an hour late meeting Owain. In the end our journey time was four hours without a break. It's the longest time I've sat behind the wheel of a car, driving or queuing, in three years or longer. And without no discomfort. It's a sign of real progress, a return to normal, age notwithstanding.

We arrived at the small boutique hotel in Kenilworth where we were staying, and installed ourselves in our small but comfortable room with ensuite, and then walked up to Kath and Anto's for supper. Two of Kath's oldest friends were staying, 'Little' Kath and Emma. It was great to see them both in the flesh for the first time in more than a decade. Rhiannon's boy friend Connor a fellow student from college was also staying.  After the meal we walked to Lil' Green cocktail bar in the square at the top of Warwich Road, where we took over the upstairs lounge, and welcomed a succession of Kath's friends and colleagues who dropped by for a drink.

I confess I was nervous about this. I don't much like pubs and bars at the best of times. They are noisy with background music and chatter. I'm finding it harder to hear nowadays than a few years ago, and even harder to sustain shouted conversations. I don't know why we do this to ourselves. In a pandemic season with everyone bunched up trying to make conversation against the sea of noise, I'm even less at ease, but Kath and Anto and their friends are in their element. The clientele were of such an age that ninety five percent of them would by now have been vaccinated - even Rhiannon at 17 has had her first jab now - so the risk started out being pretty low. I'm adverse to any kind of risk when it comes to contagious disease, but we stuck it out for two hours, then walked back to our hotel, tired out and went straight to bed. 

Black Prom

A walk to St John's to celebrate the Eucharist the morning. The church's full array of chairs has been returned to use in the usual serried ranks. More than is needed for Sundays, but there's going to be or there has been a big funeral, and it's now permissible to accommodate larger numbers of masked mourners again. 

Aesthetically it's displeasing, after a year with no more than two dozen chairs spaced out safely, revealing the colour and beauty of the wooden floor. There are gains and losses with every change.

Clare cooked a delicious blackcurrant and apple crumble for pudding to follow salmon, veg and rice at lunch. After a walk I started work on next week's Morning Prayer by writing a reflection on the set Gospel of the day. Words and insights seem to come easily at the moment. That's always a blessing if it happens.

After supper the BBC Prom showcasing the music three black composers played by the multi ethnic Chinoke! Orchestra and featuring pianist Jenifer Kenneh Mason in her prom debut performance. Utterly delightful, fresh music. What a night!+

Summer tastes

Another journey across to Adamsdown after breakfast this morning to celebrate Mass with four others at St German's. We celebrated St Bartholomew a day late. I called into the the Aldi store on Western Avenue to buy some cooking apples and wine. While I cooked a paella with prawns in it for lunch, Clare chopped up the apples and cooked them with the blackberries - half to freeze and half for the foundations of a super crumble tomorrow.

I intended to collect this week's veggy bag immediately after eating, but slept soundly for an hour before doing so. Then a walk in the park, passing the two crab apple trees we've foraged from this past couple of years. They are crammed with very pale green unripened fruit, save for the odd one that has started to turn red. It'll be interesting to how long they take to go pink and then finally a rich cherry red, when we can to  start pick them. I noticed one unripe fruit on the path nearby, bitten off I suspect by a passing bird, then discarded when found to be unpalatable.

For the last couple of weeks we've been receiving in our veggy bag several large Roma plum tomatoes, a favourite of mine for cooking. These are very tasty and as succulent as a peach to eat, so none have ended up in a sugo so far. The vegetables grown at Coed Organics are superb, unless there's a weather disaster. The produce generally has been excellent this summer.

I spent a couple of hours tidying and backing up photo albums this evening. Although I make much use of Google Photos, backups on hard drive and workstation are essential to my mind. Almost everything we do relies on The Cloud these days. On the whole it works well enough and is convenient if moving from one device to another, but I wouldn't trust my entire digital life to it. We've no idea what unforeseen disaster is just around the corner that could afflict the internet in the era of climate change and unstable weather. 

The world has been shocked by the speedy collapse of the status quo in Afghanistan, followed by mass panic by tens of thousands trying to flee the country and escape the Taliban. Even with all the planning and information available, the powers that be failed to anticipate what's happening now. The randomness of people's reactions to radical change are by nature unpredictable. To their credit, the armed forces and airlines have done an amazing job evacuating many tens of  thousands to places of safety in the past fortnight, though tens of thousands more will be left behind after the withdrawal deadline, and subjected to even more agonising delay if they still want to leave and have sufficient reason to do so. And this is only stage one. The re-settlement of maybe a hundred thousand refugees in different countries is likely to take a long time. The suffering of powerless people drags on and on.

Firstfruits

St Bartholomew's feast-day today, the anniversary of my father's death in 1974. A warm and sunny day, but I didn't get outdoors until the afternoon. I drafted a sermon for next Sunday and cooked lunch before going out for a walk. I took a container with me and picked over half a kilo of blackberries, the first fruits of the fast ripening crop this year. Looking forward to blackberry and apple crumble tomorrow, when I've bought some cooking apples!

In the evening I completed work on Thursday's Morning Prayer video and uploaded it to YouTube. Then we watched a 'behind the scenes documentary about the wide ranging work of conservators at the British Museum. Fascinating, the sort of job Clare would have loved to do in a different life.

Going red

I slept a good nine hours again but felt sleepy most of the morning, as if I hadn't slept. I don't know why this happens. I vacuumed the carpets, then rang the surgery, and was told there was nothing of concern in the report on my blood test of last week. What I hoped for.

I walked into town before lunch to buy a new strap for my ancient Casio watch at the 'Just in Time' stall in the central market. On a whim, I decided to get a red strap instead of the black standard one which I must have replaced half a dozen times in nearly forty years of ownership. It'll take me a while to get used to it, but I think I'm old enough to be excused for being eccentric now.

I walked around to the Metropolitan Catholic Cathedral on the far side of the shopping centre, and was pleased to find that it was open prior to the midday celebration of Mass. Scaffolding has been erected in the choir and sanctuary area and the nave altar moved forward. It's not clear what work is being done on the building, perhaps it's just redecoration. That's the first time I've visited there since before the pandemic and it was good to see the place alive with worshippers, and say a prayer of thanksgiving for the careful resumption of common life again.

I got back late for lunch, then prepared Thursday's Morning Prayer, wrote a reflection, and recorded it all before driving over to St German's to celebrate the Eucharist with  five others in honour of St Tydful, the Martyr who gave her name to the town at the top of the Taff Vale. After supper I edited all the sound files together. recorded earlier.  It all came together quickly, in time for me to watch this week's new NCIS episode. Then, to my surprise, Rachel called to chat with me while she was driving from Tempe to Los Angeles for a recording session. She had to ring off when her oil warning light went on. I hope this won't stop her from getting there and completing her project.

Orthodox déjà-vu

After a good night's sleep and breakfast I had spare time to do some writing before driving to St German's for the eleven o'clock Mass this morning. I had a sermon prepared but hadn't remembered that Ross, the ordinand on Parish placement was going to preach. He was late arriving because he'd been at St Saviour's preaching beforehand, so I was surprised when he appeared, but pleased that he was going to preach. After yesterday's journey, the expenditure of energy preaching and celebrating promised to be a challenge I was working myself up to. 

I enjoyed listening to Ross and chatting with him afterwards. I was delighted to learn that his inklings of a ministerial vocation had arisen from challenging conversations with atheists among fellow undergraduates as the same happened to me in my undergraduate years. I learned that his wife is Romanian. He'd visited the country recently for the first time and been impressed by experiencing Orthodoxy in situ. It's not the kind of subject that ordinands get to learn much about, but it happened to me too. I ended up offering him some of my many books on Orthodox spirituality and theology. It will be nice to think that they will go to someone who will appreciate them.

After lunch I sat on the sofa to do my Duo Lingo exercises but instead fell soundly asleep for two hours, and then went for a walk around Thompson's Park and Llandaff Fields. I called my sister June who was fed up because she'd lost the browser bookmarks toolbar on which she greatly relies to access several of the things she most relies on. Fortunately I was able to talk her through the CTRL-Shift+B toggle routine to restore it, after two days of misery. It would all be so much easier if there weren't so much distractions and confusions involved in using Windows, with all its unhelpful notifications. It'll never be as easy to use as a Chromebook. Unfortunately it can be hard to change habitual usage after fourteen years.

Later we watched the sixth episode of Professor T, which is the finale of the first series, with a vignette at the end of the cause of the Prof's mental health issues. Nothing is being said about a second series at the moment, to know whether this set of episodes is a trial for a much longer series. There's plenty of scope in terms of story lines explore in other versions which appeared in German and Flemish. It's a matter of wait and see how popular it has proved.

Home run

We parted company with Ann after a late breakfast and headed up the A14 retracing our route towards Coventry, then going west past Warwick and Stratford to reach the M50 on the last leg back into Wales. There were wet weather warnings, but these had no impact on us until we reached Evesham, when a strong downpour made it difficult to seethe road fora while, but it soon passed, and we made it to Cardiff with two stops in six hours and ten minutes.

The French bean plants have produced another crop for Sunday lunch, while we were away and some of Clare's roses produced a spectacular splash of colour to welcome us home. After unpacking and tidying everything away, I had a sermon for tomorrow to complete. When it came to printing it out, Windows 10 went into to slow un-cooperative mode as it proceeded with its latest round of updates, hindering me from finishing the job, trying my patience to the limit. 

After supper and an hour of telly, a walk in the dark around Llandaff Fields to get some fresh air and relax before bed, but too weary to complete more than 80% of my daily quota. That doesn't happen very often. When I came to switch off the computer before bed it was still updating, and I had to leave it running to finish the task, resolving to get up later and switch everything off properly. These problems never arise with Chromebooks or Linux, which update quickly without fuss. At least I can carry on writing whenever Windows is being un-cooperative again.

Sutton Hoo makeover

Another late lazy morning, then lunch and a trip to Sutton Hoo for the rest of the afternoon. There have been significant changes since we last visited seven years ago. On a marble plinth next to the visitor centre stands a full sized iron replica of the skeleton of the burial ship, thirty metres long. On the plinth is a map of the interior of the burial ship showing where key artefacts were found and the outline of the place where the body of sixth century King Raedwald of East Anglia is thought to have been laid to rest. 

On our first visit there was a mock up of the interior with positions of treasures found in the exhibition hall. This has been replaced by displays of reproductions of the artefacts (the real ones are in the British Museum), all linked together with texts and maps explaining the personnel of the royal entourage, and what is known about ship burials. On the site there's also a burial mound for his unnamed queen who was a figure of influence and authority in royal affairs. Interpretation of her life adds an interesting modern perspective to the total narrative. 

I took the forty five minute walking route around the grounds of Tranmer House home of Edith Pretty whose interest led to excavations being commissioned at her expense. A sixty foot observation tower has been erected nest to the field in which the burial mounds stand. It gives an overview of the hilltop site, and the river Deben curving around two sides of the area on its journey inland. This helps make sense of the idea that the burial ship was sailed up the estuary, then dragged ashore and uphill to its final resting place, by the King's warriors. There's no evidence to suggest it was constructed on-site. 

Fortunately there was no rain, although it was dramatically cloudy, adding to the atmosphere of this special place. Because of covid it wasn't overcrowded with hundred of foreign tourists, although it was quite busy with Brits. I'm glad we were able to visit again. It seems to me that much has been achieved telling the story of the King and his funeral, working imaginatively with these elements for educational purposes.

Annie and Spiros arrived on their bikes from Kirton just after we got back to Felixstowe and organised a fish and chip supper for us all.Spiros showed us photos taken last summer when the two of them went on a cycling holiday to Rotterdam and Amsterdam, during the respite between lockdowns. It was good to see them both again. After they left I walked around town in the dark for three quarters of an hour, then decided to go to bed early to be ready to face tomorrow's six hour return trip to Cardiff.

Historic Landguard

After breakfast this morning, Clare and Ann went to the shops, while I walked to Landguard Point and back. Landguard Peninsula is the long flat south eastern headland of the Orwell estuary, a place with military history going back centuries. It's only a hundred miles across the sea to Zeebrugge from here, a key trade route to and from Europe, and potential destination for an invasion from the sea. 

There's a large old military fort, now home to a museum, several machine gun  pill-boxes and old gun emplacements. Nearby there's a new ominous looking building, discreetly fortified with a high fence and checkpoint, the regional headquarters of the Customs and Border Force agencies. Ground behind the shore line once occupied by military encampments is scarred by the foundations of old buildings now covered by sandy grassland down to the shingle beach. Since the whole area was de-militarized, and allowed to go wild again, it's reverted to hosting a host of flora and fauna that are unique to this special ecosystem, and is now a designated nature reserve. 

The eastern shore of the estuary beyond the peninsula is where Britain's largest container port stands, busy day and night all year round. A huge compound of shipping containers marked 'Evergreen' near to the approach road to the fort caught my attention. In one block I counted three hundred stacked containers - six high, ten deep, five wide. I wondered if they were cargo unloaded from the giant ship which got stuck in the Suez Canal which was here only last week.

A hundred metre strip of land above the beach abundant with bushes and low lying briar patches is cordoned off to protect nesting birds that lay their eggs in fairly open ground and rely for protection on camouflaging their eggs. Birds on the ground are hard to spot because their plumage makes them hard to stay focused on when they are walking or running in their native environment. I was unsuccessful at identifying and taking photos of them. It was worthwhile however, as I saw several different butterflies. white, orange and blue. I've seen more butterflies this week in Suffolk as I've seen in Wales this year.

Annie and her lively fourteen year old son Steffan came to lunch. It was a splendid affair with a huge speciality seafood platter for us to share; pickled cockles, winkles, mussels and rollmop herrings, crab and lobster with a sprinkling of black caviar on a huge bed of lettuce, enough for five of us. Annie took Steffan home then later in the afternoon returned with her swimming costume for dip in the sea near Felixstowe pier with Ann and Clare. I was appointed guardian of the clothes and handbags. We walked down to the beach and back. Altogether I covered nine miles today, no wonder I'm ready for early bed!

Woodbridge revisited

We had a slow lazy morning, but the sun appeared and the dense cloud of the past few days began to break up, Ann drove us along winding country lanes for lunch in Woodbridge, a lovely village up the river Deben, which we last visited seven years ago, with its old tide mill, boatyard and quay crammed with smallish marine craft. Houseboats, seagoing barges, yachts and the suchlike are crammed alongside each other resting on mud when we arrived, as the tide was out. Several craft of typical character were from from Holland, a near neighbour in maritime terms.

We parked a couple of miles out of the town, down river at Kyson Hill, then walked down to the footpath along the river into Woodbridge. I heard a curlew and an oyster-catcher as we walked, but we didn't see either. The restaurant we were aiming for turned out to be fully booked, so we bought sandwiches and drinks at a modest sandwich shop nearby and took them down to a seat overlooking the estuary, and ate them in the sun watching a couple of snipe foraging for food in the mud, twenty metres away - I think there were more than a dozen snipe feeding in the area, along with the gulls and other birds I couldn't identify a hundred metres away. I took over eighty photos, half of them of birds in the estuary, uploading these from two cameras after supper.

In the news recently Haiti has suffered another devastating earthquake with around two thousand deaths reported. Emergency aid has been slow to reach the country, perhaps partly due to international attention being distracted to the crisis in Afghanistan? Since the recent American and allied  forces withdrawal, the country has been overrun at shocking speed by Taliban insurgents. The capital Kabul was handed over without a fight, and in the past few days thousands of people have sought to flee the country, fearful of reprisals because of their role in government, or as contractors with allied forces. 

Britain has made a commitment to receive up to twenty thousand refugees, army interpreters and their families. Around the country local governments are expressing willingness to offer hospitality, but are concerned that national government should support them financially. This particular national government has a reputation for over-promising and under delivery. It's impossible to see what the impact will be of this inevitable moral decision if post brexit and covid economic recovery is very slow, limiting resources to help poor and deprived citizens as well as those being offered sanctuary. 

Looking back to times when Ugandan Asian and Vietnamese refugees were welcomed to Britain, as with Jewish refugees from the Nazis, it seems likely that in the long run Britain will again benefit from a new wave of incomers bringing their creative gifts and energy to bear in freedom and security of their new country. Some people see refugees only as a threat, and not as a promise that revitalises national life and identity. Will this ever change? I hope and pray it will.

Celluloid memories

Another late breakfast start, before driving to Kirton Village where Eddy and Ann spent thirty years of family life together. We parked in the church car park, and visited Eddy's grave, then walked across huge fields of wheat ready for harvesting to visit Annie, who lives in a rented farm cottage painted a cheery bright yellow. A lovely setting as long as you don't mind the isolation. The four of us then walked down to Kirton Creek where the stream becomes a tidal inlet with wetland wildfowl and mud flats. The sort of place I love to take photos. 

We could hear the sound of birds  in the reeds, and a flock of geese in the distance. There were lots of footprints in the mud, but very few birds were visible close to shore apart from a few gulls. We regretted not bringing a picnic lunch. It would have been lovely to stay there until the tide came in, bringing the birds out of cover to search for food, but the walk there made us hungry. By the time we returned to Felixstowe it was three when we had lunch, after walking five miles altogether.

Ann's car had been taken for a water pump replacement job in the morning, and it was ready to collect by the end of the afternoon, so I drove her to the garage in Trimley to collect it. We had a substantial take away curry for supper and ate too much. Then Clare and Ann looked through a collection of Super Eight family films some of which were commercial products but others of which were home movies, shot and edited either by Clare's father Francis or her brother Eddy. She's selected a number of them to take home with her, plus the Super Eight film editing suite for reviewing them. There's a range of family movies of holidays and other happenings from sixty to seventy years ago to go though, and maybe select some for digitzation, at a rate of about fifty quid a reel. In terms of family history material and personal memories it may be worth the expense.

Ferryside Felixstowe

We rose and breakfasted late, then walked to the main street shops, as Ann had a few errands to do and I wanted to buy some wine. Then we drove to a long beach on the eastern side of the peninsula on which the town stands, and walked from a car park along the coast path as far as the ferry across the river Deben to have lunch at a small eaterie called 'Winkles at the Ferry' by the slipway for a snack lunch.

The shingle beach is about two miles long, and above the coast path along a low ridge are no few than three long rows of attractive simple brightly coloured beach huts. The demand for these exceeds supply. Beach huts are a popular family holiday pastime along the east coast. The local golf course occupies the land behind the sea wall. Off-shore several large banks of shingle protrude from the sea at low tide, but are hardly visible at high tide. The river Deben flows into the sea at the far end of the beach. I imagine these waters must be tricky to navigate with the different currents and tides.

On the north bank promontory of the Deben is a large country house Bawdsey Manor where James Watson-Watt, pioneer of World War radar (RDF) system carried out the first operational trials of early warning radar. It was acquired by the RAF in 1936 as a research station, and served as a tracking station from 1939 until 1980. The iconic radar masts were demolished long ago. Two of the eight Felixstowe Martello towers dating back to the Napoleonic war. One of them has been converted into a family home, the other is empty, unused and has one of the golf greens right in front of it.

The Felixstowe ferry is a motor launch which takes about half a dozen pedestrians at a time across the Deben to Bawdsey Peninsula. The ferry-boat is still summoned from the opposite side with a hand held paddle. No need to modernise further in this lovely rural backwater. 

We were rained upon several times during our walk there and back, but it didn't deter me from taking lots of photos. The coastal landscape is such a vivid contrast to ours in the Vale of Glamorgan. It was a most enjoyable outing.

Ann cooked us supper, and afterwards we watched 'The Dig' on Netflix. It's set in nearby Sutton Hoo, and tells the story of the excavation and discover of the renowned Anglo Saxon burial ship, which we visited when we came over to spend time with Eddy and Ann back in 2012. It's hard to believe that it's nine years since we went there.

Eastward bound

After breakfast we packed the car and drove to St Gernan's where I celebrated the Parish Eucharist for the Feast of the Assumption with a congregation of twenty eight. Then set set out east for Felixstowe. Non stop, with clear roads four and a half hours, we made it to sister in law  Ann's in six and a half with two stops and bouts of slow traffic. The roads weren't very crowded, and the weather decent if cloudy all the way, but altogether it was an easy and relaxing jouney.

It was good to see Ann in her new house for the first time. She moved in just before lockdown last year, which was pretty challenging so getting everything in order was a slow job. Her garden has benefited from extra attention during lockdown, and is delightful.

After supper, we walked for twenty minutes down to the beach in the dark, and listened to the sea before turning in for the night. So good to be reunited again.

Beanfeast

A long night's sleep, made extra comfortable by not needing any kind of dressing for the first time in three years, a real sign of healing progress to rejoice in. After our usual pancake breakfast, Clare harvested three quarters of a kilo of French beans, and set about preparing them for freezing to eat when we return from our trip to Felixstowe. The plants have given us fresh beans daily for the past couple of weeks, a summer pleasure. I cooked a lentil dish for lunch, then walked up to Llandaff Weir and back. 

I passed through the huge cemetery at the south side of the Cathedral, much of it now overgrown with hidden paths and gravestones, some modest others monumental, peeping out of dense undergrowth. In a couple of secluded places beneath trees, groups of teenagers hung out and chatted, not up to mischief, just being themselves, socialising, as they also do in similar overgrown places at the edge of Llandaff Fields.

When I got back, I started packing for our trip to Felixstowe, finished and printed tomorrow's sermon, then watched an Italian crimme on BBC Four called 'Piranhas'. It was set in the old town part of Naples portraying a gang of feral fifteen year olds getting involved in local protection rackets, adolescent kids with all the desires and fantasies of their age, groomed for low level crime by older Mafiosi. The acting is superb and the filming brilliant. It's based on real life incidents involving the firearms by youngsters in the city. The one appearance by police throughout the story is in making arrests of mafia dons at a wedding. They are notably absent from street scenes in which poor traders are being abused and extorted, or drugs are openly sold to students outside the University. It made me think about 'county lines' drug trafficking in Britain, which exploits kids of a similar age.

Recovering from lockdown

A necessarily early start today, with the car to deliver to NG Motors in Splott by eight thirty for a service and MOT test. Fortunately the traffic was lighter than I expected, so I was on my way back home on foot by a quarter to nine, walking across the city centre as far as Westgate Street, to catch a bus for the rest of the way. A round trip of an hour, with three quarters of an hour to spare before going to the surgery for a blood test and blood pressure reading. Thankfully, it's not as high now as it was a couple of weeks ago, even after a couple of demanding days plus an early start after a late bed time.

I've been pondering on what leads to a period when my blood pressure seems to surge frighteningly for a prolonged period. Just before we went to Aberaeron I had a demanding week with three funerals in two days. We had a lovely relaxing week there, but it was our first outing under covid since last summer. Then two weeks after returning we had our family gathering in Oxwich, again relaxing and enjoyable, no really unusual demands or stress. Both outings represented a substantial change from our habitual daily routine over a period of a year, and the underlying adjustment required, getting used to something different, may well be a source of hidden stress. Now that most restrictions are lifted, we're having to adjust to greater freedom in using our time from day to day. We have a greater choice of habit, something to get used to, like a prisoner in the time after release. Being older, adjustment takes longer.

I was aware yesterday, driving to Weston for the first time in several years of being slightly nervous at first but the longer I spent behind the wheel, the more relaxed as well as alert I became. Taking Owain back to Redfield in Bristol rush hour was pretty demanding, but by then I was into my fourth hour of driving and had adjusted to stop start traffic and changing lanes with increasing ease. I'd expected to be exhausted and tense by the time we got home but I wasn't. I went for a late walk and slept well, though not long enough. 

It's a matter of adjustment, reclaiming from mind and body memory old patterns of behaviour learned half a century ago, but unused for a couple of years. I remember a similar experience of adjusting to the change when getting into a car after arriving from UK in Spain. The steering wheel is on the opposite side of the car, and you drive on the other side and you look in different directions for safety checks. It's almost fifty years since I first drove abroad, long before living abroad. Swapping between UK and EU was un-nerving anf challenging initially, but adjustment to the change gets easier once you have both habits. Stress in the face of change may be inevitable. The more you change it seems the easier it gets, as happens when when exercising physically, it wakes time to warm up physically and move at optimum efficiency. The same with the brain.

After the surgery visit, I dropped in on Emma for coffee and a chat. It's the first opportunity we've had to catch up face to face for ages. He two small children are a delight to watch at play around the house, even if they clash and cry and need a cuddle from Mum, Dad or Grandpa. They're both very active, and a day of intermittent showers confines them to the house, which is frustrating for them, especially when the big people are preoccupied and busy. The family are getting their first proper holiday together since Eleanor was born next week. Thank heavens, they deserve it.

I spent the afternoon working on next week's Morning Prayer assignment, so I don't have to do anything but upload it while we're away in Felixstowe with Ann. Then, this evening we watching the recording of Wednesday's live performance from memory of Stravinsky's 'Firebird' suite by the Aurora ensemble. It was beautiful to watch, emotionally powerful, filled with resurrection vitality. In a word - thrilling. 

Closure

We drove to Weston super Mare this morning to pick up Owain from the railway station and then travelled together to Bleadon Hill to meet with to meet with Jules, Nicky, two of her boys and former neighbours, to bury the ashes of my sister Pauline, thirteen months after her lockdown funeral at Worle crematorium. Owain attended on our behalf, and now joined us to lay her ashes to rest along with those of her husband Geoff and daughter Kay in a plot by the south door of the 14th century Parish Church of Ss Peter & Paul.

We were locked down in Cardiff, and Jules in Dubai. Finally the Emirates lockdown has ended and he has been free to travel to Britain and to Youghal in Ireland where he has bought an apartment and his in-laws live. So this was a special family gathering for all of us.

We gathered in the church with Pauline's ashes on a table at the chancel step, and sat together in silence for ten minutes. We weren't able to bring her body in for a funeral thirteen months ago, but it seemed right to close the circle by pausing here before placing her ashes alongside Geoff's and Kay's in the plot just outside. We were welcomed by the churchwarden, who checked us in for track and trace purposes, and then left us to our own devices.

After our quiet time,  we went to the vault and I read the Office for the Burial of Ashes. Jules installed  her urn alongside Geoff's and Nicky put flowers over it. The memorial stone has already been inscribed with Pauline's details, and by the end of the day will cover the opening.

On the funeral service leaflet was a photo of my sister which I instantly recognised as one taken when she was, maybe twenty one. It stood on the sideboard at home along with another of my sister June I think. The photo used was scanned for use in the leaflet, and not among pictures from the archives of Jules and myself. In discussion over refreshments after the interment, it turned out Nicky still had a copy of it on her phone. There wasn't enough reception in the church hall, so we had to go out into the car park to get a signal, so she could send it to us both. It's one of those photos which evokes childhood. I can visualise the other photo of my sister June, at a similar age, but don't have a copy. I bet she does!

There was also a studio portrait photo of me on the sideboard at home as a late baby, ten years on, but not of me as a young adult. By that time studio portraiture was being made redundant by a new era of consumer film cameras, box Brownies and the suchlike. June was the keen photographer in the family and there were smaller framed photos of me on the sideboard, but not studio portraits. Not even a posh graduation photo! Strange to think about this fifty years later. It didn't seem to matter in the convention breaking swinging sixties, when everybody became 'consumers', many for the first time.

As we parted company, Jules and Nicky returned to Brecon View where there spent many years growing up, an important point of reference in their lives. The house has been sold and renovated over the past year, and the new owners, who happened to be away today, invited them to return and look around the garden to see what they'd done with it. It's a significant moment when, for whatever reason, you lose a family home. 

We headed back to Bristol with Owain, who took us to see from the outside the apartment he is in the process of purchasing, painfully slowly. The process has dragged on for many months because of the huge demand on all conveyancing solicitors over the past year. He is philosophical about it, but for his sake I wish it was all over. It was gone eight by the time we reached home. We had to stop for petrol at Tesco Extra on the way in, as we were down to our last five litres. We've driven more in the past six weeks than in the past eighteen months. Tomorrow, the car has to go in early for servicing.

Choral farewell

After breakfast this morning, exceptionally I had to drive to St Catherine's for Carole's funeral, as I needed the car to get to the Natural Burial Ground behind the hearse after the service in church. First, a Requiem Eucharist for Carole, as the content of the usual midweek service, a pity to miss out on celebrating Saint Clare, but I can't imagine this would be of any concern to the humble holy sister of Francis of Assisi. I had just prepared the altar for the celebration when, to my surprise, Fr Colin appeared in the sacristy. He had been asked to officiate by Mthr Francis, but somehow I'd not been told when I accepted to officiate in her absence at Carole's funeral. 

Up to this moment, getting ready to celebrate the Requiem and then officiate at the funeral, with so much detail to get right in order for both to proceed smoothly I felt I wasn't coping so well with the pressure of the occasion, so I was relieved that Fr Colin surprised me by turning up. It was a real blessing just to have half an hour in quiet prayer before the fifty odd congregation arrived for the funeral. 

Thereafter it all went as planned, although I was plagued with misty eyesight while I was reading the eulogy, which was most unnerving. It's not just the cataract that's bothering me, but the natural lubrication of my left eyeball which for no apparent reason goes annoyingly thick and milky for brief periods. I was able to sing with the choir for several items, as well as officiate. I've not done that before. The choir sang well, and all in church ended in the way it was meant to. 

I followed the hearse from church to the Natural Burial Ground at St Nicholas, and was joined for the Committal by the Methodist Care Home Chaplain serving the place in Penarth where Carole died. It was Carole's wish for her body to be laid to rest in the Meadow on this site, facing east overlooking the whole of the flood plain on which Cardiff is built. It's a beautiful place, a peaceful empty space where the seasons rule rather than human endeavour. 

The last time Clare and I were here was at the burial of our friend Moonyeen, our drama queen of an eccentric circle dance teacher. That was ten and a half years ago. I can't believe how fast the years have sped by. Carole and Moonyeen would have got on well together, united by their sense of fun and relish for life, if they'd ever met in this world. Moonyeen, poet and nature mystic, Carole, scientist drilling down into the hidden substances of nature, a key part of her life spent studying worms under the microscope, willing that she be buried where worms may benefit from her repose.

Clare thinks this would be a good place to be buried. In honesty, I don't agree. The Meadow has nothing to say that it is a place where a host of human beings have been laid to rest. It is consciously neutral and religion free. There is nothing anywhere (except perhaps on a digital database) to tell you who has been buried there, whose story concludes in that place. Thousands get cremated and their ashes scattered in a flowerbed in the grounds, maybe even a specific one. You could say that it's just as anonymous as the Natural Burial Ground, I guess, but the place is a little more focussed. There's no way of knowing where in that expanse of grassland your loved one rests - the sense of place is more diffused. If people are happy this, well and good, but for me a return to nature of itself is not enough. 

I see a cemetery as a place that tells stories in the memorials they contain, whether ultra simple or exotic and complex. Our life stories begin and end in a variety of communities with stories of their own, and to me, being even insignificantly in such a place is a better ending than disappearing into the anonymity of an unidentifiable location in a field. Well, each to their own I suppose.

From the Natural Burial Ground, I drove home, then Clare and I walked to Llandaff Rowing Club to join the reception for an hour. A video screen played images of Carole taken over the years, and beneath were dozens of photographs pinned on several boards, giving mourners an opportunity to remember. We returned home by bus in time to collect this week's veggy bag and our grocery order from Beanfreaks.

This evening there was a live radio broadcast from the BBC Proms of a performance of Stravinsky's Firebird Suite, played by the Aurora orchestra from memory. It'll be replayed on telly on Friday night, and I look forward to seeing as well as hearing. What was special about this evening's broadcast was a detailed musical introduction to themes woven into the suite, involving the audience in humming one of the melodies, illustrating the composer's creative art in action. What next!

Tonight the Perseid meteorite shower is at its best. Pity about the haze and light pollution.

Deadly selfishness

After breakfast, I completed next Sunday's sermon, then walked for an hour before cooking lunch. It was good to  hear on the news that 75% of the UK population are now doubly vaccinated. The government is proposing booster jabs for the most vulnerable, to be delivered in tandem with 'flu jabs this autumn. 

This has come in for serious criticism from vaccinologists who state that it's a strategic error to think this will make a great difference, without evidence of the value. Surplus vaccines should be sent to places where the need is greatest in the world. Huge numbers of lives will be lost with even bigger consequences for poorer nations, and there's serious risk that vaccine poverty could help nurture another mutant strain even more deadly and contagious than are already known. It's not in the UK's best long term interests to refrain from being generous, in such circumstances. Self centred political ambition is capable of reaping deadly rewards in this case

Another deadly plague virus related to ebola has now been reported in West Africa. Early warning is leading to early action in a region which has learned from dire experience the importance of an urgent response. Yet again it's a development connected with environmental degradation and the effect of climate change unbalancing natural processes that mitigate the spread of most viral mutants.

Clare had an osteo-myology appointment with Kay in Newport mid-afternoon. I drove her there and went for a walk with my DSLR in nearby Beechwood Park while I waited for her. I remember doing this once before, but couldn't remember when. I hunted for the photo file in my archive containing pictures taken last time, but couldn't find it. Even worse, I had no idea of how long ago it was. I searched this blog and was amazed to discover my last visit was in the autumn ten years ago. My memory of taking photos there was quite clear. With a rough idea of the date, I searched through old hard drive archives, and found a folder labelled 'Newport', containing ten photos taken back then. Now I have all the photos in one file.

After supper, I watched an episode of a Sky Arts photographer of the year competition, interestingly set with six contenders in a multi-cultural inner city district of Rome. The photography task was to tell a story about the place through portraits of inhabitants. I can't imagine myself doing something like that, as I feel shy about engaging with people just in order to take pictures of them. I'm not sure I'd have the right words to say. It's a social skill I've never developed. I'm wary of intruding on people's privacy, and am well aware of that when I take family photos, I'm hesitant behind the lens, which makes them annoyed with me.

Then, I remembered that I had my Morning Prayer video reflection for Thursday to complete, and spent an hour on it, before printing off the material I need for tomorrow's funeral.

Surprise haircut day

After breakfast this morning I completed the recording and editing of Thursday's Morning Prayer, and got most of the slides I needed ready for integration into the video. We shared cooking lunch, as I had chicken and Clare had vegetarian sausages, needing to be cooked separately. At two, I had an assignment with the Benefice Mothers' Union Branch, leading a service to commemorate the centenary of the death of their founder Mary Sumner, the Vicar's wife who started a parish prayer and fellowship group, and lived to see it develop into an international network of M.U. branches in places where the Anglican church is planted. In reality it's a  low key front-line missionary community working to educate and empower churchgoing women whose pastoral influence is perhaps all too often underestimated.

I was standing in for Mother Frances whose partner Sue Pinnington died two weeks ago. Sue's funeral was taking place as we met. Afterwards there was a traditional tea with lemon drizzle cake and bara brith, with a dozen women of a certain age gathering together as a group for the first time in twenty months. Their faces shone with joy and the pleasure of reunion. It was a lovely half hour, following a service that sought reflect on the lived experience of enduring and surviving the pandemic, using Psalm 90 'So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.'

Then, I took Clare over to Rumney to have her hair done by Chris. Being over the east side of town, I was minded to mooch around the big stores along Newport Road for an hour before going to St German's to celebrate the six o'clock Mass. I'd just done a tour of Curry's Digital when my phone rang. It was Clare with an invitation from Chris to return to his salon in half an hour and have my hair cut. 

My last haircut on the day hairdressers re-opened, was squeezed in on a very busy day. It was quickly done, and in a style which Clare was adamant didn't suit me, so I've been letting my hair grow long, and trimmed rough bits out with my hair clippers since then. That gave Chris a decent head of hair to restore normality to with his expert eye. He only had ten minutes to do it, as I had to get to St German's in the rush hour traffic for six. Now it's as long as Clare likes it and looks respectably neat again. We're both pleased with the look. Next time we'll both book a slot with Chris properly on the same afternoon!

I arrived at St German's with ten minutes to spare and celebrated Mass with six others, in honour of Saint Lawrence the Deacon, martyred in third century Rome. I learned that when the first mission initiative in this corner of Roath Parish was established by the Wantage Sisters nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, it was dedicated to St Lawrence, which explains why the church has a small statue of the saint in one of its side chapels. 

When I arrived, a lady was enquiring about having her first baby Christened before a second one arrives at the end of October. She was worrying about dates as booking a venue for a reception can be a real problem, with so many people wanting catch-up celebrations post lock-down. We tentatively agreed to provisionally book the last Sunday in September for her, and I promised that, as she'd met me, I would arrange to be available to take the service. I am in any case hoping to be asked to undertake interregnum duties there this autumn.

I reached home just after the Archers had finished. Having listened to it in the car, I listened again with Clare on catch-up, as she'd only just arrived from Rumney, having caught the bus home from town and done a small amount of shopping on the way. More melodramatic dysfunction from Alice to shock hearers unfamiliar with substance abusers extreme behaviour. I suspect the scriptwriters have even more in store to shake up genteel listeners. The character has been secretly an alcoholic for some years, then had a child which she had very mixed feelings about and didn't strive to keep bonded with. Post partum psychosis on top of alcohol dependency? Or has she started secretly taking crystal meth or crack cocaine in addition? Something more is up there, than what seems to be the case.

Two episodes of NCIS, neither of which I'd seen before, and a turn around the park in the dark before bed. Technically complex plots, and increasingly mumbled dialogue, which doesn't help.

The English Professor T

More clouds with intermittent sunshine and cloudbursts today with the occasional spell of strong gusts of wind. A new challenge for me this Sunday morning, having to get up early enough to be out of the house and walking down to St John's to preach at the nine o'clock Eucharist, celebrated by Fr Rhys, streamed on line from Andrew's iPhone, with a little help from my Blackberry providing a wi-fi hotspot, something his partner Martin's phone usually does, but today he and his phone were over in Germany visiting his mother.

I then walked  to St Catherine's to preach there while Fr Rhys celebrated, and also sang in the choir, as did Clare. Before we went home for lunch we had a choir practice for Wednesday's funeral, so all in all it was a busy morning. Even more so for Fr Rhys who had then to officiate at a Christening at one thirty. It's the kind of workload which us clergy would have taken in our stride a few years back, but covid safety disciplines in celebrating any public service seem to make it that much more demanding than routine used to seem. 

Church restrictions will be phased out now that Wales is down to level zero, but a legacy of tension and uncertainty still exists. Between the two Eucharists we ministered to fifty people this morning, half of what it would have been before covid. Will all the missing people return eventually? Will some be content to attend mostly on line, while others find other things to do on Sunday mornings, as have three quarters of the church attending population at the turn of the century?

After lunch an hour sound asleep on the front room sofa after doing my daily DuoLingo exercises, then a bracing walk in Llandaff Fields, thanks to the strong wind, then another short walk  around Thompson's Park with Clare after she surfaced from her siesta. It's good not to feel exhausted by getting up early. After supper we watched the on-line Eisteddfod Cymanfa Ganu, with its socially distanced congregation, choir and musicians on stage. I don't think it was in any sense a live broadcast, but an edited recording of hymns sung by the congregation, and items performed by the choir, singers and band on stage. A worthy effort, but it wasn't moving emotionally speaking. The event was produced using an open air stage, so it lacked the atmosphere of being situated in a church building or even in the Eisteddfod's marquee 'y pabell binc'.

I then watched an episode of the ITV production of 'Professor T', which I had presumed would be a run of the 2015-2018 Flemish crimmie series on mainstream telly, but turns out to be an all new Engish edition, set in Cambridge with an uptight English version of the eccentric academic genius. It's certainly credible, well conceived and watchable if you haven't seen the original, but I watched all thirty nine episodes, a couple of years ago, and am familiar with the whole story and its plethora of plot-lines. Will it run for that long, or will it be edited down to a more suitable length for a prime time Sunday TV series - these rarely run for more than six episodes. 

There's a sixteen episode German rendering of the Professor T series. Does this edit or condense the narrative? I don't know, but I'm intrigued to see if this series will be limited to six episodes. I found the Flemish production very watchable, despite or maybe because of sub-titles which did more than just translate dialogue, helping to watcher to appreciate what the Professor was talking about, as he theorised about crimes and victims. If you miss any of the dialogue in this English version you might be robbed of plot insight. 

Also the comedic side of the Flemish series made hilarious use of non-verbals and some superb acting, by Koen de Bouw as the Prof and Goele Derick as his long suffering secretary. They set the bar very high. The English series has the brilliant Francis de la Tour as the Prof's eccentric aged mother  and comedian Ben Miller as the Prof, who also starred in 'Death in Paradise' which may work against him, as that role was a straight detective part. I'm more interested to see how he develops the character he plays than the individual plots, already familiar. I felt the Flemish series gave some good insight into the suffering of mental illness and trauma. 

Level Zero

On this day of sunshine and intermittent showers First Minister Mark Drakford declared the end of covid crisis management restrictions in Wales, a couple of weeks behind England, with more measured clarity, retaining the obligation to wear masks on public transport and indoor public places, but no longer are there restrictions on the numbers who can meet indoors or at events outdoors. He still encourages citizens not to go crazy and presume everything is OK when the virus is still spreading among un-vaccinated people and this seems to meet with general approval.

The big difference in made for us today is that, after out Saturday pancake breakfast, we were able to drive out to St Nicholas and visit Dyffryn Gardens without needing to book a visitor slot on-line. We could have done that in months past, but I felt that if demand needed to be controlled in this was, it would be better to leave all those booking slots for those who needed them more than us, when we have big parks close by. It was such a delight to arrive there and see how things have changed in the two years since our last visit.

Some of the trees obscuring the view of the house from the car park have been removed, opening up the approaching vista. The entrance to the garden has been relocated in the place formerly occupied by the refreshment area, with a new access path into the grounds. The patio where the outdoor tables sat is now occupied by racks containing plants for sale, and only one refreshment area, next to the house is open at the moment. The house itself remains closed as work is undertaken to adapt visitor routes indoors, with health and safety in mind.

The biggest change, however, is in the landscaping of the grounds. The area to the front and one side of the house and down the western side of the long garden used to be dominated by huge old leylandia trees. These have gone and some of them replaced by dwarf versions. The hugely improves the overall view of the house from every angle. Some sections of the cultivated gardens are closed and under reconstruction. 

The pergola adorned with grape vines dating back maybe a century at the far end of the garden has had them all removed, initially much to my disappointment, but then I learned that in recent months, new vine-stocks have replaced the old. These are already growing and winding themselves up the pergola columns, but it may be a few years before they bear fruit. I'd like to think the new vines are adaptable to a changing climate and will provide eatable fruit, or fruit that can be fermented to give even a tiny volume of 'Chateau Dyffryn' in due course.

It was such a pleasure to use my Olympus OMD E-M10 there for the first time, and add another fifty odd photos to the hundreds I have taken there over the past decade. I'm minded to go back through them and select a series taken from the same viewpoint at different times, to show how the gardens have evolved since we've been going there. Just for pleasure.

We had a snack lunch in the refreshment area. Clare bought a few little Christmas presents, and three pots of herbs in the gift shop on the way out. It's still in the same place near the exit gate. We made a detour to B&Q on our way home to buy compost and plant food, and then I went for a walk around the park before supper - mussels and stir fry veggies and rice.

The on-line National  Eisteddfod concert was on after supper, with an interesting assortment of music that included Catrin Ffinch playing a duet with a Senegalese Kora player, and a funky brass band, whose style of rock seemed to me far more innovative than much of the retro sounding hard rock/heavy metal Welsh pop groups that still seem typical of the scene, but to my hear hark back three or four decades and offer nothing new apart from lyrics s belted out hoarsely in Welsh. C'mon boys bach, we can do better than this surely!

Then, time to print off tomorrow's sermons and head for bed. Early start tomorrow.

Gourmet anniversary

Despite rain overnight and early clouds, the sun broke through and shone brightly mid morning, a most welcome enhancement on this feast of Christ's Transfiguration, our fifty-fifth wedding anniversary. Clare received a congratulatory text message from Amanda by breakfast time. 

We drove to Penarth Marina to see if we could get a table for lunch. Last night I went to book one on the La Marina restaurant website, but was disturbed to find that full card details including the security number on the back were required to obtain a booking, so proceded no further. Although the page in question states the card details are stored in a secure location, there's no way of vetting its security credentials. No way of knowing it's not open to hacking, or a scam. Anyway we arrived at midday and able to book a table for one without any problem.

La Marina is located inside the restored 19th century Custom House building, and has a table capacity of around a hundred. It has an authentic Spanish ethos with an ordering counter where you can see the meat or fish to choose from on display, next to the kitchen. The service was good and the food excellent. Clare had grilled asparagus and swordfish, I had fish soup, the best I have ever tasted, and huge piece of tender belly pork with caramelised onions - plus perfectly cooked veg. A feast worthy of the celebration.

We walked along the cliff top afterwards in a strong breeze, thankfully not too cool, then headed home, thinking that our next family feast in Cardiff must be at La Marina.

This evening we watched the on-line National Eisteddfod ceremony for the chairing of this year's bard. It's the poetry competition in which ancient strict rules of poetic form are the medium for expression of the chosen theme - this year, 'Awakening'. Gwenallt Llwyd Ifan was the winner. Coincidentally, he is the chair of the Tregaron Eisteddfod committee which was meant to host last year's event, cancelled due to covid, It's hoped that Tregaron will be able to host the next Eisteddfod in summer 2022, an event to look forward to in whatever shape it takes in the 'new normal'.

Sacred waters

An overcast start to the day with sunshine breaks and inconvenient showers. I was interested to hear on this morning's 'Thought for the Day' that the Cardiff Sikh community has engaged with Llandaff Rowing Club to establish a waterside pontoon, not only for the use of rowers, but also for the use of bereaved Sikh families wanting to ceremonially dispose of cremated remains in the river Taff, adapting the traditional custom of Punjabi Sikhs using one of the five sacred rivers of their native land. 

Llandaff weir is just above the point in the watercourse once reached by salt water at high tide, a sacred site in pagan culture, and a place where Christian monks would naturally choose to establish a mission. I wonder if the Sikhs were aware of the ancient significance of the place? The London born speaker said he wanted his ashes to be cast on Thames water one day - just like my sister June! The environmental impact is negligible. Let's hope it'll be received with good-will by all others for whom rivers are special.

I uploaded today's Morning Prayer link before breakfast then went to St John's to celebrate the Eucharist with eight others before some preparatory work on next Thursday's Morning Prayer, commemorating Ann Griffiths. Clare cooked lunch, then we both had a siesta - me sitting in an armchair, out like a light for an hour. It's strange that I should be sleeping naturally for two hours more than previously. When I'm awake and active I don't feel physically tired, I'm sharp and concentration is good. I feel like I'm losing a couple of hours each day at the moment, but all I can do is go with the flow, and enjoy the occasional interesting dreams I recall but can make no sense of.

At lunchtime we received a WhatsApp message and photo from Kath and Anto in Santa Pola, after their arrival for a three week holiday without travel difficulties. Who knows what re-entry regulations will be in place for doubly vaccinated travellers from Alicante by the time they return.

I got wet when walking in the park before supper, and wet again returning from church this evening. We went to choir practice tonight at St Catherine's and prepared music for Sunday, and for Carole's funeral next Wednesday. Some of the music rehearsed is fairly familiar, which helps in regaining my confidence at sight reading. A music problem I do have is being unable to read lyrics which tend to be printed in a font too small for my worsening eyesight. I think I need a headlamp as well as specs on times. 

Once more we watched a S4C programme about awards at this week's on-line National Eisteddfod. For the second time this week, author Lleucu Roberts has won a major literary prize for a prose essay. Earlier she won the prize for a novel she'd written. It's the second time in her career that she's won 'the double', as it's called. Quite a feat.

Two estate agents' signs have now gone up on the empty house next door to us. There have been a couple of visits already, and probably many more to come.

Eisteddfod - triumph over adversity

How good to awaken to blue sky and sunshine another day, a perfect summer morning. After breakfast I drove to St German's to celebrate the ten o'clock Mass with half a dozen regulars. I tried an alternative route around the city centre, to avoid traffic congestion generated by the Tudor Street traffic lights. It's only five minutes longer, better than taking nearly half an hour for a fifteen minute trip.

Today marks the Church of England celebrates St Jean Vianney Curé d'Ars, but not so in the Church in Wales calendar. I wonder why? I'd love to have been a fly on the wall in the committee when the revision of the calendar of saints was discussed, to know the reason for omitting this rather unusual 19th century holy man whose preaching and spiritual guidance touched thousands who visited him in Ars, a village at the west end of the French Jura during his ministry there. I visited Ars when we lived in Geneva 140km away. It's a special place for clerics as St Jean Vianney is patron saint of parish priests.

Ars was the only parish he ever served, perhaps he was sent to that rural backwater because his bishop didn't know what to do with him. He was a doubtful candidate for ordination as he was barely literate and needed coaching to take services in Latin. Thus, he had little 'book knowledge', but he did have an understanding of the meaning of the Gospel and the life of the Spirit to apply to the pastoral care of his flock that enabled him to reach the hearts of many.

Because this was so unusual his life was simply understood as filled with extraordinary supernatural gifts. By their fruit they are recognised, but I think there's something more to take note of here. A barely literate son of peasant stock, may have no access literary culture, but his intellectual life is steeped in oral culture and transmission of scripture, tradition and reason in a way that has been discounted by mainstream religious culture. This was common in ancient times, and still happens in some parts of the world today, where spontaneous evangelisation has spread the Gospel and planted the church by oral transmission. The hunger for literacy and introduction of the text of scripture occurred as a result of the message already being heard and understood. I wonder if and how this is working in our strongly audio visual contemporary culture?

On return from church I cooked lunch, and after a siesta walked for an hour and a half in the park. While writing, I listened to Evensong on BBC Sounds catch-up. The setting of the responses by Rose used by the choir of Holy Trinity Sloan Square was one I learned in Geneva, and one I love. It was uplifting to hear it, and some modern Latin canticles and unusual Psalm chants. Anglican church music has a long a rich tradition and is very much alive creatively speaking, in our time.

Ruth emailed next week's Morning Prayer texts as she routinely does in good time. My day next week is one when the Church in Wales celebrates the life of Ann Griffiths, the eighteenth century North Walian whose religious poetry and hymnody in the Welsh language is new regarded as among the finest in any European. She was a Welsh Calvinistic Methodist, a renewal movement with a devotional life of its own that distinguished it from English, Scottish and Irish expressions of reformed Presbyterianism. The Psalm set for next Thursday is too long, repetitive and dull, so I am going to use some of Ann's hymn verses instead, translated into English. They are steeped in the imaginative use of biblical imagery from both Hebrew and Christian scripture, so why not?

After supper Clare and I watched another on-line National Eisteddfod programme on S4C. This covered the festive ceremonial chairing and crowning of this year's bard Dyfan Lewis whose cycle of poems was a celebration of the city of Cardiff. This annual event has never taken place outside of the Eisteddfod Maes (field). Last year's Eisteddfod was cancelled due to coronvirus, but there were concert performances on-line. There's been a programme of competitions on-line this year. 

Tonight's bardic ceremony with a reduced socially distanced gorsedd wearing masks matching the colour of the robe, processed from Central Square into the new BBC Wales building where the whole ceremony was performed live to camera, except for a brief video of Dyfan Lewis secretly recorded beforehand, speaking about his work. 

It worked amazingly well as a television event, authentic in spirit and in detail, apart from the absence of a group of cute children dancing. I liked what the Archdruid said in his opening remarks "Tonight thanks to television, the whole of Wales is the Eisteddfod Maes." I felt utterly proud to be Welsh, even if my grasp of the language is poor.

Drug abuse - the other deadly plague

Another long night of good sleep, and with my mind a little fresher, I spent the morning writing a couple of sermons for next Sunday before lunch. The surgery phoned with an appointment for blood tests in ten days time, then I went there to collect my three monthly prescription and get it dispensed. 

I finalised the eulogy for Carole's funeral and emailed to her nieces, hoping that I hadn't omitted anything. Within the hour I had a favourable response from both.

It's good to hear that the delta variant covid daily infection rate continues to drop. Although restrictions have been lifted, it seems a significant number of people haven't abandoned mask wearing indoors, and and continuing to be careful about socialising, and that is thought to make a difference to transmission. 

It doesn't mean the covid death rate is diminishing again yet, although it's low now compared to before vaccination began, and covid hospital admissions seem to be reducing. It looks as if the government's liberalisation strategy is paying off at the moment, but to my mind it's still a gamble we could end up regretting. I hope I am proved wrong.

Just as worrying is the high number of drug related deaths in Britain, the worst in Europe, ten times more than in Portugal, which has decriminalised hard drugs and developed a 'public health' policy which allows addicts to inject freely in a safe hygienic environment, where they can get counselling and social support with the goal of rehabilitating people from drug abuse altogether. When will governments in the UK wake up and follow Portugal's example?

There was a broadcast on S4C this evening of highlights from this yesr's on-line Welsh National Eisteddfod, which Clare watched with interest, as it featured the novel writing prizewinner, and some young competitors reading their own wotk, I think. I wish my grasp of Welsh was good enough to make sense of what I see. Shamefully my minimal linguistic effort remains focussed on Spanish exercises. I don't find enough time to read.

At nine I walkes for an hour, down to the Taff and back in the twilight, very peaceful. And then up to bed.

Getting ahead

I think yesterday must have drained my energy reserves more than I realised. I got up and had breakfast late and then returned to bed and slept again until noon. More than ten hours sleep and thirteen in bed seems to have helped remedy the imbalance. Maybe I need to accept that being older means that I need more sleep that I expect, if I am to remain as physically active and work as much I can enjoy taking on.

After lunch, I completed work on this week's Thursday Morning Prayer and uploaded to YouTube. Getting this done early removes the pressure of a deadline to meet. I don't cope so well with pressure any more and take more time to prepare everything well in advance. I walked for an hour and a half, and met Fran and Mark while I was in Thompson's Park. She's delighted with the silver pendant which Clare made for her on Mark's commission, for her birthday.

I drove to St German's to celebrate a vigil Mass of St German's Day at six. I went on my usual route around the south side of the city centre and ran into a lengthy traffic queue at the junction of Tudor Street and Clare Road. Tudor Street is going to be one way for a year, and there's a new arrangement with traffic lights reset and causing queues on north south and east west routes. A fifteen minute journey yesterday was a half hour journey today. Just as well I gave myself three quarters of an hour to get there, just in case. I will try another route when I return to St German's on Wednesday.

After supper, I watched an interesting programme on BBC Four about the art and architecture of Baku in Azerbajan. the world's first oil producing country in the mid 19th century. The this week's new episode on NCIS, and another half hour walk in the dark before turning in for the night. Who knows? Maybe for another long night's sleep?

Back to St German's

A slightly later Sunday start today, with a drive over to St German's to sing the Solemn Mass, and then to baptize little Harry, Andy and Michelle's second child. They tried to arrange a christening not long after he was born, but then came lock-down, and now Harry is a lively two year old, held in his mother's arms so that I could pour water over his head and anoint him. It was a special delight. Since covid, they have both changed jobs. He's now a train conductor, and she's in training as a driver on the Swansea to Paddington route. The advantage of both working for the same rail company is that it's easier for them to co-ordinate their shifts, so they can share the care of their children. I was thrilled to meet them again and minister to them and their extended family.

Tuesday this week is St German's Day, but no arrangement was made to celebrate this in advance today, so tomorrow evening's six o'clock Mass will anticipate the feast instead.

It was two o'clock by the time I got back for lunch. Clare hadn't realised that I had a christening as well as a Mass, and started eating, but at least we shared a pudding of banana in chocolate sauce before she had a siesta and I went for a walk in the park before some preparatory work on Carole's funeral order of service.

By the time we had supper it was time for the evening's BBC Prom - the three last Mozart symphonies. I listened to the first, then remembered that I had to write to my GP for a prescription renewal and request a check-up, as I haven't seen any medic since my op. So, I wrote a letter reporting on how I'd been over the past three months, and walked around to the surgery with the letter. Hopefully this will start the process with a telephone consultation tomorrow.