Blaenavon duties

I was relieved not to be as tired as I expected to be after my drive to Papworth and back in a day, and glad yesterday not to have a great deal to do, apart from move plants and garden furniture into Liz's garden next door, in preparation for a long awaited makeover, finally to happen in the coming week. So far the weather outlook suggests it's not going to hinder completion in just a few days. 

I watched two episodes of 'Beck' this evening, the first one, on iPlayer, which I missed when we were in North Wales, and the second, live on BBC Four. The second was about the tragic outcome of hidden infidelity between colleagues on a doctor's family. This occurs at a time when a married colleague of Beck's seems keen to develop and affair with him. His alcoholic neighbour tries to encourage him to engage in a little sexual adventurism, as he himself leaves for a Baltic cruise in search of a fling. It's quite heartening to observe Beck thinking about his own behaviour in the light of the tragedy he has uncovered, and disengaging before anything untoward develops between him and his colleague. Well acted, in an understated way.

This morning's assignments were in Blaenavon, two Eucharists standing in for Rufus, on holiday in Italy. The last time I made this trip was for Rufus' first Mass. The hour's drive there and back was made most enjoyable by the array of autumnal colours in thickly wooded green valleys, bathed in bright sunlight. The first service was in 200 year old St Peter's, associated with the town's history as one of the birth places of the iron and steel industry. There was a congregation of three dozen, who sang with great enthusiasm. Craig the organist is also a local funeral director with his own company. I first met him ten years ago when he was working for one of the Cardiff FDs, when he drove me to a burial in Cathays Cemetery, if my memory serves me well.

Then, on up the hill to St Paul's, for an old fashioned High Church solemn Mass for eighteen people, eastward facing, with Angelus at the end of the service. Nothing that I'm unused to, except for having to change from wearing a cope for the Ministry of the Word, to an ancient fiddleback chasuble for the Eucharist. Funny, I thought, the last time I wore one of these was at the Benalmadena Eucharist in the Costa del Sol East chaplaincy last year. There were a handful of them in the sacristy cupboard of the basement chapel we used for worship. I said to the St Paul's sacristan that the lat time I'd worn one for Mass was in Spain. He looked at me, rather bemused.

Clare returned early evening by train from Birmingham, having been collected by Kath from Papworth, and driven there. The good news is that Eddie shows signs of improvement, very slowly stirring from a state of deep anaethesia. If all goes well it'll be a long journey back to recovery.

Petertide pilgrimage home

On this Sunday Feast of St Peter and St Paul, I breakfasted and then left at eight thirty for Blaenavon to join the Parish Eucharist in St Peter's Church there at which Father Rufus would be presiding for the first time. To get me in the mood, Roman Catholic Sunday Morning Prayer from Bradford sung Cathedral style by two youth choirs was on Radio Four as I ate, then as I drove, a fourth day in a row on the M4 towards Newport, though this time, turning off at Bassaleg for the journey through the Eastern Valleys, past Risca and Newbridge towards Brynmawr. I missed my turning to Blaenafon at Abertillery, so had to go right through Brynmawr and find the high moorland road which descends into the village from the north. I had just enough time to do this and enjoy this remarkable route

By the time I found the church and parked nearby, I was walking in during the first hymn. The congregation of about fifty were cheerful and welcoming, and there was a feast of food and drink afterwards. Rufus' Italian in-laws came over for the weekend to celebrate a new priest the family, and took a full part, including Daria's uncle who is a Benedictine priest living in Assisi, and still working in retirement. I chatted with them a little in Italian, but the Spanish kept on interfering, but they tolerated this with good humour.

I drove home on a different route, which took me past Hengoed and Ystrad Mynach, where I grew up. With time to spare, I stopped to take a walk over Hengoed railway viaduct, now part of the national network of cycle trails. When I was travelling to school at Pengam Grammar, our train, on Cardiff - Rhymney line would stop and wait at the Hengoed Low Level station to connect with a Pontypool - Swansea train on the High Level station, bringing pupils from the Eastern Valleys to join us on the third of a three stage train journey of over an hour they'd make each day to get to school. A quarter of an hour by car would suffice nowadays, but there were very few cars doing the school run in those days The transport infrastructure was good enough and sustainable, also free to scholars.

After inspecting the bridge, I drove over to the Graig which overlooks Ystrad Mynach, and noticed that since my last visit there had been some interesting looking changes to the buildings of Ty Isaf farmhouse on the hillside above Penallta Road. It overlooked Glen View, the street in which I grew up, and was an important part of the view from my bedroom window as a child, especially on full moon, or when the night mail train would  hurry past, emitting sparks and steam. I had to go over and take a proper look.

But first, a quick visit to the Penallta Colliery site, where the huge buildings adjacent to the derelict main engine house and pit headgear have been revived, restored and occupied, I believe as part of a business development park, although I can't find much information about it. The old pithead baths built in my childhood are ruinous. Are they scheduled for conservation? Or awaiting funding for demolition?  Must find out.

Then, down the hill for a peek at Ty Isaf farmhouse, now surrounded by a new handsome pennant dry stone wall, since the road outside it was improved. A small collie dog came to greet me with tail wagging, barking enthusiastically. His owner soon followed, and asked who I was looking for. I said that I'd noticed the new wall and interesting changes to the farmhouse exterior, albeit in the usual traditional local pennant stonework matching the walls. I mentioned that seeing the farmhouse from Glen View below was a favourite childhood memory. "Are you the Reverend Kimber?" she asked.

It was Carol Thomas, sister in law of Nesta Thomas, who'd been in the same class as me in Ystrad Mynach Junior school, brought up on the farm, still living locally. Nesta and I met when I visited Holy Trinity Ystrad Mynach  working for U.S.P.G., and she was church warden, thirty years ago, and on another occasion when they'd been at St John's for a Côr Meibion concert. I was amazed!

We talked about the remarkable stylish barn conversion into two houses gracing the east side of the 1740s farmhouse house, and I was allowed to take some photographs. The land is now rented out and worked by a neighour, and the sounds of sheep are as close as they ever were, but cattle there are no more, nor the muddy yard they traipsed through to milking, once upon a time. Carol's husband died eight years ago. He's buried down in the front garden, with a weeping willow behind his headstone. Fitting, for the last  generation to keep animals on this rich Valleys pastureland.

So many things have changed in the valley I knew and left behind fifty years ago for University, never to return, make a home here. It's tidier, cleaner, less polluted than it has been for a couple of centuries, at least on the surface- It's no longer a place of heavy industry, though still some upland farming, and many if not most people travel away from here to work - it's been suburbanised. And it would be an attractive place to live if we hadn't long ago settled for Pontcanna.