Repair days

Tuesday afternoon we had a visit from a craftsman who specialises in the installation and repair of built-in shutters and window blinds, as several in the apartment no longer work. It was a good opportunity to make my Spanish work, while looking up technical words and phrases I didn't know. We had a big laugh when we discovered that the reason for the shutter in the main lounge not to work was the removal of its guide rails, and concreting over of the containing channel at the time when double glazing was fitted to the window, years ago. A historic instance of communications breakdown for this to have been done, and never noticed.

The other problem shutters were all fixable, although showing signs of their age. The man worked solidly for an hour to put them right, then cheerily went on his way, setting us free to walk to the Old Town for a visit to the Picasso Museum. Interestingly, this time we were offered pensioner discount tickets. This didn't happen when I went with Owain, perhaps because I didn't take my hat off to reveal my white hair.

On the way there, we passed Santiago Parish Church, where Picasso was baptized, and it was open, post-siesta, so we were able to look inside. It's said to be the first church to be built in 1490 after Malaga's reconquest. Its tower and west facade reflect the Andalusian mudéjar architectural style, but the rest of the building is renaissance gothic. I took a photo of the famous font, but was annoyed to discover later that it was slightly out of focus. Very unusual for my HX50. I probably didn't give it enough time to adjust to lighting condition.

This morning, we celebrated the memory of St Benedict (a day late) at the midweek Eucharist, just three of us present. Afterwards I re-parked the car away from its usual place, as building contractors are due any time this week to bring in their equipment and start work on repairing terrace walls in the cemetery, and construct new columbaria, for future interments of cremated remains. This will in effect make the small parking area on the north side of the church unusable due to contractor's equipment, but also potentially make it impossible for cars to park around the church in future. 

This is a cause of great concern, as many regulars travel great distances by car to attend worship. If they had to use public parking, this would involve several hundred metres of a walk and the last stretch steeply uphill, quite a difficulty for older churchgoers. It seems as if some elements of this plan have not been well thought through by the Fundacion which now manages the cemetery as an historic asset of the city. Archdeacon Geoff and Bishop David have been trying to engage those in authority to discuss these matters, but so far communication is not proving easy. It's not so much a matter of language difficulties as difference in perception of the part the churchyard plays in the life of a worshipping congregation.

This is a besetting problem for many churches which have ancient churchyards. They are both a big liability to maintain, but also a social, historical, cultural and spiritual resource as well as outdoor meeting place for the community, a tourism venue. Many church people fail to see the value of their 'church plant', to recall a very sixties phrase describing parochial assets, rather than starting a new mission congregation. Relationships with people are given such dominant priority that the physical social environment is under-valued. Perhaps we have simply failed in our teaching about Christian stewardship, or in helping people understand that there a practical consequences to having an incarnational spirituality. It's easy for me to be wise after the event. 

Managing buildings and land are huge worries for parish clergy, so necessary, but so difficult if few people can be bothered to take proper responsibility for them. I must say that in all my incumbency jobs, I was blessed with people who did care. It didn't mean that I never had to do any care-taking, but it could have been so much worse.

After the Eucharist, we walked into the Old Town and visited La Casa Invisible for a delightful menu del dia alumerzo. Then we visited the Cathedral, spent half an hour looking around, and paid five euros each for the privilege. You don't have to pay if you arrive in the half hour before the evening Mass, as I have several times. Then, as we were making our way home for siesta, I had a call to say we could expect to receive a visit within half an hour from the MAPFRE insurance company repair team to re-tile the bathroom floor and wall, broken into for pipe repairs Saturday last. Fortunately, we got back just ten minutes ahead of them. In two and a half hours, they were on their way home, job done, place left clean and tidy. Splendidly efficient.

We were then free to go down the beach for Clare's daily swim before supper. It hasn't been a very hot day today, but it has been humid, leaving you feeling as if you had a fever. I don't know how anyone can labour physically in heat like this, let alone sleep at night.

  

Old town shopping expedition

We were half a dozen for Wednesday morning's midweek Eucharist at St George's, thanks to Clare being there and two passing visitors. We did some food shopping in Mercadona afterwards, then walked into the Old Town via the pedestrian tunnel which takes you to the Plaza de la Merced. This was basically a general briefing for Clare on what there is to see, and where the main streets are. It was also an opportunity for her to get used to walking about in the heat, although today hasn't been as hot as it was in my first month here.

After an hour or so of walking around, we returned to the apartment for lunch and a siesta, before another evening swim for Clare. I noticed an ocean-going rowing eight with cox and trainer on board a kilometre offshore, and wondered if it was the same crew I watched from the headland at Rincon de la Victoria last autumn. Then, after supper, a walk in the dark along the Paseo Maritime, before early bed for both of us.

Today it was overcast, relatively cool, though humid, and it spitted a little rain. It's the first day of its kind since I arrived here. Much refreshed by a good night's sleep, we went into the Old Town to look around the wonderful Mercado de Atarazanas, such a special place celebrating the rich beauty and variety of Andalusia's fresh food products, proudly displayed, and by some amazing characters among the traders. We bought marinaded Rosada pescado to cook for lunch, and half a kilo of fresh strawberries. Next time we'll return to get freshly caught fish, once we can decide which variety to buy!

Clare was pleased to find a small lightweight hair dryer at a bargain price in Chinese supermercado next to Atarazanas, and I found a wire basket which could be used for vegetable steaming. The flat is quite well equipped, considering that it's only a few months since it was re-claimed for use as a chaplain's apartment. Each occupant has their own minor equipment requirements, as well as food preferences to suit their way of life. Meeting these needs is part of the pleasure of sojourning in a new place.

We also walked across the 'German' footbridge over the rio Guadalmedina to reach El Corte Inglez, so that Clare could inspect special offers in the summer sale. She travelled light, hoping to find some lightweight clothes for the extreme heat which are not so easy to find in the UK, but there was nothing of interest. Organisation of the clothes layout for the summer sale reminded her of a jumble sale, she said. We had an over priced drink in the top floor cafeteria, then walked slowly back across the Old Town to the apartment to cook and eat half the Rosada pescado from the market for lunch. We now have a better idea of how little cooking it actually needs, for next time.

Once again, a siesta, a swim for Clare, an evening walk into the port after supper, just as the huge Valetta registered TUI Discovery cruise ship was going to sea from terminal one. Several new ships have docked in recent days. Large private luxury motor yachts, a much smaller cruise ship to carry a couple of hundred rather than thousands of passengers, a large bulk carrier, a vehicle transport ship. Proximity to North Africa makes Malaga quite a busy port, for both commerce and leisure. I find it fascinating to observe, and try to understand.

    

Sunday visiting

Over the weekend we've been enjoying a cool breeze and temperatures of 25-30C, quite a pleasant combination, which looks set to continue into the coming week. There were twenty six of us for the Eucharist at St George's, a few went to Velez Malaga today to join in the farewell to churchwarden Rebecca who is moving back to Britain to live. 

Over drinks and nibbles after the service, I was interested to meet a young woman from Sierra Leone whose family migrated to Canada when she was a child, so she'd grown up and worked there. She decided to take a year out and come to Spain for a different experience of life and work. Her third continent to live in before reaching the age of thirty. I guess that's more characteristic of today's world than it was when I was growing up, and didn't even venture out of Britain to the Continent until I was twenty.

After lunch and a siesta, I drove to Torre del Mar to visit one of the Velez Malaga congregation in the Comarcal Hospital. I had a feeling beforehand that I'd visited someone there before when I was on locum duty in Nerja, and this was confirmed as I found my way directly there from memory. At six on a Sunday evening nobody was on duty at visitor reception, so I went to a ward, which turned out to be on the wrong floor, and made enquiries. I was pleased that I made myself understood and was directed to the correct ward in Spanish. The nurse who directed me to Brian's room kindly said the number in English, so I repeated it in Spanish with a big smile. Practise, practise, all the time! 

Brian's an artist, a writer and was a lay preacher in a Congregational Church when he was younger, so we had an interesting and wide ranging conversation. He's hoping to return to the UK in the near future, so ending up in hospital has frustrated his intention for the moment. Life has this annoying habit of interfering with our plans. 

Although my return journey had me driving with the sun in my face for part of the time, it was nonetheless lovely to see the coast from the high road in a different light on a clear evening. Later, I walked along the Paseo Maritime into the port, enjoying the breeze, with hundreds of others, both holiday makers and locals, making the most of the respite before another working week begins.

    

    

Evolving patterns of diaspora ministry

There were four of us for the midweek Eucharist at St George's this morning. We celebrated the feast of Saints Peter and Paul a day early, giving thanks especially for the third anniversary of St George's Voluntary Curate Doreen Cage's priesting at this season. Given the changing demographics of expatriate Anglicans in many places around Europe, I think the future is likely to be somewhat different from the past. Reduced numbers in some places make it harder to reach the critical mass of financial support that the traditional Chaplaincy model of hiring a full time priest requires. 

Recruiting a paid part timer is an option, but there may not be sufficient suitable candidates to meet the need. There has been healthy development in lay reader ministry over recent decades, and that's a positive sign, but over my lifetime, change in the shared spirituality of worshipping communities has led to churches becoming far more dependent on clergy for Eucharistic celebrations. Not all lay readers may feel called to offer themselves for ordination to perform sacramental functions, though some do. But the truth is, more ordained ministers and now needed for the exercise of leadership in worship at a local level, especially where the area covered by a chaplaincy team grows larger. 

The priest ordained and commissioned just for local ministry usually in later life, doesn't expect to make a career of it or move on. They serve under authority and with local community support, meet chiefly the pastoral needs of a community and locality which is home to them, as part of its team of ordained and lay people leading worship and offering pastoral care. It cannot amount to a grand strategic plan. It's a variable response to developing circumstances. Importantly, this is Voluntary ministry, like that of the Licensed Lay Reader. It costs far less to sustain than a full time priest, or a paid administrative co-ordinator. 

An expatriate chaplaincy enterprise still needs someone to represent it in the larger community of churches, to state authorities and in civil society, but this doesn't have to be a professional priest any more, especially in a modern Catholic country where many such functions are delegated by church authorities to lay men and women. This may take Anglicans more time to get used to than other church groups, as we've become so accustomed to being led, taught, represented and care for by a professional class of clergy. So this is a time for learning new ways organisation as church, that address the problems of dispersion and the continuing need for pastoral care and oversight, with a little lateral thinking. The role exercised by the professional cleric has already changed a lot over my working life. I've changed too, and have now spent a seventh of my ministerial career as a Voluntary Priest. How different my life might have been if I'd had the confidence and taken the initiative to pursue this path much earlier!   

A visit from my son

Yesterday, there were three of us for the the midweek Eucharist at St George's, honouring various British martyrs commemorated this week - St Alban, proto-martyr of England, Sts Julius and Aaron the Welsh proto-martyrs of Caerleon, all pre-Constantinian witnesses to Christ during the decline of the Roman Empire. After this the days was occupied with more shopping to get ready for Owain's arrival, and some evening exercise, walking east up the Malagueta promenade to the next barrio, a two miles there and back.

This morning, I walked to the Cercania terminus at the top end of the Alameda and caught the train out to the airport to meet Owain arriving from Bristol, just after ten. We took the train back to the Alameda, then walked the last mile back to the apartment, as he'd only brought a shoulder bag with him for his four day stay. 

 lunch, we walked into the Old Town for an initial exploration with commentary from Dad, going first to La Merced market, then to Atarazanas market. We then returned to La Malagueta so Owain could go for a swim before we had supper. It's great to have his company. It may be as long as 25 years since we last spent time on our own together - we're still trying to work it out.

Festal Weekend, Day Two

All went to plan going to Velez Malaga this morning. I was there by ten but overshot my destination and had to double back. Finding a parking place nearby without disorientating myself in streets still unfamiliar gave me some trouble, so I lost twenty minutes finding a place, but arrived with enough time in hand to start punctually.

There were twenty two present, an enthusiastic and cheerful gathering, attentive and enjoying the singing. Three people shared in leading the intercessions, which was unusual, but it worked. I couldn't help noticing that the lady who read the Hospitality of Abraham story expressively did so using her hands as she spoke. It was far from being a mannerism, the story-teller's instinct was in evidence here. That takes confidence, but also calls for finding a certain pleasure in valuing the story element in reading scripture.

The little bar where we gathered for coffee and fellowship after the service when I was here last September has now closed, due to lease expiry, so we had to walk a few extra pace to the Bar El Tomate on the corner of the block. It's full of light and has simple modern decor. It was crowded and busy, clearly a well used Sunday meeting place in this barrio. 

After a drink and a chat, I drove back to Malaga, cooked lunch and had a siesta before making my way to the Cathedral for the evening's Blessed Sacrament procession. On any evening the streets are crowded with walkers and diners, but tonight an even greater crowd, as people from parishes across the city converged on the Cathedral. Diocesan clergy, Cathedral Canons, seminarians, and various guilds formed the main body of the procession, with some lay people following and more watching, taking photos from the side. It must have been quite difficult for tourists going against the flow of the procession, and perhaps not rally understanding what was going on. I noticed uncomfortable and awkward looks on the faces of some passing by in the opposite direction.

The silver clad flower bedecked trona carrying the Holy Sacrament in a large golden monstrance was not borne by a squad of portadores on this occasion. It was mounted on wheels and pushed by a handful of people. I'd love to know the reason why. Street altars were set up outside the Cathedral, in the Calle Marquesa de Larios, the main luxury shopping area and at a junction of several streets in between. Apparently the number of altars has been reduced in recent years. It it for convenience, faced with the dominant demands made on these streets by visitors? Or is it for practical reasons? 

The custom used to be to stop at a street altar for prayers. Nowadays, prayers and devotional songs go on throughout the time of the procession, aided by a portable public address system using a wireless microphone for the prayer leader. Songs were familiar and sung unaccompanied by heart as we processed slowly. There were a couple of bands, which played intermittently, but accompanying a walking singing crowd would not come naturally to their performance style. I imagine change of this nature doesn't come easy to cofradias that invest such time and energy in maintaining their tradition. What's impressive is the degree of participation by local people. It doesn't feel like a show but a genuine expressing of religious life which succeeds in binding people together.

The procession ended with the Archbishop receiving the Holy Sacrament from the Trona to carry into the Cathedral through the great west door. After leading the final devotions and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament at the high altar, for the first time since the procession began, Don Jesus Catala donned his episcopal mitre to deliver a brief address to the multitude filling the nave. In the procession he walked bareheaded like all the other clergy, behind the Trona, holding his episcopal crozier, symbol of his pastoral authority in the church and in the wider community. Having the last word, as a preacher of the Gospel in the Apostles' succession, he puts on his teacher's hat. Nice and simple. I wish more Anglican bishops would take note, and parade their mitres in public less often.

It was hot. It was tiring. But joining in the procession, not as a robed cleric but among the people took me back to my young, and reminded me what pilgrimage feels like at the grass roots. It's quite possible to miss out on that experience when you're organising or overseeing a liturgical occasion. So grateful I don't have to undertake those kind of duties any longer.

  

Malaga praying

I woke up early and was shocked to hear news of the fire in Grenfell Tower, West London. It didn't take long to learn of the concerns expressed by a local residents group before and after a recent multi million pound renovation, about the safety issues. This is going to turn into a colossal tragedy with ramifications for high rise accommodation, both public and private all over Britain. There have been other apartment block fires abroad, indicating flaws in safety design and materials used. It seems lessons from those incidents have not been heeded or applied. It's another toxic outcome of a decade of austerity which has seen major cuts in public service expenditure. To judge from other recent tragedies, there will follow a wave of compassion and generosity, as the country as well as the neighbourhood rallies around the survivors. And there'll be another public enquiry of some kind. But how will collective indignation at the scale of a preventable disaster of this kind in public service provision affect the body politic?

As I arrived at the churchyard gate to celebrate the midweek Eucharist, a group of four youngsters, English speaking, late teens, early twenties were leaving. One of them accosted me, seeing that I was wearing my cross and a black shirt and asked in halting Spanish who I was, and was relieved when I replied in English. She asked me if there was anything I wanted her and her friends to pray about. I asked her to explain, as usually people ask me if I'll pray for them! She explained that her group had been sent as pilgrims on a mission to pray for people in Malaga. 

It transpired that they'd been given plane tickets, and left to their own devices to find their way about, meet people and to seek hospitality from people. They had no money, and had spent the previous night sleeping on the beach. It seemed that they'd been sent to experiment with the biblical idea of trusting in Providence, although I was offered no idea, apart from the fact that they were from Cheshire, who had paid their fares and sent them off without any briefing or local contacts.

I spoke about this later with the three women who came to the service, and they said they'd had a similar instance of this six months ago. It seems there's an organisation out there which funds this kind of youth initiative with plane tickets, but nothing more was known. How very strange! It's not as if it's hard to find out about ecumenical youth contact networks via the internet, it you want to set up a simple experience of mission in another country. To me this approach is potentially very risky, if the youngsters have no prior knowledge of the situations they were entering. I've not been here long enough to have any idea about how to connect with grass roots Christian communities. I'm sure it would be possible through Lux Mundi in Fuengirola or Torre del Mar, but as for this city, I have no idea, and couldn't help them. And that had me worrying about them for the rest of the day.

Late afternoon, I went out exploring parts of the Old Town, and as it was gone five, churches were opening for the evening after siesta, and I was able to take a look inside several I'd never seen inside before - San Joan, Los Dos Martires, both rebuilt after the 1680 earthquake, and El Sagrado Corazón the 1920's Gothic revival building belonging to the Jesuits, who have a substantial commitment to education locally. I went to the port on the way back, to check out new arrivals and found one large ordinary cruise ship, Panama registered MV Aegean Odessy at one end of the Palmeria de las Sorpresas and the MV Turama huge Super-yacht registered in Saudi Arabia at the other. The latter has sixty staff and luxury accomodation suites, catering for 70 passengers. It can be chartered for cruise parties at the rate of €90,000 a day, I discovered with a little on-line research. It was almost as big as the other cruise ship, carrying 300.

Coming back into the Barrio de la Malagueta, I realised that people were entering the Parish Church of St Gabriel, so I went to have a look inside. Mass was about half way through, and I stayed and prayed. It's a brick building of the 70's or 80's, vast and cavernous, seating 500+ at a guess. There were about 50 people of all ages in the congregation, including a few parents with children. Earlier at St Joan, I'd seen 20 people assembled with an elderly priest before the Blessed Sacrament praying the rosary. And, it was a layman seated at the back who was leading. Sometimes it's a woman who leads, not necessarily a nun. The priest plays his part, but the enterprise of prayer is owned by the community of the faithful. I find this inspiring and encouraging.

From Rincon by bus

This morning, with enough dirty clothes to make up half a load, it was time to figure out how the washing machine works. It's a different model from ones I've been used to in other places, so I had to read the instruction booklet. Thankfully, once I'd mastered its language of logos and symbols, it was straightforward enough for a quick wash cycle. Not being sure if it was such a good idea to put an airer full of washing out on a street side balcony, I made use of a spare bedroom on the sunny side, with the window open, which did the trick nicely. 

Then it was time to do the rest of the week's shopping, cook lunch and have a siesta before driving out to Rincon del la Victoria to rendezvous with Rosella at the Tamoil Gasolinera just above the autovia junction. When I put this in my Google calendar and typed in 'Tamoil', I was surprised to see that it immediately suggested the correct one at Rincon, 15km away, even though I had not yet typed in 'Rincon'. Rosella said that there are few Tamoil stations around the area, so all Google was doing was helpfully suggesting the nearest one to me. Which, as luck would have it, was correct.

After meeting up, we drove to an auto service garage a kilometre away and left the car. Rosella then dropped me, as planned in Rincon, so that I could catch the bus back to Malaga. This gave me an opportunity to purchase my own Tarjeta Consorcio - a fare card to use in paying for rides at a discount on the ticket cash price. It's still €1.07 for the half hour journey. The rechargeable card costs €1.80, and you need to put a minimum of €5.00 on it to start with. I now have the means to get on one of the buses which stops outside the apartment and see where it takes me.

I got off the bus at the hospital stop, ten minutes walk from St George's, rather than go all the way to the terminus next to the Muelle heredia, in the port which is twenty minutes walk to St George's. I needed to go back there to retrieve my outdoor specs with added shades from the sacristy table, where I left them. I can see well enough to drive without them, but it's hardly a pleasant experience. I turned out into the traffic by the time I realised my omission. Finding a short way back to collect them would certainly have made me late. I was so annoyed with myself. Will I ever get really used to wearing specs, I wonder?

When I finally got back to the apartment, I had a phone call from Curate Doreen, asking how the weekend had been, and it gave me an opportunity to solicit her help in finding a place to stay in or near Salinas when Owain comes for the weekend, since I'm up there celebrating the Eucharist on the weekend he's with me. We have plans to visit Nerja, and then drive up to Granada on the spectacular A44 autovia, which runs for part of its length on viaducts through a valley with a succession of lakes. It'll be great to have someone with me who is happy taking photographs. I've done the trip now several times and never been free to take pictures which do justice to the scenery.

Clare and I had a long conversation later, with both of us using phone headsets, which gave both of us far better reception than when using speaker boost. It's taken a long while for us to realise this. Before turning in for the night, I walked along the east arm of the port to savour the beauty of the port and city skyline at twilight. La Farinola is floodlit, and changes from blue to green at frequent intervals. Curiously, I didn't notice if its was performing its designated duty. Much check tomorrow.
   

Celebrating the Trinity in Malaga

What a delight it was to walk the three hundred metres along the Paseo de Reding to celebrate the Eucharist this morning, in fine bright warm weather. After all the many Sundays at home or abroad when I've had to drive to church, it was a real pleasure. There were thirty of us in the congregation to celebrate the Feast of the Holy Trinity, and I reminded everyone of how important a dedication this is in the history of European chaplaincies. Both the Gibraltar Cathedral and the pro-Cathedral in Brussels are dedicated to the Holy Trinity, so naturally we prayed for them.

St George's has a marvellously mixed congregation, Brits, Irish, Spanish, American, Iranian, Sierra Leonian and Nigerian among the regulars. It's impossible for me not to feel at home with this mix. After the service there was a little reception to welcome me on the church forecourt, with a glass of bubbly and some nibbles. It was most unexpected and prolonged the pleasure of fellowship longer than usual.

After lunch and a siesta, I walked to the port. All along the quay with the designer shops for almost half a kilometer there were market stalls selling hats, jewellery or summer dresses, there must have been fifty of them, that weren't there yesterday. I saw a new cruise ship was docked at terminal A. Yesterday's ship had already slipped away to another destination. The regular ferry to Melilla was also docked, and while I was watching a ferry arrived from the Balearic Islands up north. This must provide a quicker service for people and goods from way down south to Mallorca, Menorca or Ibiza, than a day's travel on the autovia, plus ferry from Valencia. Where there's a will, there's a way when it comes to economic efficiency, I guess.

Then I wandered down the Alameda, over the bridge as far as El Corte Ingles which was closed, but the point was to time the walk from the apartment. On the way back, the sound of bells from La Manquita drew me to the Cathedral in time for the Sunday evening Mass. Several hundred people attended, and a goodly number of the received Communion. Yet, the service, with homily and some singing too just forty minutes and didn't feel at all hurried. 

That's just over half the length of our Eucharist this morning with a fifth of the communicants. But, we had a longer set of readings, longer intercessions and sermon, four hymns and a sung setting of the Mass Ordinary. There's so much in common in the content of our liturgies, yet the culture that interprets how they are performed is remarkably different. The Anglican approach to timing and singing in worship is closer to Eastern Orthodoxy than it is to the Western Latin Church.

Co-incidental to this last thought, I learned from Facebook of the death of the previous Bishop of Gibraltar in Europe, Geoffrey Rowell, just three years after his retirement, taken by cancer. He came into post just as I was getting into difficulties with a rebellion against the diocese by certain people in the leadership of the chaplaincy in Monaco, when I had to step aside to allow him to make a formal troubleshooting Visitation and sort things out. I hated failure of this kind and having to quit the diocese, but it did lead to eight wonderful final years of public ministry at St John's City Parish Church. 

+Geoffrey was an outstanding scholar of Anglicanism, and enthusiast for ecumenical relations with Orthodox and Oriental Churches. Being Euro-bishop was a suitable platform for bridge-building in the territory he governed, but it's amazing to think how his ability to build friendships contributed to the development of a dimension of ecumenical relationships that couldn't have been foreseen, with the exodus of oriental Christians fleeing war and persecution from North East Africa, Iraq and Syria into Europe over the past decade. He will be missed by people of all Christian traditions. May he rest in peace and rise in glory.

     

  

Costa drive

A long night of undisturbed sleep did me a power of good after yesterday's early start. I walked to St George's for the midweek Eucharist, aware that two regulars would not be there, but a third did arrive, and we were able to celebrate together. While I was putting things away after the service, I had a phone call from Doreen the curate, asking if I could take a funeral on Friday, as it was set to take place in Velez Malaga, and it would take me a third of the travel time that it would take her. 

She'd been contacted by Nigel, the Chaplain in Nerja, who'd first been contacted about the funeral, as the family live in his pastoral area, but he's already booked for a wedding blessing that afternoon and so rang Doreen, not knowing I've just arrived and could provide cover. I contacted the bereaved family and arranged to visit them later in the day and was given travel instructions to find their apartment in Mesquitilla, a coastal resort about 9km east of Torre del Mar.

I returned, cooked lunch and had a siesta, then drove along the coast road to Mezquitilla. It takes twice as long due to traffic and speed restrictions, but the route is familiar from the time I spent last year, living in Rincon de la Victoria, and I needed an opportunity to stop at a Chinese Market store I know near there, to buy a coffee filter funnel, as I've not seen such a shop in the local barrio. It was also my first outing in a left hand drive car for six months, and gave me a chance to get used to local urban traffic and lower speed limits again.

It took me over an hour to reach Mezquitilla, and despite receiving good instructions to reach the destination apartment block, it took me a while to find the urbanizacion, due to lack of street signs, and knowing where to look to identify which apartment block it was out of several identical ones. Google Maps made up for lack of street signs, while being unable to provide the latter detail, so I had to call, to be met on the street and accompanied to the apartment.

After an hour's conversation and service planning, I returned to Malaga using the autovia as far as Benagalbon, then dropping down to the coast road to reach the Chinese store and buy the necessary filter funnel. It was gone nine by the time I parked at St George's and walked home after stopping off to get some milk. I had to repeat the walk to St George's to retrieve my earlier purchase, but the additional exercise did me good, as spending a total of two and a half hours in the car today. And now looking forward to another good night's sleep.

   

Another locum adventure begins

I didn't go out at all yesterday, but spent much of the day packing my case and checking I had just the right things I need for spending time in Spain. It rained anyway, so I had no  motivation to take exercise. I got to bed by eleven, however, and was up and breakfasting by five after a fitful night's sleep, then on my way to Cowbridge Road for a bus to town to catch the airport shuttle by quarter to six. I was so grateful to see that normality had been restored to the city centre after the weekend's lock-down, so the T9 collected me at 06.20, as usual. Fifty people were already queuing to check in at 06.45 when I arrived. Not late home-bound hung-over footie fans, but families with pre-school children, and frail elderlies heading for a place in the sun, all suffused with holiday good cheer.

By 07.15 I was through security and doing my Duo Lingo daily drill in the departure area, quite badly, under the effect of a  poor night's sleep. The flight left a little late but arrived on time. For a change, I had an aisle seat, so couldn't gaze out of the window at the landscape from 35,000 feet as a usually do in between bouts of dozing. This time I read 'Ling' the airline magazine, produced in English and Spanish, but this time I read only in Spanish, only occasionally checking expression and words that were new to me. It's a lot easier since I last tried to do that, six months ago. Maybe it's a sign of improvement, despite memory lapses on bad days.

Rosella was there to meet me, and drive me into Malaga to the chaplaincy apartment, where I'll be staying, in La Malagueta barrio, 300m from St George's Church. It's on the second floor opposite the Plaza de Toros, overlooking a busy thoroughfare. It's a 1960's building in good condition, with high ceilinged rooms in a spacious apartment. It took me a while to find the kitchen, as I had quite forgotten that the layout of some older apartments puts the kitchen by the front door - from where a maid or housekeeper might run the place. 

I decided not wait for the starter food supply ran out to stock up, so walked to a Mercdona 500m away. In fact, I did the trip twice as I couldn't carry everything I knew I'd need first time around. I certainly needed the exercise after travelling early in the day. On one trip I popped into the church to chat with Rosella, who was hunting through old legal documents to do with the church. Given the chaplaincy's unusual history, I imagine there's a fascinating collection of material relating to it in the archives of the Diocese of London, of which European chaplaincies were part, under the former suffragan see of Fulham and Gibraltar, before the formation of the Diocese in Europe.

After supper I walked around the barrio and along the promenade of Playa la Malagueta, busier with joggers than with strollers, it seemed. I found the modern Parish Church and was surprised not to find an external notice board telling anything about it. Google Maps informs me that it's the Parish Church of San Gabriel. I wonder when it's open?

After Skyping Clare, I was ready for bed, surprised by how quiet the street below had become after the evening rush hour, and quieter still in the bedroom furthest away from the street.

  

A foodie celebration

This morning, at the midweek 'class Mass' with children from Tredegarville School, I decided to talk about 'Stir Up' Sunday and preparing for Christmas. I didn't have enough to time to prepare visual aids, so I borrowed a pudding from the food stocks of Marisa, who manages the old peoples' day centre in St German's Church Hall on my way into church. She said she had thirty of them, in preparation for the series of Christmas dinners the day centre will be laying on over the next few weeks, for as many as a hundred people at a time. Just amazing!

It's impossible to remember the last time I addressed a group of children on the 'Stir Up' theme, so it's just as well I have nothing to recall to compare with what I did today. But I did have fun, asking the kids to think about the ingredients that make so tasty a pudding. Marisa's pudding was pre-packed in a plastic bowl suitable for boiling rather than in tinfoil (as we now do at home) or a traditional cloth bag. But, it was a suitably mysterious object around which to let the imagination weave a narrative.

Christmas pudding would be foreign to perhaps half of my audience, whose family origins were in Asia or Africa, although similar rich festive delicacies are made from dried fruit, nuts and rich fats all over the world. Finding out about the common elements would require a morning in a classroom or an after school session with families, rather than ten minutes in the middle of a service. It's great when families whose origins are far from our shores are given an opportunity to share their foods with the wider community. I know it happens in schools on special occasions. I remember this happening during my ministry in St Paul's Bristol, in Geneva, and recently during my month with the church in Malaga.

Talking about food we love to share in a faith context is something I greatly enjoy. It's wonderful to see churches all over the place rediscovering the value of food sharing and food culture as part of mission and evangelism through hospitality, communal meals and food banks, as well as festive celebrations. The mass industrialisation of food preparation and consumption during the 20th century made the task of feeding people daily less demanding of time and energy. All too often however, social and cultural dimensions of food were neglected, forgotten, divorced from relationships, contributing to the spiritual ailments of our time - chief among them, loneliness, identity loss, and (surprise surprise) eating disorders. 

Part of the Church's recovery of confidence in the Gospel message it proclaims is reconnecting with its food culture, something our ancient spiritual mother, Judaism, never lost. There's no better way to enjoy the 'abundant life' which Jesus came to share with the world.

Singing in Velez and a reflection on the BCP

It was my last assignment of this tour of duty this morning, so I was out of the house and on my way by nine thirty for a celebration of the Eucharist at Velez Malaga, with a congregation of two dozen. I didn't have trouble with the route to my destination this time, although I did have to drive three times around the one way system in the side streets before I found a parking spot reasonably near. Some find it easier to use a parking area on the opposite side of the main dual carriageway into the town centre, and if you've come from the other side of the centre, this probably makes better sense anyway.

Rebecca and Jean were there, fresh from their pilgrimage, wearing their souvenir Camino de San Juan de Compostela teeshirts, showing specially stamped documents certifying completion of their 125km walk. And they had stories to tell. They looked calm and contented, pleased not to have sore feet at the end of their eight days of walking.

The congregation sang several rousing hymns with enthusiasm, even breaking into harmony several times. The last one 'To God be the Glory' was enjoyed so much there was applause when it was over. Then an impromptu verse of 'Thine be the Glory' was sung for a reprise. So relaxed and natural, it was a real delight to share, a nice memory to take away with me.

This was followed by coffee, a beer and a chat with several church members in the neighbouring bar. One Brit, who'd lived in Germany as well as Spain was lamenting the Brexit vote, as a rejection of all that's been worked for since the end of World War II, also the withdrawal of the franchise from non-resident passport holders with no UK address over the past fifteen years - hundreds of thousands of citizens whose votes could have made a difference to the referendum outcome.

We discussed the Book of Common Prayer a subject of affectionate regard for many brought up on it, even if they concede the need for more contemporary language, and accept this is nowadays the norm. When working with seminarians, I made a point of explaining why it is such a seminal social, cultural and spiritual document, to be taken seriously by all, whether or not they ever use it.

It's a text for a society with Christian roots, respecting the need for a stable orderly framework for hearing scripture systematically and celebrating the sacraments of the universal church. It describes what's most needed for spiritual development. Its theology is a hybrid of traditional and reformed teaching not to everyone's liking, but its life gives witness to an understanding that interpretation of scripture and debate about the meaning of the sacraments isn't closed.

Elizabeth I imposed the use of the BCP by law. Not a good idea, by our standards, but its use survived political upheavals and remained accepted by the majority of British citizens by Act of Parliament. In practice it was adapted and tinkered with, according to local custom and interpretation, but continued nevertheless to be used. Given its political origins as an accepted core text, its survival, and popular affection, is unique.

New insight into the BCP has emerged for me from being with the Malaga Chaplaincy, reading about its origins. The English Cemetery in Malaga was the fruit of decades of diplomatic activity by British Consul William Mark (1824-36). He wasn't ordained, but as a Crown official, took authority to read the Burial Office over protestant citizens who died hereabouts. His pastoral concern for the dead and bereaved led him to a campaign to acquire rights to burial land for non-catholics. He succeeded in 1831. Only in 1846 did the newly appointed first Bishop of Gibraltar come to Malaga to consecrate the cemetery. During that fifteen years, Mark read Sunday Matins and Evensong with Homily for a congregation at the Consulate. No Chaplain was appointed until 1850.

For a quarter of a century Anglican pastoral life here relied entirely on lay ministry, not authorised by the Church Established, but by the Crown and by means of the BCP, with which British citizens could identify, around which they would gather. It's the vehicle of Anglican compromise that matters here more than translatable content. As Anglicans, we seek a form of service to identify with, even if it call for an effort. No matter who bothers to offer a service to start with. Is it recognisable, part of our experience? This makes Prayer Book liturgy, in all its incarnations and translations, a church gathering resource, with or without a minister in charge. All that's needed is someone with pastoral heart and sense of mission to get things started, willing to do what the BCP and its modern interpretations allow.

Having started the train of thought expressed here, I returned to Rincon. Perhaps due to the weekend fiesta, streets and car parks were unusually full for a Sunday. I was relieved to find the last free space in my usual parking area.

Tuna steaks for lunch today, cooked with black olives, cherry tomatoes, loads of garlic and lemon. A small treat to mark my final Sunday duty. Now I have to set my mind to cleaning and tidying up, and packing my bags. I have a 4.30am start on Tuesday morning. Best to be well prepared a day ahead for such an early lift off.
   

Sunday morning and a rude awakening

I slept quite well despite waking several times with discomfort from my swollen finger. After my usual breakfast at eight thirty my heart rate and blood pressure, which I've been monitoring for my GP back home, shot up, plus my nose began to stream profusely. A kind of shock reaction? Unusual for me, so I rang church warden Rosella to tell her what was happening, then headed down the main street to the Urgencias (A&E) of the local medical centre.

The duty receptionist took my details from my EHIC card, and then took me to see a nurse to explain by problem, and then to a doctor. It was quite a challenge this time explaining in Spanish, but both has a little English for cross checking purposes. I was given a shot of cortizone to tackle the swelling, or whatever, and then they proposed to remove the ring. My knuckle was far too swollen for the traditional ring removal technique, using a strong piece of thread wounds around the finger and the ring. Glad they tried however, as now I know how it's do-able. They cut off the ring with an ingenious purpose made device, and it was such a relief!

Within minutes after profuse expressions of gratitude on my part, I was on my way, then shortly after, was picked up by Rosella and taken to St George's, with enough time to prepare for worship. My vital signs seemed to have normalised, and I found I had my usual level of energy and enthusiasm for worship, except for the runny nose, which persisted for another four hours. I still have no idea what caused that reaction. But, to have survived without disrupting everyone else's Sunday was everything to me.

Doreen popped in after the service with her son, in between other errands, and we had a brief chat. Thee was time for me to upload Fridays batch of photos before Rosella drove me home.

My ring finger doesn't hurt, although It's still swollen. It feels as if I am still wearing a ring. A phantom sensation? The broken ring is in my wallet to await repair, where I would have put it in the first place, had I known how long it would take for the impact of the sting to reveal itself.

Ah well, we live and learn. Unless we die of ignorance first.
      

Old road to Velez

I drove into town this morning, somewhat nervously, as I was uncertain about the last part of the route to St George's Cemetery, and the thought of this made me nervous about getting into heavy traffic and losing my way. I was fortunate as traffic was light, and I had no trouble finding the street along which to travel for the last few kilometres of the journey. Much easier than anticipated! 

I arrived an hour ahead of time, and that gave me plenty of time to take advantage of the office internet connection, and even deal with work issues before the Holy Cross Day Eucharist. There were three of us for the service, although a few visitors wandered in as we were starting. Did they understand what was happening? I couldn't help wondering.

The parking area around the SuperSol in Rincon was busy with an outdoor mercadillo all morning. So, anticipating parking problems, I decided to explore the coast road, the old road to Velez Malaga, before returning to the apartment, and give time to those leaving the market to get away with ease. 

I drove through Benalgabon and Benajarafe as far as ValleNiza. This was the point I'd reached from the other direction when I drove down beyond Velez from Nerja a while back. So now I can say that I've followed the old coast road in stages from Nerja to Malaga.

On the N340a outside Niza is a fine old fortified mansion which has been modernised, to accommodate a restaurant and a hotel school - the Castillo del Marques. Sadly, the building gave the impression that it had closed down earlier this year, although there was no information to state what was happening.

By the time I got back to Rincon. stallholders were leaving and I had no problem parking.
   

Fuengirola Funeral

It was cool, clear and bright when I set out on the road to Fuengirola at nine thirty this morning, and that made for an enjoyable journey. I felt that I should arrive with plenty of time to spare, preferably ahead of the bereaved family. I was sitting outside the crematorium café drinking an Americano when they arrived, in the same place where I sat to meet and greet them on Thursday last. There were just five of them at such short notice flying out from Britain for the funeral. I had plenty of time to brief them before their Costa friends started arriving.

About twenty minutes before time, with the chapel prepared, the funeral attendants came to complete the necessary formalities. Here, the chief mourner has to sign official documents to authorise cremation, unlike in Britain, where this is done by the funeral director on behalf of the family. I was able to help as an intermediary by explaining what was being asked and found I had confidence in speaking Spanish in this context which I didn't have when I last did a funeral here two years ago. The church attendant remarked on my effort. I think he may have been glad not to have to struggle with his limited English.

Forty mourners were present, mostly older generation expats, many of them British Legion members. I led the coffin into chapel from a rear corridor to an enclosure before the altar, where floral tributes were laid. The family didn't want to sing hymns, so they selected four songs from 'the soundtrack of life together' to suit what they needed to say about the deceased. Her son and her eldest granddaughter gave moving tributes and I bound their contribution together with scripture readings and prayers. After the committal the congregation took their leave, and once the chapel was empty, the attendants came in and moved the coffin to an enclosed lift platform on the opposite side of the chapel. The same basic C of E funeral ritual but adapted to this context. Familar texts in an unfamiliar place.

I wondered if I might see anyone I knew in the congregation, as many were from La Cala or Calahonda, but I didn't. So as they began to disperse to go to the reception, I took my leave of the family, having given them of my best as a passing stranger in sad circumstances. Such is the nature of some aspects of Christian ministry today, where there's no chance of follow through, or bond pastorally with people, given that transience in relationships is a feature of life in a such mobile society.

I phoned Bill Oliver, former church warden and congregation member in the St Andrew's chaplaincy, then went to meet him at the Oasis Beach Club, El Faro, for a drink and catch-up chat. It's two years since we last met. He then invited me to his house nearby, where he cooked lunch, while we continued to catch each other up on our lives. His kids are now away at University in the USA. No more school runs for him! It was good to spend time with him again, and it was gone five by the time I got back to Rincon.

Being ready and prepared for the service at Velez Malaga tomorrow, I thought about watching Spanish TV for the exercise, then I found that RNE Clasico was relaying the BBC Last Night of the Proms radio broadcast. It's a comfortably warm evening, with a cool breeze, and I can enjoy the Spanish voice in between performances. What a treat!

      

A car and a new sofa to use

I  caught a crowded163 bus into Malaga this morning at 9.15. It took ten minutes longer than usual due to rush hour traffic. It's fifteen minutes walk from the port bus stop to the English Cemetery, when I was due to celebrate the midweek Eucharist at eleven, but I needed first to visit a nearby bank and cash an open 'Al Portador' cheque, received from the church for locum fees. The rest is paid in Sterling. This was , I have enough euros to see me through my stay. For each there's a receipt record for use when I next make a tax return.

There were five of us for the Eucharist, including Doreen the NSM Curate, and a lady visiting from Sevilla. After the service I was handed over the chaplaincy car, a VW Golf Mark II estate just a couple of years younger than mine at home, in good repair, just serviced and tested. Splendid. This will permit me to drive to Fuengirola tomorrow to prepare a funeral with a family for Saturday.

I've also arranged a visit to Salinas for next week, where Doreen takes a service once or twice a month. I'm keen to see the area where she lives and works, a new part of the world to discover. We'll spend part of the day looking out for birds in their mountain habitats. Doreen is an expert who runs birdwatching tours in Andalusia. I'm not sure what kind of photo opportunities will occur, but ready or not to take pictures there's a lot to learn.

I stayed in the church office writing for over an hour after our meeting ended on the promise that I'd lock up, since I'd arrived first and unlocked before the service. When I drove to the cemetery gate, the lodge was shut and the gates seemed locked. Unfortunately, I didn't register the cemetery opening hours and wondered if the office was shut for siesta time or for the day. I knocked the door hard enough to set off an alarm, and couldn't decide whether to laugh or feel nervous about a possible unfolding arrest scenario. With the church door key, however, there was a functioning padlock key and so I was able to open the gates and drive out, though not before calling Rosella to report my mishap. Just in case.

It's six weeks since I last drove a car in Spain, and that wasn't in a big city, so I was a little nervous setting out. Having familiarised myself with this part of town by walking around on this and previous occasions, remembering the way to the coast road was no trouble and in half an hour I was parking the Golf up behind the SuperSol supermarket, five minutes walk from the apartment, since there were spaces in the parking area opposite due to demand from holiday makers. I'm told it'll get easier from next week onwards.

After depositing my work bags, and having a late lunch, I returned to Super Sol to top up my essential food supplies for the week. Not long afterwards Rosella and Tomas and a colleague arrived with a new sofa for the lounge. The existing one, a sofa bed, replaces an old single bed in one of the unused bedrooms. The new sofa is not quite so large and gives a little more sense of space to the main living room. And now, supper.

  

Sunday at St Georges and a great life remembered

I was collected at ten by Rosella for the drive to St George's, so we arrived in good time for the eleven o'clock start. The church was already open and people were busy with their preparatory tasks. All I had to do was prepare the altar for the Eucharist.

The congregation is diverse, with a third of the regular worshippers coming from West Africa. There were visitors from Britain, Germany, Venezuela, and Spain, to add to the permanent Brits and Africans, and a happy welcoming atmosphere.

The Eucharist was nicely sung, with good participation all round. Afterwards, not only were there refreshments on the terrace, but also a cooked lunch of rice peas and sweet-corn with chicken. It's a custom among the Nigerian ladies of the congregation to offer this on the first Sunday of the month. It was a delightful surprise.

I took advantage of the church office fibre broadband to upload the eighty photos I've taken since Wednesday last, before being dropped off at the ferris wheel bus stop to get a ride home. Buses to Rincon are every half hour on Sundays instead of every twenty minutes, but I only had ten minutes to wait.

This afternoon I learned of the death of Bishop David Jenkins aged 91. He was a well known inspirational teacher of theology when I was a seminarian, and in my early ministry. He was a brilliant apologist for traditional Christian orthodox doctrine, rooted in biblical thought, and classical philosophy. His great strength was to translate and interpret these in the light of modern thought. I heard him talk at student conferences, and he also gave the Bampton Lectures on Christianity and Marxism, when I was a student chaplain in Birmingham.

His critique of Marxism and materialism was very exacting, as he insisted that it was necessary also to learn from them. He was radical in politics, supporting the Durham miners' strike, when he was Bishop of Durham, to the annoyance of Mrs Thatcher. The press and even the BBC worked to discredit him as a mere controversialist, in order to stir up conservative fundamentalist ire against him - this was when the religious right really started to benefit from the 'oxygen of publicity'.

The media manipulators made him a figure of fun, perhaps because they were afraid to take seriously his deep quest for truth and integrity for modern people to live by. Or else they didn't understand him or the importance of his work and way of thinking.

I was grateful for receiving a traditionally orthodox Anglican spiritual nurture in my home parish, in university, and on my ecumenical travels and encounters in sixties Greece. All this enabled me to be open and to  explore liberal and radical thinking, distrustful of the different demands of evangelical fundamentalist conservatism.

The work of David Jenkins that gave me confidence in the integrity and value of thought that went into orthodox Christian belief, from its origins in the New Testament right through to our own times. A great life, well lived.

The day was hotter than yesterday, but much pleasanter as it was less humid. After supper I walked along the seafront, listened to sounds of pop flamenco fusion emanating from a beach bar, and then did some Chi Gung on the water's edge, with the new moon fast sinking beneath the horizon. Now and then, silvered fish leapt out of the water in the dark. A relaxing way to conclude the Lord's Day.

It's eleven years to the day since I first started blogging about ministry, at that time, under the title 'Edge of the Centre', which continued until I retired and started this one. It was the day Brother Roger of Taize's murder was headline news. Like Bishop David Jenkins, his line and ministry was an inspiration to me from early days.

What a lot of thoughts and words have flowed from me into cyberspace since then!

   

Connecting - mixed fortunes

I awoke at first light, despite retiring early. The building and surrounding apartment blocks were quiet until sunrise, around a quarter to eight. It'll take me a while to get used to being surrounded by a new palette of the sounds of human activity punctuating the day. Waking up early and hearing the changes reminded me of this.

Nerja chaplain's house had thin walls, and neighbours who were often absent, but when present, their noises were mainly nocturnal and early morning. In Vinaros, noises came from holidaying neighbours across the road, day and evening, but in the background. Silence dominated. Here sounds are more varied, remoter and occasionally sounds from apartments above and either side. Back in Meadow Street, it's mostly quiet. Neighbours either side are single women who are away a lot, and make little noise when at home. The differences add to life's interest.

Rosella collected me to go together to St George's in Malaga for the midweek Communion followed by a Chaplaincy Council meeting. Doreen, the Chaplaincy's self supporting priest celebrated Mass in honour of St Aidan. I enjoyed being there and receiving her ministry. That's a rarity for me these days. I didn't attend the Council, although I met members beforehand.

Instead, I stayed in the sacristy and took full advantage of a fast broadband office connection to upload photos from yesterday. This is impossible in the flat, given the limited connectivity a wifi mobile internet ( aka MID ) dongle provides. The device may not be working at its best in an apartment whose core metal frame may impede signal flow, but right now I am blogging from my Nexus tablet via this wifi MID.

As ever, the Blackberry Q10 does everything I ask of it.  It may be a bit small, but robustness and reliability count. I didn't swap it for a PRIV as I wasn't satisfied its design could take the same punishment as the Q10.

Last but not least, the Chaplain here, unlike my past two assignments, has a Huwawei Ascend P6 smart phone. It's a nice piece of kit and has a 4G sim, and like the Blackberry it works fine. Mobile devices win here. The chaplain's laptop and my Chromebook just don't work as expected even though they are so much easier to use.

 

Malaga induction

This morning, Iain and I took the train to Malaga to attend the induction service for the new chaplain of St George's Malaga, Rev'd Mary Ellen Dolan. The Church is set in an historic English cemetery dating back to the early nineteenth century.

The gatehouse, shown here, was built in 1856. Malaga has the oldest Church of England chaplaincy in Spain. The cemetery is set on the eastern flank of the base of the mountain on top of which is Malaga's Gibrafaro fortress, with several terraces of graves and some enclosed sections with niches. It's maintained by a trust, since the British Foreign Office sold off the land which it originally owned and tourists must pay to enter though not worshippers. It proclaims itself to be a member of the Association of Significant Cemeteries in Europe. As with all churchyards, maintenance in good order is a perpetual challenge, added to which is the need to conserve many monuments of historical interest, if not artistic merit. It contains a record of nearly two centuries of expatriate residents in Andalusia and the city.

There were about thirty of us in a chapel holding sixty, to celebrate the Eucharist in which the induction ceremony was set, conducted by my old friend Fr Geoff Johnston in his role as acting Archdeacon. It was good to see him and his wife Carole again, as they leave for Britain and retirement at the end of October. Judith his churchwarden in Nerja was with him too, and that gave us an opportunity to discuss my return to Nerja to be their locum chaplain for the Lent-Easter period. If all goes to plan, we'll have a family party there for my 70th birthday, as it falls in Easter week.

After the service, refreshments were served on the terrace outside the church building, then Fr Peter Ford, who has spent much time recently as locum chaplain in Malaga joined Iain and I for the return journey to Los Boliches. It was good that he was given a role, reading the Gospel during the service, a good way of recognising the continuity in ministry with locum clergy freely offer. Fortunately he hadn't returned to Britain, as he lives in Fuengirola.