Bedazzled

After breakfast, a short stint of duty housework, then a ride to Thornhill for today's funeral with just six of us present, neighbours and me, as there were no next of kin. Before I arrived the crem's on-line digital music system had crashed, and only just recovered. Music for the first service of the day had to be played on from a phone into the minister's microphone instead, but all was well again by the time it was my turn.

I got back at noon and wrote a lengthy response to an email I'd received, which took me an hour, so Clare and I had to work speedily together to deliver the meal we both needed. It was on the table by just after half past one. Despite a good night's sleep, I felt very tired and slept for the best part of an hour, so the sun was setting by the time I went out for a walk and it soon got dark, leaving my having to contend with the dazzling lights of commuting cyclists on my way back. A good reason to walk in the park sooner rather than later in the day at this time of year. 

The new generation of LED lights emit high intensity light, which is good to light one's way, but distressing to the eyes of those who are out walking in the dark, relying on the natural ability of the eyes to adjust adequately to low light levels. The idea of having lights that dip out of concern for other road users seems to have no place in the mindset of night time cycling commuters.

After supper I completed this week's Morning Prayer video and uploaded to YouTube. After more than two days switched on and in use, the new Moto phone needed recharging. That's pretty good battery life. I also took a few photos with it, and was quite impressed by the result. I'm not sure it could replace a proper pocket camera however.

I watched another confusing episode of 'The Blacklist' complete with mumbled dialogue, and spent quite a bit of time with DuoLingo doing new exercises as well.

Creative flow returns

Monday morning alongside domestic chores and cooking lunch, I set my mind to work on a new piece of creative writing. For some weeks I have been reflecting on the life and times of St German and looking for a way of showing how stories about him relate to some of our contemporary issues and concerns. I began with thinking about a series of talks and seminars, but decided that would involve too much organising and recruiting, thinks I no longer have to contacts to make happen. 

Then it occurred to me that a sequence of playlets around scenes from his life could be a good way of conveying ideas and getting them discussed especially if I could turn them into a podcast. So I started writing in free moments in between jobs and a afternoon walk, then again after going over to St German's to celebrate the Vigil Mass of Holy Cross Day, which is tomorrow. I was surprised  at how easily dialogue came to mind, and how quickly time passed. 

Imaginative exercise has raised my spirits. I don't suffer from writers' block, but I've imposed limits on my imagination this past year or so, putting much of my effort into following scientific developments from day to day, putting as much energy into reasoning and understanding what's going on as an antidote to fear and despair. I feel as if I've been let out of my walled garden and set free to roam the world, even if it is the rather ancient world of fifth century Gaul my mind is exploring at the moment!

This morning I drove to Thornhill to officiate at a funeral followed by a burial in the cemetery. Rain was expected but none came thankfully. The chapel seating capacity has new returned to what it was before the pandemic, and people are free to sing hymns, though not to remove their masks indoors. A grand daughter of the deceased gave the tearful eulogy. Her father died suddenly as lock-down began and only ten could be at his funeral. Fifty family and friends turned out today and instinctively spread themselves out in the chapel, many of them would have been mourners at her father funeral as well, so it was a kind of catch-up in recognising their double loss, which I was keen to do. Several present expressed their appreciation for this afterwards.

After lunch, I did my daily exercise then continued writing until after supper. again this week I watched last night's episode of 'Silent Witness' on iPlayer and then tonight's episode live. This introduced a new character a bright teenager who was profoundly deaf and communicated brilliantly with sign language and mobile phone text messaging. It really gave a lift to the proceedings. One story thread seemed to develop and then vanish inconclusively, unless it's going to return as part of another story next week of course.

More writing, then bed.

Partners in MIssion recalled

Another cold dry mostly overcast day. After breakfast and prayers, I resumed work on transcribing my Jordanian travel diary after several weeks inattention. It was interesting to realise how much detail of that trip I've forgotten. 

I finally received an email this morning confirming receipt of my messages about the incorrectly written cheque, asking me to return this to the funeral director at the crem. It turned out he'd not been briefed. The chapel attendant who briefed me on arrival I hadn't met before. She told me proudly that none of the staff at Thornhill had gone sick with covid over the past year, despite the throughput of hundreds of mourners daily. Kudos to the city's bereavement services team for staying on top of the Health and Safety demands in the work place.

When I returned from a funeral, I sent a message to the funeral arranger say I'd handed over the cheque, and received an email to say a new one would be in the post. I mention this in full, because it's the first time in decades of officiating at funerals that a glitch like this has occurred. All my emails carry my full name and contact details, so I wonder who slipped up?

This evening, I came across an obituary for Bishop Humphrey Taylor, who died on Ash Wednesday. I first met him when I was a University Chaplain and he became the national coordinator of Chaplaincy work in Higher Education in the early 1970s. He'd been a mission priest in Malawi, expelled by the authoritarian government for his pastoral work among prisoners. We met up again fifteen years later when I worked for USPG and he was a staff member, and then General Secretary of the Society. He went on from there to be Bishop of Selby until he retired. He was a quiet wise thoughtful man with a wry sense of humour, a passion for racial justice and he was a champion of women's ordination. 

His predecessor as chaplaincy coordinator, John Dudley Davies had been expelled from South Africa for witnessing against apartheid. He then went on to be Principal of USPG's College of the Ascension on the Selly Oak mission campus at the same time Humphrey was in charge. John later went on to be Bishop of Shrewsbury. Co-incidentally both had done national service in the RAF. I'm still in touch with John, in his nineties, still writing books with a cutting edge, and getting them published. I'm grateful to have served alongside both, and in their company to have learned what being a missionary priest means for today.

I also learned this evening that church marriage registration is going digital in May this year. No longer will clergy have the painstaking onerous task of filling out church registers in duplicate, with a spare paper copy to send quarterly to the Chief Registrar's office, and all for a pittance. This will be replaced by a form containing all the legally required details, which will then be sent for entry into a national digital database.

Records in their present format date back to the Marriage Act of 1820, and maintaining duplicate church registers was always part of the cleric's duty when solemnising marriages. Prior to that there may have been a separate parish register of marriages maintained, or else marriage entries were made, along with baptisms, burials and regular worship events in one grand service register. Ancient parishes like Cardiff St John the Baptist have records dating back to the restoration of the monarchy, still kept in a great fireproof iron document safe in the vestry. 

I very much regret that documentation of this kind becomes redundant in favour of an exclusive digital record. No doubt a signing the register ritual photo opportunity will persist, even if only a paper record is to be signed. I wonder what the carbon footprint is of a register which may have an active life of ten to fifty years depending on frequency of church weddings in a parish, and the combined carbon footprint of an equivalent set of digitized register entries, held on multiple servers in perpetuity? OK, let's say 400 years, as long as some current registers have been preserved. Just for fun, I have emailed the BBC Radio Four 'More or Less' programme team to pose this question to them. 

Remembering The Few

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

News from Switzerland

I drove to Thornhill at lunchtime to officiate at my first funeral since I left for Ibiza, and my first under the new health and safety restrictions followed by the City's Council's Bereavement Services team. Normally the Wenallt Chapel has seats for two hundred and fifty people, now it's eighty with wide gaps in between the rows. Currently the permitted number of mourners is thirty. I'm not sure if there's any elasticity here to accommodate more with socially distanced household family groups. Wales is relaxing restrictions at a different rate to England. 

Hand sanitizer was available on the way in, though I'm not sure how many took advantage of this. Six young men of the family were bearers. I didn't see anyone wearing masks. Neither I not the funeral attendants wore them. Unlike church we sang a hymn. I didn't feel there was any undue risk, the chapel is large, seating is widely spaced. The mourners kept their distance from me if not each other and nobody attempted to shake hands. It was so different from the mother's funeral which I took back in January. 

It was good to see familiar faces about their business - the crem manager and funeral attendants' team members, with whom I have often worked. They talked about how much the boss had invested in PPE and bio-safety measures in the previous months. The business remains covid free, and needs to stay like this. At the peak of the pandemic wave they were doing the maximum of thirty five funeral a week using all the teams and resources available. The FD spoke of dealing with thirty nine different funeral arrangements at the same time, and the struggle to fend off 'funeral blindness', where they start to blur together making it that harder to access the details of each, when there are so many to remember at the same time. Thankfully it never got to the stage where the company was overwhelmed, but talk about stress testing!

After a late lunch and a brief siesta, I went to Tescos for freezer bags and wine, then we walked together in Thompson's Park before tea, Clare had a surprise call from Mari-Luisa in Switzerland with news of the opening of the mother and baby educational centre in Buchs, a project arising from her work, which she and Heinz have cherished and worked on together for the past decade. It's a wonderful achievement. The buildings and their environment are beautiful, designed by a young architect inspired by the nature of the project, and destined to win an award they think. 

To think it all started with a mother and baby group meeting in the huge attic space of the old farmhouse they renovated and transformed into a zero carbon footprint eco-house. The first small group of parents with infants is now attending sessions and the numbers will be scaled up as the year goes on. When a vaccine for covid-19 has been put to use, we'll go and see them again, most likely by train.  There's positive news on the vaccine development front today, but it'll still be a year or more before this has any impact on those whose immune systems most need protection. And that means us.

  

Unexpected request

Disappointingly, after a sunny weekend, by the time I was ready to go out for a mid morning walk, it had started to rain, so I stayed in and wrote letters instead. It was teatime before I ventured our to the post office, and popped into the Co-op for the first time since my return for apple juice and rye bread. It wasn't busy, and few were wearing masks. 

I hear that Boris Johnson proposes to make the wearing face masks compulsory in shops and other enclosed spaces, with fines for non-compliance. After so many mixed messages and letting people used common sense to make up their own minds, it's going to be hard to change public habits. Locking the stable door after the horse has gone.

After taking the shopping home I continued to the park where fine drizzle turned to rain. I was very wet by the time I got back, jacket and trousers were soaked.

Pidgeon's have asked me if I'd do a funeral at Thornhill next week. I officiated at the funeral of the deceased's wife back in January and the family requested that I do the same for him. The man died from organ failure months after recovering from a bout of symptomless covid-19. Coincidentally, I read a report this morning that stated this is not uncommon, and so far inexplicable. The impact of the pandemic may be more devastating and far reaching than has been realised so far.

Funny, only a few days ago I was reflecting on the end of my public ministry, and then this happens  I could see no reason to refuse. Crematorium chapel services are very carefully regulated.

In the past I have always been taken to and from the crem or the cemetery by car. This time I will use my own car, eliminating a close proximity ride in a funeral company car. One less risk for me, one less sanitising job for the driver. No bereavement visit is possible, but arrangements by phone and email are now universally acceptable. I'll miss the face to face contact, and won't be able to shake hands with mourners after the service. I'm glad that the family and I have already met.

We watched an interesting BBC Four documentary about Beethoven and his music this evening. It spoke of his life as a triumph over adversity. A sad unsustainable love life, bouts of illness and the terrible onset of deafness, yet the worst of times saw the composition of some of his greatest music.

Return to Oxwich

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

Festive high tea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   

Happy homecoming

An uneventful Thursday, with just a visit to the wound clinic, another six mile afternoon walk, and more episodes of 'Keeping Faith' in the evening. For reasons unexplained, BBC iPlayer will not show the final episode at the moment, which is rather annoying.

This morning I took a funeral in St John's. This was unusual in that the family asked to have the Committal in church at the end of the service. It's commonplace to do this in rural areas where there may be and hour or more journey from church to crematorium, also in many parts of the diocese in Europe. Funeral directors are happy with this as they can schedule their activities more to their own convenience. All that was required of me was to escort the hearse from the churchyard after mourners had left the church and were gathered outside. It seemed just a bit strange to me in this setting.

Thornhill Crematorium chapels are currently undergoing a make-over. A large marquee has been erected in nearby to serve as a temporary chapel. This entails a change in practice, as there can be no final leave-taking curtain. The coffin is removed after mourners have left, then transported to the ovens behind the chapels. This arrangement is scheduled to last for just a couple of months. It will be interesting to see how it impacts on usual custom and practice. I don't think it influenced this family's choice, however. They'd planned for the wake to take place in the Liberal Club, around the corner from the church, and it made better sense for them to go straight there.

When I got back, an appointment letter from Llandough Hospital was waiting for me, confirming 5th September as the date for operation number three. Let's hope this'll happen as planned. After lunch, I walked up to Llandaff Weir again and got some more heron photos though still not the good ones of the bird in flight which I'm after. Watching them take off and land is such a spectacle, it happens so quickly and quirkily that it's hard to aim and focus accurately in time. But, practiee makes perfect.

Early evening Katherine arrived from Kenilworth with Rachel, after a few days spent together. It's so lovely to enjoy having them together, with supper out in the garden, despite the scaffolding and mess from building work, and then some music making. Rachel loves to be re-united with the Grandpa's 'cello, and bonds with it again blissfully. It's so good to have her back where she's most at home.

Communication hiccups

I was coming to the end of Morning Prayer after breakfast when the car arrived at ten to ten, to take me to Thornhill Crem this morning for my second funeral of this week, a 68 year old spinster. There were ten of us in the smaller Briwnant chapel. The brother who was next of kin asked me to choose some music which I willingly did. Then, last night his daughter rang me, anxiously asking if any music had been chosen as he'd forgotten he'd asked me. I reassured her it was taken care of and she seemed pleased about the selection I'd made.

When I arrived, the chapel attendant wasn't there. I checked the schedule sheet on his work station in the cramped side room next to the lobby where the officiating minister can also change and leave a coat. There was no mention of my music choice. I panicked a bit and asked the funeral director if he could find the attendant and sort something out asap. When he arrived, he turned over another sheet of paper, on which was written my special requests. They had been emailed through after all, by my email to the funeral director had not been acknowledged by the office staff. I must give them a gentle reminder about this, to save panicking the guy in charge of the funeral and the minister! Thankfully my choice of music was deemed appropriate and acceptable.

Clare was out for the morning, so I cooked us both lunch, followed by a clinic visit, then a siesta and a walk around Pontcanna Fields before supper. There was a noisy floodlit cricket match on at the SWALEC stadium. Clare returned from choir rehearsal to a late supper and we listened to the Archers on BBC iPlayer, both of us having missed it as we were both out. The choir gives a concert at Insole Court this coming Saturday evening. I should be singing with them, but just don't have that special energy to discipline myself for singing at the moment. That's the draining effect of living with a still open wound. And still no word of an appointment to come. Another case of déjá vu, I'm afraid.

Ministry duties and time out

Rachel's was eventually re-united with her luggage, yesterday evening after anxious web checking and a transatlantic help desk call. A relief it's not lost, as it contained a few vital pieces of equipment and a folder with print outs of all her song lyrics she uses as an aide-memoire during performances.

I celebrated the midweek Eucharist at St Catherine's, and at St John's this morning. I was collected from the church after the latter service and driven to Thornhill for a funeral straight after. There were thirty people in the Briwnant chapel to say farewell to a nonogenarian. Often for someone that age it can be half a dozen. It makes a difference if there's an extended family, which isn't always the case these days, and if the person who's died has been active and living at home until recently. If a person is hospitalised or in a care home for years with Alzheimer's and single, they can easily slip from common memory, except for the closest of friends and carers. Sad indeed.

The chapel manager greeted me with 'Long time no see', which made me realise that although I have been in Thornhill recently for a burial, I haven't officiated at a cremation service here since last August. How time flies without me noticing it!

I got back in time for lunch, and spent the afternoon catching up on various crime movie series I like to watch, while Mother and Daughter went shopping for a new dress to wear for Saturday's gig. I completed watching 'Nit y Dia', on More 4's Walter Presents showcase, great for international drama series. It presented interesting insights into the dark side of the characters of responsible professional public servants.

It was filmed and produced in Barcelona, and is mostly in Catalan with a few characters speaking in Castilian Spanish. With the subtitles, and improved knowledge of Spanish, I found I was able to make sense of much more of the Catalan spoken that I'd imagined. It maybe due to the pace. Following movies in Castilian or Andalusian Spanish is harder because the dialogue is faster and speech seems more blurred. It'll take years to get used to.

After supper and rehearsal time, Rachel and I took a sunset walk, down to Blackweir bridge and enjoyed the cool of the evening, catching sight of the resident heron. The photos weren't very satisfactory as light levels dropped, however, not good for long zoom shots across the river.

Another funeral, another outing

This morning, another funeral at St German's, another full church, another occasion to put my digital sound workaround through its paces. The fact that it worked fine wasn't as important to me as whether I can officiate in a calm and relaxed manner and operate the devices without feeling under pressure. Sure it's always possible to involve someone else to work the sound system, but the acid test is operating on one's own. It doesn't happen to me here in St German's, but I recall times in the past when I've had to cope single handed with a church funeral - 'Be Prepared' - old Boy Scout motto still holds good for me.

At the crematorium there was a music and photo presentation of the life of the deceased during the brief committal ceremony, appreciated by all present, from the reactions to it. The display screens used are positioned well enough for the congregation, but not for the officiating minister who is left looking at a sharp uncomfortable angle, once positioned, close to the front row of mourners. I mentioned this to the crematorium manager, who just happened to be on duty this afternoon. She thanked me for my feedback and said that the Bereavement Services team was reviewing the layout prior to refurbishing the chapel. The last makeover happened in 2000 at the time the smaller Briwnant chapel was added to give more capacity, so it was all new to me when I returned to work in Cardiff in 2002. The video screens were added around the time I retired, if my memory serves me well.

I was home again in time for lunch, and then went to Motorpoint to collect Ashley for another trip to the RadioNet suppliers in Chepstow. Once again we had pleasant weather for the journey, and despite it being a Bank Holiday weekend, little delay either way. In the evenings this week I continue to watch episodes of 'Inspector Borowski', learning new things as I go about life and social issues in Germany today. Apart from visiting Connie and Udo three years ago and Leipzig in November 1989, we've spent little time there since we were first married, as our connection with Clare's teenage pen friend faded away. All that would change if Owain were ever to move to Berlin to work. Still, in the meanwhile, it's comforting to discover that with a little concentration spoken German still makes some sense to me.
 

Developing residential Cardiff

I was asked to do a funeral this morning, so I wasn't able to celebrate or attend the St John's midweek Eucharist as the times coincided. It was an occasion when the son and grandson of the deceased both gave tributes, and I didn't have to tell his story on behalf of the family. It did mean that the service was five minutes longer than usual, however, and though I didn't rush to finish I was conscious that it might have created problems for another funeral following immediately. It turned out that the regular service time slot is longer than I thought, and has been for some time, since the second chapel on site opened some years ago. 

Strange to think that I wasn't aware of this change. It happened in 2000, and my memory of shorter service slots harked back 25 years earlier. In my experience, it's rare for such services to go on longer than I expect. Content and some elements of the form of a funeral service have certainly changed, over the years, but my sense of timing and pace in delivery remains shaped by the experience of my first Curacy, and trips to Thornhill from Caerphilly to take services, often nervously. 

Straight after lunch I had to make a bereavement visit in a newish housing area in Leckwith, west of Canton. Finding it looked straightforward from Google Maps. I memorised the route and set out, but I couldn't see street signs directing me to a housing estate, set back from the highway, close to where Sanatorium road starts. I found myself driving along the boundary of the new housing development on the industrial site which once contained a huge paper mill, alongside the river Ely. 

The route of Sanatorium road itself is being changed to link up with Cowbridge Road West at Ely Bridge, so I had to turn around and retrace my steps. I stopped to check the car's A-Z street directory, but there was no sign of the housing estate on the map. The edition pre-dated the construction of the estate! I took a chance and turned into a housing area at a set of traffic lights and this proved correct, although it was still difficult to identify the street and even hard to find the right house, as it was offset at right angles in a street, which was otherwise straight and unbroken.

After the visit I returned home, charged with telling the story of the man who'd died not long after his retirement, after four decades on the front line of production in a steel works. Evidently a dangerous job, but some of the real risks are hidden from sight. It's not the first early post retirement death of a former steel worker I've come across in the past few years. Health and Safety regulations are often a subject of mockery and contempt, due to what some people think is excess attention to detail, but if you look at the big picture, it's no hard to see how hazardous some industrial work places still are.

Double duty, then respite

Back to St German's for the Wednesday school Mass, with a class that seems more eager than others to sing at the service. After coffee and a chat in the Day Centre, I had to return home and arrange another bereavement visit, for a funeral on the thirty-first of this month, passed on to me by Fr Phelim. This one, will be that of a young girl who died unexpectedly of a winter bad chest. It's usually people my age and older who succumb to 'the pensioners' friend', except when there's a major epidemic, from which God preserve us. This will doubtless come as a shock to the extended family, and they'll need plenty of time to prepare, so the sooner I can make contact the better. By lunchtime, I had secured a rendezvous for Friday morning at St Catherine's.

Thursday morning, a walk to St John's Canton to celebrate their midweek Eucharist, then a return home to await collection an hour later to return to St John's to officiate at a funeral. This was followed by a journey to Thornhill for the burial, then an hour in the Crem waiting room until my second funeral office of the day was due to start. I used the free time to complete my Duo Lingo daily exercise, as best I could given the flaky signal, and was quite surprised, given the distractions, to get 100% again, eleven days after the last time. I thought the set of exercises were easier than others lately. Difficulty levels in the exercises seem to vary, but so does my ability to avoid typos, memory and attention lapses.

I was home again by five and eating an early supper prepared by Clare, so we could leave early and walk across the Taff to the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama. Clare is a supporting 'Friend' of the College, and gets concert information and ticket concessions. This evening, we heard a performance from an excellent and classy jazz ensemble - piano, bass, drums, alto sax - music students playing standards from the 'cool' era of the fifties and sixties, in a manner of the Dave Brubeck Quartet. This kind of is part of the musical sound track of my early adolescence. I'm familiar enough with the music to know it almost off by heart, to know that they were exploring this music with fresh positive energy. It wasn't just faithful reproduction, it was proper jazz, and had me smiling from ear to ear.

Then we had a solo recital from a brilliant pianist, playing pieces by Debussy, Liszt and Chopin with great sensitivity and passion, making full use of a fine concert instrument, plumbing the depths of its finest subtle sounds in quiet pieces as well as its rich energy in the stormy dramatic moments. I found myself reflecting of the different emotional energies of these contrasting kinds of music for the first time and maybe that's a result of being in a smallish recital room with excellent an acoustic, making for an intimate direct experience of hearing music without the meditation of electronic amplification. The jazz spoke of the delight of playful adventure with simple melody, harmony, rhythm. The classical pieces in all their variety and length, explored the range and depth of powerful emotion, from contemplative awareness to passionate grief and anger. All this comes from the music as much as from the performer, and maybe somewhat from the hearer as well.

    

Life Passages

This afternoon we drove to Caerphilly to attend Jane's funeral at St Martin's church in the parish where I served my title over forty five years ago. The last time I was in this church was for the first Eucharist celebration of Sarah Rogers five and a half years ago. We arrived early and there was time to realise some of the changes that have taken place over the years. The Benefice of Eglwysiland and Caerphilly now embraces ancient Aber Valley Parish of Eglwysilan, with Senghenydd village. The Benefice population is about 37,000, five churches, served by three clergy. Caerphilly alone had three clergy three churches when I was there, and was about half its present population.

The back of the nave is now pew free, with a kitchen enclosure, chairs and tables for hospitality. Out in the churchyard, an area is being laid out and paved for car parking, a vital asset as St Martin's Road outside is usually full of parked cars along its length. We had to walk a quarter of a mile from where we found a space, to get to the church. Also I noticed several new stained glass windows, and a glass panelled vestry. All very nicely done.

Over sixty people were present for the funeral. Another family friend, Fr Derek Belcher officiated, with assistance from Team Rector Fr Mark Greenway-Robbins and Fr Kevin Cecil, a school friend of Martin's. I gave the eulogy for Jane, whom I'd known for forty eight years. She was a truly remarkable nonagenenarian who'd married at sixteen, been a munitions inspector during World War Two, and had several successful business careers, one as the Manager of Caerphilly's famed 1000 seater Double Diamond Club, and two in clothes retailing, while she brought up two teenage boys on her own, after having been deserted by a traumatised war hero husband.

The funeral was concluded the other side of Caerphilly Mountain at Thornhill Crematorium. I couldn't help but reflect on times I'd driven over the mountain to Thornhill, for the funerals of my parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts, let alone for those of parishioners while I was curate, over the years since the crematorium first opened in 1953.

We went home, rather than go to the reception following, as it was back in Caerphilly. I needed to go to the office, prior to going to St German's for the evening's Stations of the the Cross. Co-incidentally, News arrived of the death of a contemporary from my theological student days, Jani Farrel-Roberts. Born as John Roberts, trained and ordained a Roman Catholic priest, married an Aussie social worker met while doing post graduate studies in London, fathered two children, before coming to a life crisis and going through the process of gender reassignment. 

Jani then worked as an investigative free lance writer and journalist, campaignng on land rights issues with Queensland Aboriginal communities. Unusually, the couple didn't split up while the children were little, as was recommended in those days. When they returned to the UK and lived in St Paul's Bristol, they stayed with us for a while, then rented the spare curate's house across the road from us. Their kids grew up with our kids for several years, and are still in touch. Having never sought official permission from the church hierarchy for any of her life changes, Jani disconnected from Christianity and found a spiritual home among neo-pagans, and exercised a Wyccan ministry as priestess, with poetic flair. 

The last few years of her life were marred by the aftermath of a debilitating stroke. As she moved from Wiltshire to Shropshire to be nearer her sister we lost touch. Sadly our commitments won't allow us to attend her funeral next week, one that promises to be pretty original, like that of our friend Moonyeen a couple of years ago. If Jani's biography is ever written, it'll make amazing reading for anyone who is interested in the demolition of sterotypes about ministry.

        

Family funeral

Clare and I went to Thornhill Crematorium this morning for my cousin Thelma's funeral. The service was led by two Spiritualist church ministers, as this was the path Thelma followed in later life. The minister who took the first part of the service seemed unused to standing in front of such a large crowd. The main chapel was two thirds full, with extended family members, friends and neighbours. 

As a lively, sociable rebellious fun-loving teenager, Thelma had a great appetite for attending and organising parties, and a great compassionate heart. She married three times, and raised a family of three step children as well as her own. With her third husband Graham who died a couple of years ago, she ran a community centre in Senghenydd for many years, and the door of her home was ever open to welcome anyone who wanted a chat or a shoulder to cry on, or their fortunes told. An amazing unconventional loveable character in every sense. 

Her elder brother Godfrey gave a family tribute which truly captured the ethos of those teenage years. We left the chapel to Bill Hailey's 'See you later Alligator', which often blasted forth from the family record player at home in those teenage years. Her younger sister Rosalyn was there too. Both have been widowed in the past couple of years, and spent a lot more time together, especially after Thelma was taken into hospital last autumn. She seemed full of energy when she returned home and did a lot more socialising than usual in the last few months of her life, perhaps aware that her time was short, since she suffered from COPD, legacy of a lifetime's smoking. 

Most of Thelma's extended family by marriage I'd never met. It is, after all, forty three years since we left Caerphilly, where I served my title as as assistant Curate. Since then our meetings were few and far between. The shared memories of growing up in the craziness of the sixties maintained a bond between us however. Apart from her siblings, cousin Guy and Pam his wife were there, cousin Alan from Nice. 

I enjoyed meeting Godfrey's grown up children; Geraint who lives in Bristol not far from Owain, and is a deejay like him. Also Tegwen who lives in Aberdeen and works there as an engineer. She told us that she'd re-engaged with the church since she's been there. She now attends the Redeemed Christian Church of God, a black African Pentecostal church, where she sings in the choir! Many Nigerians work in Aberdeen, the oil industry brings them there. How on earth can they cope with the climate? I guess the energy of the worship counts for much. Clare really enjoyed the opportunity of speaking Welsh to them all. Idiot that I am, I kept letting myself down by trying to respond in Spanish.

After the funeral tea in the Municipal Club in the centre of Caerphilly, we drove back to Thornhill, and Clare dropped me off at the Crematorium to meet with a family and bury cremated remains from last Friday's funeral. The funeral director drove me back to Roath, where I went looking for Hamid's place, but was unable to find it, as I walked in the wrong direction along Newport Road. I then went into the office for an hour, before heading home for the evening.

After supper, I steeled myself to go on line and book Vueling flights from Cardiff to Malaga, then home from Barcelona to Cardiff, to cover my locum duties in June and July. I also needed to complete the formalities to acquire boarding passes for the April holiday trip to Alicante with Ann. It's ages since I last did any on-line booking, more than a year. Trouble is, when you get out of the habit, gearing up to do things accurately and correctly is not all that enjoyable, although I have to admit that the better web booking services do seem to improve in usability incrementally. At last now, I can look forward, above and beyond any overcast weather days which may yet arrive to loom over us in wet Wales.

    

Short and long term planning.

I celebrated the Eucharist again yesterday morning with a class from Tredegarville School attending, and told them all about the church's patron St German of Auxerre, as planned. After the service, I went to the school to consult with head teacher Emma Laing about the all-school Harvest Eucharist in church next Wednesday, then went home to devise some material for insertion in the service sheet for the children. There was also another sermon to prepare for Sunday, to preach at St Luke's, here in my home parish.

This morning the two funerals took place, one after the other. The first one was in Pidgeons Funeral Chapel, and concluded at Thornhill Crematorium. The second followed after a twenty minute break, with a service only at the crematorium. It gave me a few moments to take a look at the re-furbished precinct outside the chapels, where people gather to examine floral tributes after the ceremony.  I'd not had time to notice on visits earlier in the year.  It was re-paved last year apparently, with the addition of raised marble 'benches' on which flowers could be laid for viewing without anyone having to bend over. It's a nice touch, and apparently was expensive to do. It's a durable permanent feature, good for another fifty years at least.

I was back in time for lunch, and then went into the CBS office for the afternoon. Julie discovered more glitches in the database I thought I'd got right last week, so I had to revisit the import process yet again to eliminate the problem and them rebuild. Will I ever get it as perfect as it needs to be, to ensure future durability I wonder. Now I have a good idea and some practice at using Libre Office Base, I must make an effort to migrate personal databases across from MS Works - a simpler task than what I've been working on lately, but maybe worth doing. There's always the possibility of losing the MS Works installation disk, and not having an application that can open the .wdb files. I try to think ahead long term about making access to my legacy of data easy for the children after I'm dead. It could save them a lot of extra frustration and grief.

Crematorium video botch

By the time done seven letters and twenty three emails with attached letters to invite people to our CBS stakeholder meeting next week yesterday morning, my brain was scrambled. I couldn't face doing more, so I went home and did very little until it was time to eat supper and drive to Tai Chi class. The preparation tasks are not yet complete so I counted on a physical workout to re-balance me, and was not disappointed.

This morning I had a funeral service to take at St David's in Ely, concluding at Thornhill Crematorium's Briwnant chapel, the smaller of the two. Since my last visit there, some months ago, a video display screen has been installed above the altar, suspended in front of the curtain serving as a decorative backdrop. 

I understand this building is used by people of all faiths and none. A video screen can be used to show religious symbols (or not). It can be used to show a photo of the deceased, play a last music video request, or even a video message from the deceased at the service. These days, the range of bereavement consumer choices is immense and goes far beyond the simple dignified reticence of traditional rites of passage. A municipal facility needs to keep up with what rate payers ask for.

What irked me was the aesthetic incongruity of this innovation. The alignment of the screen was not perfectly symmetrical in relation to the curtain it was hung in front of. Indeed the folds in the curtain would have made this difficult to achieve, so the outcome looks ill-considered. Was the architect/interior designer consulted about this? As there's blank wall to the right of the curtain, above and behind the officiating minister's head, there was sufficient space for a less intrusive but equally visible installation.

After saying farewell to the mourners, I raised the matter with the crematorium attendants, and was told it had been installed without soliciting their ideas about location suitability. Nothing could now be done, as a hole had been cut in the (very expensive) curtain hanging for the screen's mounting arm and cables. 

In a year's time I shall ask a local councillor to enquire of Bereavement Services how often funeral arrangers have requested use of this screen, and how often staff have displayed palliative default images on their own initiative, because they found the empty screen above the altar in distractingly poor taste. All in the interests of learning if this is value for money - of course.