Scarf and gloves day

As expected, yesterday's spell of physical labour left me feeling quite stiff and tired. It was an effort to get to St Catherine's on time for the Parish Eucharist, but we made it OK. In Conway Road a large lorry and street clean-up team were at work collecting leaves heaped into piles by neighbours along the 400 yards of of tree lined street, working around parked cars. This is one of our local leafy avenues that needs clearing several times in the autumn, when heavy rains lead to blocked drains and waterlogged gutters for weeks on end. There aren't so many trees in our neighbourhood, so I don't think we were visited by the clean up team. Last autumn, a few north easterly gale force winds drown tons of leaves from Llandaff Fields right down Llanfair Road and on some sections of pavement they were knee high. Not so thus far this year.

After lunch I slept for an hour and a half waking up in time for Choral Evensong from Westminster Abbey. I listened to this in headphones with my Blackberry walking around Llandaff Fields for an hour. It was noticeably colder. It's the first time I felt I needed to wear scarf and gloves this autumn, but I hadn't given it a second thought when leaving the house. The wind was strong enough on times to impair the sound quality as I listened. The earphones are good enough for normal domestic use, but not it seems capable of reducing much background noise outdoors.

It was good to listen to the Westminster Abbey choir, however. The place is well rigged for making high quality sound recordings and the choir sings Anglican chant with amazingly clear diction, which takes full advantage of the fact. The highlight for me was the first performance of a new setting of the Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis written for the Abbey by Errolyn Wallen a distinguished composer from Belize, currently Artist in residence at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama. Two contrasting emotionally powerful pieces of music which capture the mysteriously wonderful character of the text.

I was back home by the end of Evensong, to collect my cassock surplice and stole to go to St John's and take part in a memorial service for bereaved families, held now in many church during November. Only ten people invited from about a hundred sent out. Mourning seems to have become more of a private individual affair these days. With families gathering for a funeral and then dispersing, there's less of an incentive to returning to a place where there has been as much if not more grief experienced than there was consolation offered. People set up memorial websites and share their feelings on social networks from the comfort of their home, rather than don scarf and gloves to venture out on a cold dark night.

The service was themed around the Ecclesiastes text 'to everything there is a season' - fair enough, but to my mind not enough. Nothing about the mystery of Christ's resurrection or eternity or communion. As St Paul wrote "If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost. If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied."  I was in charge of reading the names of the departed and offering the prayers on the service sheet. At least it gave me an opportunity to remember my cousin Godfrey. Only after did my misgiving emerge. I should have read the text through weeks ago when I first received it, but didn't.

There was nothing interesting enough to watch on telly, so I spent another evening reading the novel I started yesterday, and went to bed later than intended with a few more chapters to finish. It's got so complicated I'm not sure I gather where it's leading. Not enough to be worth burn the midnight oil to finish anyway.

The Queen's Funeral

Thankfully, I woke up to find the after effects of yesterday's covid booster jab had subsided completely. Good news, as were intending to drive to Bristol to watch the funeral of the Queen with Amanda and James, our first visit since August 2021, due to covid. Traffic was light for a Bank Holiday Monday, with so many people watching the service on telly at home, or in social gatherings. St John's church in our Parish was showing it on a large screen, with a light lunch afterwards provided by the Mothers Union. I'd have gone if it hadn't been such opportune to go to Bristol. Both she and James are on good form. She made us a splendid lunch while the Queen's coffin was on its way from Westminster to Windsor for burial in St George's chapel royal vault.

In every aspect. the service and the military ceremonial were beautifully planned and perfectly organised. Amazingly, the service from Westminster Abbey was televised with no commentary, titles were shown on screen identifying those with speaking parts. Archbishop Justin spoke very well. It was in every sense a clear and positive witness to Christian faith the Monarch professed. It seems she chose the hymns, and maybe the readings as well. The prayers were mainly from the 1662 Book of Common Prayer, some adapted to the occasion, plus a few new ones as well, but all of them framed in Tudor style English. We've got so used to using contemporary English, this had a strange poetic freshness to it.

If there were any security incidents they occurred off the radar of the mass media. An atmosphere of peace and quiet reverence prevailed, in the Abbey and on the streets of the capital. Some people will question the relevance of the antique rituals of state and armed forces to modern life, but not take into account that all those involved are highly trained and disciplined in modern warfare, security and rescue practices. Having to work together in such large teams in which everyone knows their role and place is part of parcel of their military training. I don't begrudge them their quaint if not bizarre traditions when they put themselves in harm's way on active service for the good of the country. The Queen set the supreme example by her life of devotion to the duty of serving others.

We left Amanda and James's place mid-afternoon and drove to Redfield to visit Owain. After a cup of tea we walked around Netham Park, his nearest green space overlooking Netham Lock, which is the point at which boats on the Kennet and Avon canal gain access to Bristol's Floating Harbour. The canal between the weir at the lock and the harbour known as the Feeder Canal, carries the water of the river Avon and is tidal. It dates back to the early nineteenth century. The Netham park site was once a huge chemical works established in 1859 which made caustic soda and sulphuric acid. The works would have been a major polluter in its day, and no doubt the ground is still contaminated. It closed in 1949 and the site levelled to create the park. Owain said that people are warned not to collect blackberries from bushes along the canal because of their potential toxicity.

We left Bristol in what would normally be the rush hour, but traffic was still light for a Bank Holiday, all the way to Cardiff, which made a pleasant change. After supper I watched the last episode of 'The Blacklist', of what turns out to be series one. It's overall storyline remains as confusing as ever. I'm still not sure what the series is getting at. A mystery, but not in the usual sense of the word when it comes to tales of crime solving.