Blackcurrant jam on Corpus Christi

I woke up early and posted my Corpus Christi Morning Prayer link to WhatsApp  before 'Thought for the Day'.. It's a day that happily reminds me of occasions in Spain when I've witnessed or been part of a street procession with the \blessed Sacrament over the years; in Sta Pola, Nerja and Malaga.  

In the news, Lord Guite Boris Johnson's ethics advisor, has resigned, finally prompted by a request from the Prime Minister to give an opinion on modifying the existing ministerial code of conduct in a way that would neutralise its value. In the eyes of many Boris has done more than enough to flout the code of conduct regarding his own and his ministers' behaviour. Enough is enough for Lord Guite, but will Boris submit to calls for his resignation now? I don't suppose so. He's so self centred, seeing himself exclusively as able to steer the country through this time of change. It's creeping dictatorship, and high time the Tories got rid of him. New Boris scandals keep hitting the headlines, He's become as much of a contentious issue as his policies. Tory credibility sinks further towards un-electabiliy. As the late great Bob Marley once sang:  'Whosoever diggeth a pit; shall bury in it.'

I went to St John's this morning for the Corpus Christi Eucharist along with eight others. Again I wasn't in the rota to do this, but th rota seems to have unravelled a bit in recent weeks, with Fr Colin still recovering from covid, and Frances away, so I was ready to celebrate if needed. Clare had already started cooking when I arrived home, so I went into the garden and harvested a pound of blackcurrants from our small bush. It was just enough to make five small pots of delicious jam. I really know it's summer when the aroma of stewing blackcurrants is in the air. It reminds me of life as a child back home. Dad had several bushes yielding several more pounds of fruit for jam and/or crumble for pudding, and I used to pick them. It's still one of my all time favourite fruits.

After lunch I wrote next Thursday's reflection, ready for recording, then succumbed to sleep for an hour as I didn't sleep so well last night or the night before. Before supper I walked for an hour and a half, and saw the last episode of the season's 'Springwatch' programmes, and another documentary on Bradford's social problems and the people who del with them - PCSOs and the Council's homelessness team. 

It showed the industrial scale farming of illegal cannabis in derelict mill buildings and spoke about people trafficked and locked into a mill with rudimentary bedroom, kitchen and toilet facilities once the vast indoor greenhouses were set up, each at a cost of tens of thousands in equipment. West Yorkshire Police have found and destroyed over a thousand cannabis farms in the past year, we were told. It's a multi million pound business, tax free, completely outside the law. Legalising cannabis, one PCSO said, would change everything for the better. But what British government would be willing to do that?

Parkland refuge

I celebrated Mass at St Luke's this morning, taking the 61 bus to Victoria Park then walking through the park grounds, bathed in golden leaves and morning light. Fr Mark, opened up the church for me, on his way to a clergy meeting, and we met at the door. He told me that the charitable foundation St Luke's Healthcare is the successor to what was St Luke's Hospital for the Clergy when I had a hernia repair done there in September 2007. This could fund or contribute to funding private surgery done locally. They were certainly ready and willing to support him in his hour of need last year, although in the end the NHS, after a long over the preliminaries wait did the job. So, when I got back, I spent the rest of the morning writing an account of the background to my request, in the hope that this will prompt an early yea or nay before the actually process of making an application is required.

Clare and I went for a walk in the afternoon around Thompson's Park, just as it was closing for the night at three thirty, an hour before sunset. It's a pity on a sunny evening for people to lose an hour of outdoor recreation, whether feeding the ducks with their kids or out strolling to enjoy the colours, but there won't be too many Council workers charged with the task of opening several each evening and it does take time to ensure nobody gets locked in, or can get away with camping out, if they're homeless. 

Having said that, there's a lot of open parkland around the city center, where tents are pitched in secluded corners, refuges for some, once soup runs are finished for the night. Some unfortunates coping with mental health issues, possibly hardened by army experience, prefer to stay outdoors as long as the weather permits, as some hostels can be anarchic places after hours, with outbreaks of violence and thieving which impact terribly on vulnerable people, that have lost confidence in the 'care' which society is offering them.

Society never seems to have adequate resources to invest in mending a multitude of poor and broken lives. Never is enough demand, moral or practical, placed on those who acquire more they they could ever need for a comfortable life. The injustice is perennial. No revolution has ever succeeded in redressing the imbalance between rich and poor, but without this the true measure of healing needed will never be achieved.

Another episode of 'Beck' on BBC Four this evening. Peter Haber, who plays Martin Beck doesn't appear much or say much. He's almost in the background, portrayed listening thoughtfully, commenting or advising sparsely, acting mainly with facial expressions. The focus is on members of his team of detective and how their different personalities, skills and styles work together, or don't. It offers an excellent study of positive group activity, set against the chaotic and dysfunctional lives of the people who become perpetrators or victims of crime.
    

Parting, meeting and thoughts on homelessness

We walked into Montreux Gare this morning, in good time to catch a train that would reach Geneva airport by eleven o'clock in just eighty minutes. Lac Leman was shrouded in mist with just the snow capped peaks of the Savoyard Alps visible. Enchanting, mysterious, magical. We kissed goodbye at the security check entry, and I was back on a train to Montreux just after one. I had time to shop and cook myself lunch and eat it before welcoming a group of half a dozen church people for tea and cake with topical discussion on biblical themes. It was good to have guests in, to take the edge of being home alone in this large and welcoming abode.

Following the surprise appearance of Natalya at the Epiphany party on Sunday, discussion focused on homelessness, and the image of the Holy Family in exile. The reasons for anyone becoming homeless are generally complex, and it seems that modern life, although it caters so well in many respects, for needy and vulnerable people, doesn't cater for everyone in this kind of trouble. Here in Switzerland, so famed for its hospitality towards exiles and refugees over many decades (it is said, accounting for one in six of the population), there are still people who slip through the net because they are sans-papiers, not registered on anybody's system, lacking residence or work permits, even if they have a passport or i/d card. These do not qualify for social support, and can be eligible for transport as far as the nearest border, where they become someone else's problem.

This may particularly affect those with untreated mental health issues who cannot be fitted into any country's health care programme or budget. This was the case twenty years ago when I was in Geneva dealing with persistent needy individuals from far off places, not fitting into any of the usual categories of refugee or asylum seeker needs. All the expected provisions of care are there for citizens who have maintained an identity, or foreigners who have acquired the right to stay,  but not for those whose mental or social conditions have led them to disconnect from society and slide into anonymity. This is a human concern which knows no borders. I'd love to know who, if anyone is at work on these issues internationally.

Having arrived in the departure hall with the best part of two hours to wait before boarding, Clare found that her flight was delayed by an hour, just as mine was on the outward flight, but she was home again by tea time. She's not a noisy person, but tonight the house seems quiet without her.

  

Epiphany Sunday feast and an unexpected visitor

There were only two down people present for the Epiphany Sunday Sung Eucharist, and almost all of them came into Church House afterwards for mulled wine and mince pies. Mulled wine was my task. I'd bought some cartons of Spanish Jumilla, as it's good and fruity, and I know it's made use of for gluhwein in parts of Germany. Mixed with about a third jus de pomme, with honey and Clare's spice bags, it turned out well, and was heaty enough in taste not to need fortification with cognac, like the mincemeat. Several people brought food contributions, a pizza, savoury pastries, even an entire Christmas cake left untouched from Christmas festivities. 

While we were getting ourselves organised, several people set to and un-decorated the tree, and put away the Christmas candelabra brackets and other accoutrements which had made the church look so good and seasonally welcoming. Then we had an enjoyable hour of relaxed eating and chatting, with just enough food and wine to go around.

While we were together, we were joined by a young woman who called herself Natalya, born in Russia, raised n France, estranged from her parents since she left home. I think she came into church during or after the service, and then came into the house after the others. She said she was an artist, trying to earn a living from her work. She'd lost whatever job and accommodation she'd had, and had spent several months 'couch surfing' as it's called today, but had been told that she couldn't stay any longer and didn't know what to do next. 

She didn't appear unkempt, like a rough sleeper, but all her possessions fitted into a rucksack and a cloth bag. She was hungry and tired, and grateful for an offer of food and drink. She talked to me and the churchwardens in turn non stop for another half an hour after our guests had left. More than anything she was isolated and lonely, I suspect.

Finding a place for her to stay on a Sunday evening in January was bound to be difficult. She had a French passport but no work permit, therefore no entitlement to social services in Switzerland. Not that there aren't places that'll take in people sans-papiers as they call it around here, but places that do are not quite the kind of places you'd willingly send a vulnerable young woman, who may have had mental health issues or complex life problems, as well as no visible means of support. 

Several enquiries drew the same conclusion, there wasn't a way to find her the kind of help she may need on a Sunday afternoon. After a long conversation with Neil, he took her to his family's ski chalet in the Alpes Vaudois to fend for herself in safety and security for a few days, to afford her an opportunity to work out exactly what she wants to do hereafter. Not the best solution, maybe, as there'd be nobody to keep an eye on her regularly, in case she had other needs. She seems, however, to be a survivor, used to coping on her own. Let's just hope this respite is enough to enable her to look a little further ahead in her life than the evening of each day.

Once everyone had left us, there was still enough daylight time left to go for a walk, so we headed along the lakeside path to the Chateau de Chillon and arrived just as it was closing, so we vowed we would return on the morrow, and walked on as far as the Villenuve lakeside piscine publique, before

turning around. We arrived back at Church House just as the lights of evening began to shine.

Later, another episode of McMafia on BBC One. Still more elegantly delivered nastiness. Not sure if this all adds up to anything to learn from, or is just another filmic outing into the realm of posh melodrama with a Russian accent. Give me gritty sordid 'Spiral' any day.

Castle concern

I walked to St John's Canton to celebrate their midweek Eucharist this morning. Then in the afternoon Clare and I walked together to town, on my part, with no particular aim in mind apart from exercise. When we reached the Castle, Clare proposed that we enter and have a cuppa in the restaurant there. It proved an opportune moment to renew my 'Castle Key' residents' free entrance pass. My original pass was issued free and expired over eighteen months ago. I simply never got around to renewing it. Now it costs a fiver to cover the cost of issuing a new card, which is forty percent of the price of a single visitor entrance ticket. Most reasonable. I was impressed that a fresh plastic photocard could be made for issue within minutes of proving one's residence rights, using a hand-held scanner to take a photo and etch it on a card with name and renewal date.

On our way out Clare chatted with one of the guides/welcomers who look after visitors, someone who had been on the team when she acted as a tour guide there. Recession has reduced the number of visitors, and Council budget cuts have led to a drastic limitation of the conservation budget, so that some of the most visited rooms are suffering from wear and tear and starting to look neglected. This is hardly likely to attract extra visitors. "It's slowly turning into one big function suite."  I heard said. Hiring the place out for receptions and social events helps balance the books. One of Cardiff's iconic tourist venues is in government speak 'Just About Managing'.

What's so sad is that the region boasts many institutions of higher and further education with staff and students undergoing various specialised aspects of training in conservation arts and crafts. There's no reason why a partnership between these institutions and the City Council couldn't help to guarantee a high standard of maintenance and provide a practical training ground at the same time. Admittedly a significant obstacle would be the surveillance CADW exercises on listed buildings and monuments in Wales. It's a quango which sets acceptably high standards, but is dauntingly slow and bureaucratic in exercising its regulatory powers, so getting a functional partnership between educational interests, Council and CADW, even with a shared aim, would not be easy to commend to politicians preferring the glamour of quick wins. 

Wales has so many ancient monuments, more than its fair share of ruins. Across the centuries few prestige building projects realized by wealthy or powerful people have survived the test of time in their intended condition. Sooner or later, places lose their significance as status symbols in the public eye. They become unaffordable to run, and end up in ruins. The hardest thing is to witness the decay of beautiful things and places through neglect, for whatever reason.

After walking around the shops for a while, my knee joint started to become painful. I may just have overdone the exercise lately. Anyway, I caught the bus home, tired and aching, conscious of my own wear and tear. After a short rest, I drove over to St German's for the evening's Lenten Stations of the Cross and eucharistic adoration. At the end, a man who arrived with a friend during the service asked with tears in his eyes, to talk to a priest about his troubles. 

He said his landlord had thrown him out, and that he'd been on the streets for two days and neither eaten nor slept. I'm not sure I believed the story he told, or maybe it wasn't the whole story, as he looked remarkably clean and tidy for someone who'd been out on the streets a couple of days with no support, but there was no way to corroborate his story, He was hungry, but there was no means to give him anything to eat and drink at that time of night with the church day centre closed. I sent him to the homelessness hub in Tresilian Terrace, and told him where he could contact the city centre detached social worker team, and the church gave him some money to buy a meal on his way. It was the best we could do. There are so many ways in which someone can be precipitated on to the streets unprepared and traumatized by the experience. Cardiff has many voluntary and professional people active in caring for the homeless, and the numbers continue to grow.