After the weekend storms

Clare went to town for a swim early this morning again. She had to walk back as bus services from outside the gym in Greyfriars Road had been suspended. I went out after breakfast to inspect the river. The water is still flowing over the top of the fish ladder, but along the footpath by the bridge was a tide mark of sand and pieces of broken branches showing how much water level dropped in the past fifteen hours. Work on clearing river banks and river bed last year has certainly paid off.

On the return walk past the newly refurbished playground on Llandaff Fields it was good to see how busy it was with children enjoying the newly installed apparatus on their half term school holiday, despite the blustery cold weather. Then I noticed the sound of a chainsaw buzzing somewhere in the distance. When I walked down towards Cafe Castan, I found the road into the car park was blocked by huge branches torn from two of the roadside trees. The area was cordoned off and a team of tree surgeons was busy at work. One very tall tree had lost a major tall branch, which fell on to another tree and torn branches from it. In spite of the cold wind, I hung around for ten minutes and got some interesting photos of work in progress.

A tree surgeon was interviewed earlier on the Radio Four's Today programme and spoke about how safe tree removal called for people experienced in tackling dangerously unstable heavy pieces of timber. This made it particularly interesting to observe how the man with the chainsaw went about dislodging the huge fallen branch  from its precarious position. I caught it as it was dropping, just before it hit the ground.

Back home then, to do my weekly share of the cleaning and cook mussels with rice and veg for lunch. I needed to go to the shops in Canton in the afternoon, so completed my daily round of walking in the street for a change.

In the evening I did some more negative scanning. This time the photos were of a big family gathering for Eddy's 60th birthday in 2000. Eddy and Ann were only recently grandparents at that time, we had to wait another two years before Rhiannon was born, and this week we go up to Kenilworth to celebrate her eighteenth. Last week I found and digitized Owain's 18th and 21 birthday photos. So much to enjoy looking back on over the years.

I finished in time for another season 18 episode of NCIS tonight, another made in covid times, notably with references to being double jabbed, and some contemptuous references to conspiracy theorists. Well 'on message' as they say. Bed early tonight, for an early start tomorrow with a nine o'clock appointment in the eye clinic of St Joseph's hospital in Malpas, with eye surgeon Andrew.

Find the vaccination centre nightmare

The crab apples that I picked yesterday needed to be de-stalked and cut up before cooking. Over two kilo's worth, and a long fiddly job. After a morning walk around Thompson's Park, I finished what Clare had started, both before and after cooking lunch, with just the last mugful to finish off when we got back from our booster jab appointment.

Our appointments were at the Bay vaccination centre and we left in good time, following Google Maps instructions to the post code in the Sports Village area. We reached the road in question, but there was no signage to indicate where the centre is. There was just a wide open entrance gate to the site with a large No Parking notice, and traffic cones along the entry verges. From this vantage point the large warehouse in use wasn't visible. We'd learned earlier that the warehouse housed the 'Toys 'r Us' store which closed several  years ago, but no signage remained to offer a clue to the identity of the place. And there was nobody about to ask. For anyone as unfamiliar with this part of Cardiff as we are, the total lack of signage was utterly reprehensible.

I concluded that we'd not found the right place and drove around through an area of anonymous blocks of buildings searching. In desperation, Clare phoned a friend who lives locally and had her booster jab earlier this week. It was easier to come and show us rather than instruct us, she said, and drove to meet us at the Morrison's supermarket filling station to guide us there. She too experienced the same difficulty finding the place, and thought instructions would make no sense to anyone unfamiliar with the area. It was so kind of her to come and show us the way. She led us back to the entrance where the sat-nav guided us and drove in, round a blind corner into a huge parking lot next to the huge warehouse that was our destination.

There was a short queue to register. It didn't matter that we were twenty minutes late. It seems delays and queues are normal, as people are being encouraged just to turn up, even if they don't have an appointment. Uptake of the booster jab hasn't been as fast as hoped for. The vaccination booths are numbered up to fifty and not all of them were in use when we were there. There was a waiting area with chairs to accommodate up to sixty at a time, with twenty people waiting. After just ten minutes, we were ushered into a cubicle together and interrogated by a recently retired doctor, a chatty Irishman. In twenty minutes we'd both been jabbed with the Pfizer booster vaccine and sent to the recovery zone beyond the waiting area. With seats facing the exit, and facing a wall clock, so we'd know when the required fifteen minutes wait before departure was over. 

Everybody at the centre was friendly and helpful, but the total lack of signage utterly reprehensible. How many more people had the same difficulty finding the place as we did? The address and post code on the six pages of literature from NHS Wales couldn't have been clearer, perhaps an outline map graphic on one of the information sheets would have helped, but no road signs? An A-board with a chalk notice on it would have sufficed. How many people have been deterred from getting the jab by this totally avoidable omission? On reflection, a 999 call to the emergency services might have been effective, but a nuisance for them.

When we returned home I did the last mugful of crab apples and but them on the stove to stew for a few hours. Then after supper, Clare got out the straining bag and loaded with stewed fruits into it, and between us we hung the loaded bag from an upside down stool, dripping precious liquid into a bowl overnight. Then we settled down to watch a telly version of a P D James' novel in a new series called 'Dalgliesh' on Channel 5 - he's the detective who features in her stories. It's set in the mid seventies, making it a recent history drama. And so to bed.

Wild swimmers in the river Taff

Another hot night, but not so hot that it stopped me from sleeping, and another day at 29C. I did some sound editing in the morning before cooking lunch. It was too hot to eat outdoors until the evening. My afternoon walk took me up-river on the east side as far as Llandaff North bridge and back. There were a dozen or so people swimming and jumping in the water around Llandaff Weir, four times less than than the numbers using the waters around Blackweir Bridge as a playground. 

From Llandaff Weir up-stream there's no gradient up to the next weir and at this time of year the flow of water is poor and the river is for the most part shallow, and this weir is a much steeper drop of two metres, not so friendly for water play as Blackweir. The Council has posted safety warnings either side of the bridge saying it's dangerous, which is entirely true after prolonged rain, but in summer time it's impossible to prevent people from using it was a water park. 

Cardiff Council no longer maintains and outdoor lidos, so it's not surprising that people take advantage of exposed stretches of river bed as pebbly beaches. Kids jump off the bridge into the one area which is deep enough by the fish ladder, and upstream where water is deep enough, they jump off overhanging tree branches. Seaside beaches are bound to be crowded, but with far less people able to go abroad to swim in the sea or in some fancy holiday resort pool, wild swimming in the Taff is a compensatory adventure. I just hope the water isn't too polluted with toxins.

This evening, in no mood to write much or think, I binge watched all four remaining episodes of Baptiste. It gave much food for thought about the rise of far right wing political movements in Eastern Europe, and portrayed the radicalisation of an English diplomat's two sons, manipulated by very clever extremist able, like the best of conjurers to misdirect people into seeing what they thought they were looking for. The end of the affair was brutal and to my mind hyper-violent. I'm not sure if any of the injured parties could have survived the assaults portrayed, and yet they did, to round off the story. Too much blunt force trauma and stab wounds to my mind.

Things kids say

A warm and sunny day today. Clare's garden is flourishing with lots of red and yellow roses, honeysuckle, and many other flowers. All our watched over French bean  plants have grown over two metres tall and are now in flower, such a pleasure to see.

After breakfast I drafted my Sunday sermon, then went for a walk around Llandaff Fields before lunch. The new trees planted below the houses being built on the corner of Penhill are growing healthily and the ground area they cover isn't being mown. Its long grass is rich with white clover and daisies. I wonder if it going to be left to go wild, and bushes allowed to create undergrowth to shield the ground floor level of the terrace above?

After lunch in the garden, I walked around Thompson's Park several times. There were scores of children with their parents, fresh from the end of an afternoon session at day nursery, enjoying the wild spaces, and populating them with their imaginations. Two little girls climbed the steps ahead of dad with the toddler. I heard him shout out to them "I told you not to go down Death Valley come back now." A small voice further along the path I was on shouted in protest. "But I'm not in Death Valley Dad!" I think this is what the kids call the wooded area behind the railings along the edge of the escarpment above the duck pond, several child sized paths run through the thicket under the trees, ideal for adventures. Not Fairy Dell, but Death Valley - the mind boggles.

Several notices have gone up in the park asking dog walkers frequenting the park not to let their animals run free in the lower section, but keep them on the lead, to safeguard the children. Already one notice had been uprooted and lay on the grass, so I took a photo, posted it on Instagram tagging the Council, hoping someone in the Comms department is awake on Friday afternoon. The notices in question are mounted on a wooden post secured in the ground with a metal mounting that can easily be knocked into the turf with a sledgehammer. And just as easily pulled out again. 

The notice is printed on a sheet of white plasticised cardboard, not exactly designed for longevity. One of the panels still standing had stray coats draped over it. Such a notice is needed. In the old days a metal or wooden one would be fixed to all three park gates. What's the point of erecting notices which by nature look temporary when a permanent solution is needed, now our parks get so much more regular use, thanks to changes in social habit wrought by the pandemic.

After supper we watched an art programme by Andrew Marr on Channel 5 about Picasso's powerful portrsit masterpiece 'The Weeping Woman', painted after his Guernica masterpiece, which also features a vignette of a woman weeping. Taken together both are a profound statement about the horror and cruelty of war. It was an excellent thoughtful production, like the others in the series watched so far.

The ground on which we stand

I was back on midweek duty this morning, celebrating the Eucharist at St Catherine's with eight others. Because of the readings, I took the opportunity to reflect with them on the church's ministry of healing, making use of the laying on of hands. It's struck me how important that is in this day and age when medical treatment is all narrowly specialised and organised around tests and procedures. It may indeed all be very effective, but the process reduces the case load to patient and procedure numbers. The whole person isn't treated, only presenting problems and symptoms. The best medicine is holistic and some of it happens in GP surgeries where a real effort is made to care for people, but even those generalist doctors are obliged to be a specialist some of their working time. It's right and good that the Christian community addresses sick people as whole persons first and last. Ministry of Unction and Laying on of Hands represents this affirmation.

At least the rain has been lighter this past few days, but colder. The wind has been occasionally gusty, making my daily walk a little challenging on times. I was amazed to see a ten foot long branch on the ground along the avenue of trees across Llandaff Fields, which had blown down overnight. What was unusual was that it had completely disintegrated into rotten fragments on hitting the ground. How the dead branch had stayed attached to the tree for so long without breaking off is remarkable. It fell over the touch line of one of the rugby pitches. If that had come down during a match, the consequences could have been tragic. I can't understand why Cardiff Council's parks department tree officers didn't notice it before. It could have been up there decomposing for several years since it died.

Down at Blackweir Bridge, the river management crew has been at work since Sunday removing tons of silt washed downstream by the floods. There are tons more silt in dark red tide marks at the edge of the lower field as well, and huge reddish silt stains in the upper field where flood waters reached. It must be rich with microscopic organisms, as flocks of crows, starlings and gulls spend a long time on the ground foraging. The soil of the flood plain is for the most part greyish in colour, as coastal rock strata are Jurassic / Liassic Limestone. The waters of the Taff pass through a gorge to entre the flood plain, part of a long rocky outcrop at the southern end of the South Wales Coalfield. The strata in this outcrop are various ages of sandstone, some blue Grey Pennant, but also Old Red Sandstone, which is darker in colour than the New Red tends to be. It's fascinating. In the countryside on both sides of the city flood plain the soil tends to be red, reflecting what's in the rock below. The variety is fascinating. My Grandpa Kimber taught me all about local geology when I was still in Primary School, and for this lifelong interest I'm indebted to him.

Toxic consumerism

I celebrated the Eucharist with a dozen people at St John's this morning, then went to the clinic for a dressing. My clinic visits are reducing to three a week now, and if I'm running out of supplies, I can call in during working hours. Healing continues slowly, but it's still quite uncomfortable to sit for any length of time. Even so, already it's better than it was a couple of weeks ago. I look forward to a time when I can get by with just a minimal dressing, as I did for several months at the outset, as that would allow me to look after myself and not need to rely on Clare or a nurse to keep clean and safe. I'd then be able to go to London and see my sister June. It's more than a year since I last visited her.

Following my afternoon siesta I walked over to Victoria Park and back, for a change. Along Romilly Road I picked up a dozen discarded cans and bottles over a half mile distance with three litter bins. It's almost automatic for me to pick up something rolling around on the pavement which others might trip over if they don't notice it. It's the only way I can stop myself being resentful toward those who have no sense of public pride or self control to carry a container as far as a bin. These can be discarded often within yards of a litter bin. It's as if bins are invisible to the guzzling classes. 

What also disturbs me is the number of drink containers, both alcoholic and soft, from which only a few mouthfuls have been taken before abandonment. Was the person thirsty or not? Did the drink's taste not meet expectation? Is this a kind of consumer sickness, with an impact beyond the individual? 

Cutbacks in municipal budgets have led to reduction to the services delivered by the Council's Waste Management department when it comes to street cleaning. One day, on my walk back from the clinic I chatted with a couple of crew members emptying litter bins and tidying King's Road. Two workers are now doing what used to be done by three, and crews are expected to cover more ground as well. They may have to go without a lunch break to complete their target schedule. The city centre is well looked after from day to day, but less so the outlying residential areas.

One thing I find comforting is learning that some other older people also pick up litter in the street on their daily walkabouts. Neighbourhood groups and friends of public green spaces also organise weekend litter picks too. If politics and the economy fail to provide services which help to maintain civic pride, community voluntary action is necessary to fend off demoralisation and indifference to the environment. But the heart of the matter is the pernicious change in personal behaviour wrought by modern consumerism, and it's poisoning individuals (due to the impact on health of over eating and drinking), as well as the public domain and the common good.

Dodgy Business

Thurssday morning, I didn't get ready early enough to be able to walk to the dentists for the second day in a row, and took the car, leaving myself half an hour to drive there. Just getting out of our street and on to the main road took half an hour. I began to think it wasn't a good idea, but the rest of the two mile trip took me fifteen minutes. It can take double this amount of time if there's a sudden hold up. The repair didn't take long, and I was home again just after ten. Clare had an appointment half an hour after mine. She used public transport and returned half an hour after me, lucky to find the traffic free flowing despite the rain and cold.

In the afternoon, I visited the CBS RadioNet office, where I found Ashley and Julie much disturbed by announcement from the 'For Cardiff' Business Imprevement District launching a competing radio network to ours. As if they haven't got anything better to do, trying to re-invent and reproduce as high a quality system for lower cost The process by which this decision was reached is alarming because of the lack of professional integrity shown by key players in two separate boardroom dramas, but I shall say no more. We have asked the City Council formally for an enquiry, and await a response.

Russel and Jacquie came to lunch yesterday, and we enjoyed a couple of hours good conversation.  Owain has gone to Geneva for a long weekend, and sent photos of himself and school friend Ludo enjoying a fondue in a hostelry on the snow clad Col de Sainte Cergue. It's twenty five years this months since we first took him up there, as a family newly arrived in Geneva. That was when I met the challenge and delight of ski de fond for the first time. I wonder if I'll get to do this during my new year sojourn in Montreux?

Today, with my sermon finished and printed off, I went for a pre-lunch walk around Thompsons Park and took some photos with my new DSLR, to help me get a fuller idea of its capabilities, especially in winter light. Later I went into town to buy Christmas cards, but felt disinclined to keep up the momentum, printing off labels and stuffing envelopes. Thinking abut an early morning Sunday start, I only watched the first of the two episodes of French crimmie -  'Witnesses - Frozen' on BBC Four. It's failing to sustain my attention with its suggesions of esoteric witchery. When you stop caring about the lead characters, it's time to go to bed. There's always catch-up in the week, maybe.
   

Weekend goings and comings

Saralee's London bound coach was due to leave at eleven this morning. We learned from her ticket email notification that the Sophia Gardens coach station was closed and that coaches would start their journey out in nearby Cathedral Road, although the email map was imprecise about the actual location of the temporary coach stop. We took her in the car down to the side street by the Church in Wales Representative Body buildings, and walked her and her case the last 250m to where a line of departing coaches were parked, accompanied by a host of National Express uniformed staff, helping travellers to find their coaches.. 

This was well organised and worked well, although no signage was visible for people to identify from a distances that they were in the right place. Walking back to the car, after saying our farewells, I noticed a road sweeping vehicle patrolling the street, which was notably clear of cars in the vicinity of the coach stops. There wasn't much for it to sweep up. On the other hand, litter was abundant on the pavements occupied by pedestrians getting on to buses, therefore a zone which the vehicle could not enter to perform its designated function. If only someone in Cardiff Council has the imagination to employ a few people to walk around as litter pickers, on a busy day like this. What must visitors think of our dirty city?

After lunch we went over to Bristol to see Amanda, and for once the travel weather was bright and clear. We were delighted to find that James was also there, on his weekend visit home to Mum. It was good to catch up with the two of them, and find them both in good spirits. Our return journey was surprising. Traffic on the M4 throughout the journey was lighter than at any time I've travelled on it during the daytime lately. With the UEFA Cup match being sold out in advance, and with the added security precautions surrounding Cardiff city centre, I suspect many casual weekend visitors may have been deterred from making the trip. The shopping centre was very quiet yesterday when I visited. The weekend may be good for hotels and pubs, but I doubt whether retailers will have much to rejoice over due to this world sporting event in the city.

In the BBC Four prime time crime drama slot this evening, the start of a Canadian series entitled 'Cardinal', named after its leading detective. It makes a change to have a New World series that's in English which isn't American English, and doesn't need subtitles. I find the similarities with Euro-crime film noir interesting to observe, for example, the sound track music, and the use of winter landscape and townscape shots as mis-en-scene. For once, however the environment portrayed looks different from that of Europe, and that's somewhat refreshing. The double episodes are half an hour shorter than usual, and from my viewpoint that's no bad thing, as it means I get to bed earlier. Will I be able to watch on line next week when I'm in Malaga, I wonder?

   

Not Dewi Sant but Ash Wednesday

Today's first assignment was the Eucharist and Ashing ceremony at St Catherine's, with a congregation of eight. Then, after lunch, a visit to Tredegarville School for a simple Ashing ceremony for staff and two hundred children. As today is St David's Day, their morning had been taken up with the traditional school Eisteddfod. I full expected the children to be fidgety and tired with over-excitement, and was amazed at how relaxed, quiet and receptive they were. I explained what we were about to do and then taught them to sing a Kyrie Eleison I learned half a lifetime ago from the Taize repertoire. Once they'd mastered it, they continued to sing throughout the procession of children to the front to receive their black smudge on the forehead. This was quite difficult to achieve with perfection, as some moved as I was taking aim. 

With prayers, it was all over in twenty five minutes. The look on children's faces as they came up to receive, some smiling, some serious, some looking a little lost in the moment, was just wonderful to behold. I would like to have spent time just looking into each child's eyes a little longer than the few seconds each took, as is possible when I meet children at the altar rail to be blessed during Mass. For me, this deepens the sense of awe and wonder at the heart of the sacramental mystery, seeing them so caught up in the experience of Christ's presence in worship.

Before returning home to finalise a sermon for the evening Mass, I spent a while in the church hall trying workarounds to the problem of poor wi-fi connectivity in the building. A wi-fi range extender purchased has not delivered expected results. The fault is not in the device but in the location of the wireless router, in an office under the stairs near the entrance. There building has a steel frame and reinforced concrete walls, making it just about impossible for router and extender to handshake, except when plugged in at a socket in the lobby, ten metres away. The extender's signal cannot penetrate the length of the hall and backstage as the only power socket is located next to a steel and concrete pillar which masks the signal or deflects it in the wrong direction. 

A powerline network setup with wi-fi extender would do the job nicely, if only there was a free wall socket in office under the stairs. The answer may well be to relocate the incoming phone socket, in the main hall, along with the wireless router itself. This made me envious of the solution adopted by some Spanish telecom internet service providers, of having phone and broadband delivered wirelessly into properties to domestic handsets and routers through a domestic transponder which captures signals broadcast from an 4G cell tower transmitter or a satellite antenna in the vicinity. This is occasionally subject to outages due to electric storms or really excessive traffic, as when there's a key football match or major emergency, and everyone is attached or trying to attach to the network at the same time, but normally, its fast, stable and effective.

There were twenty of us for the Solemn Mass and Ashing ceremony at St German's in the evening. For the second night running, everyone sat in the chancel and enjoyed the acoustical pleasure of singing parts of the service unaccompanied. Each Lent these days, I attempt to do something that requires me to be creative and learn something new and not just fall back on twenty odd years worth of material stored in my liturgy and preaching digital archive. This year, I'm going to highlight the different Psalms which are set for use in the Sunday Eucharistic lectionary, as so often these are sung or said with hardly a reference to them, when there's so much to be said about the rest of the readings. 

Tonight, it was Psalm 51, which has contributed phrases to so many expressions of penitence in Anglican forms of worship, and the daily offices. The biblical texts is annotated with a reference to origin as a prayer of king David occasioned by the unmasking of his adulterous relationship with Bathsheba and his deadly effort to cover up his mortal sin. So often the prophets denounced Israel as an 'adulterous nation', as people's dalliance with the worship of foreign gods was considered in much the same terms, as being a breach of their covenant with God. Plenty of food for thought here.

I also wondered if there was some different effort I could make that wasn't just the usual routine of fasting, prayer and alms-giving, but which would push me into being more aware, more responsible. Often when I'm out walking I start feeling angry toward people who not only wander the streets at night drinking from bottles, but leave them dumped if not smashed in places where this could harm others, and leave the place looking ugly and uncared for. Often after football training or matches on pitches in Llandaff or Pontcanna Fields the grass is littered with discarded bottles and cans. Not all team coaches and supporters seem to be bothered about cleaning up after them. Occasionally I have collected a plastic shopping bag of stuff to carry to the nearby bins. 

It's immature and irresponsible behaviour, but impossible to police. So, instead of moaning and being resentful, I have resolved for Lent to make it my business to keep a bag in my pocket and pick up cans, bottles, takeaway cartons and the suchlike whenever I am walking anywhere. Having decided this at the Eucharist in St Catherine's this morning, I started on my way home, and collected seven pieces in just over half a mile. Some had been stuffed into boundary hedges, others balanced on garden walls, on waste bins, or ledges from which they could fall and smash. Two bottles that were parked on the street outside of Poncanna's gated St Winifrid's apartments lay there undisturbed since I walked to church on Sunday morning. Residents drive in and out seemingly oblivious of the squalor. 

Council auto-sweepers drive by occasionally, but they only do streets and gutters. Trash dumped out of reach seems to be nobody's concern. Well, if I can see it, I can do something about it, can't I? I don't have the energy to exhort others, start a civic awareness trend or a political campaign to extend community service payback schemes for delinquents to every city neighbourhood, but I can pick up what I notice, if I bother to make the effort this Lent. It is a bit of a penance, but it might help make me feel less ashamed about living in such a slovenly society.