Covid sabotages reunion

We had a message from John, Jasmine's dad last night, to say they'd all got covid after a family wedding last week. When I saw photos of the wedding party my first thought was of a potential disaster waiting to happen. If Jasmine doesn't test negative midweek, she may not visit us as planned. If she did come anyway. I'd need to avoid seeing her, as I can't risk covid stopping me from travelling. It's going to be risky enough getting on a 'plane knowing that on average half a dozen people flying will have covid whether they know it or not. I'll need to be very careful en route to be fit for work when I arrive. If I do arrive that is, given current flight cancellations and delays. Had I seen this coming before booking, I would have preferred to pay extra to travel all the way by train, even if it does take twenty hours, and cost double the price of a flight.

Yesterday, I bought a new clock radio and CD player for Clare. It was proving frustratingly difficult for her to follow the setup instructions and get the thing to work properly. After breakfast I had a go at the job, and fiddled about with the controls to try and figure out what each did. A bit hit and miss, but I managed to get a few key DAB stations to work, but it's doing to be an uphill struggle to get the FM stations tuned in as well. The system has twenty pre-set buttons but with no clear indication of how to add or delete pre-set stations. How ridiculous to make quite an expensive domestic item so user unfriendly.

It was raining when we both set out for church, so I gave Clare a life to St Catherine's and then went on to St German's. There were only two dozen of us this morning. The holiday season is upon us. We kept the feast of St Thomas the Apostle, and as the readings with quite short and my sermon wasn't too long, I was back home for lunch by one.

After Clare's siesta we went for a walk through Llandaff Fields and along the Taff, where I saw an egret fishing again in much the same spot as I spotted one a fortnight ago. Later I caught a glimpse of a heron flying down river, a magnificent overview too brief to photograph. If you see them flying over you with  neck folded in and legs protruding beyond the tail, they look a bit odd, ungainly, but from above their four foot wingspan is a wonder of elegance to behold.

This evening I watched the Vienna Philharmonic's outdoor summer concert from Vienna's Schoenbrunn Palace. A magnificent affair, bringing to mind their 2020 summer concert, as European concert venues  just started to resume public performances. That was postponed until the end of September, and was a huge organisational challenge to arrange after months of rehearsals punctuated by covid testing. I found that event most moving, as a symbol of resilience in the world wide artistic community. And here we are nearly two years on, better protected after a succession of four vaccinations, but still capable of getting infected by one or other of the contagious omicron variants doing the rounds. Will it ever end?

I woke up this morning still thinking about last night's episode of Inspector Montalbano. I believe it was the one that started filming around the time that the pandemic broke out, and completion was subject to long delay. I thought this might account for the deserted outdoor scenes, but as I pondered upon it further it struck me that in many previous episodes few street scenes were populated with anyone other than the actors involved. I thought there may be different reasons for this. 

From a film producer's viewpoint, filming a populated street scene is expensive on crowd extras, road closures and security personnel. Scenes are often shot in daytime when it can be hot, and people stay indoors out of the sun, so an empty daytime street would be normal. Then there's the possibility that the producer choses to do this, because many ancient small towns and hill villages in Italy are depopulated by emigration, or contain holiday homes only periodically used. Empty properties have cropped up in story lines from time to time as well, so it's possible streets are empty most of the time, and the film portrays this. One way to inform the speculation would be to read all the novels, as they describe the setting of the fictional Vigata. I've only read one of the three dozen so far.

Surprise disappointment

Saturday breakfast didn't go according to plan this morning, as the waffle maker has developed a fault and made a baked mess stuck to the metal surface, so Clare cooked the batter into thick pancakes instead, quite acceptable. I completed next Thursday's Morning Prayer video before we went to town to look for a new waffle iron, but we were unsuccessful in finding one. We had a drink in John Lewis and Clare had a curry for lunch before we returned home. I cooked a veggie sauce to go with spaghetti for myself, for a late lunch as I didn't fancy anything on offer in John Lewis. Then I went for a walk in the park. 

Clare went out to an early evening concert with Ruth leaving me to my own devices. I started work on a reflection for my first week in Spain, as I don't know how busy I'll be when I get there, and printed off tomorrow's sermon. Having soaked some butter beans overnight, I pressure cooked them, and made an experimental dish of hummous using a handful of them, with a spoonful of tahini, olive oil, lemon and black pepper. It tasted bland without garlic, but there was no time to add any, as Inspector Montalbano was about to start - the last episode to have been made so far, though not the last possible episode. We'll see.

Unfortunately billed by the Beeb as the last ever how would Montalbano end? Bumped off or married off? Neither, it turns out. He falls for a much younger female colleague, and calls it a day with Livia after 20 years. Mid-life crisis, or a moment of truth leading to him settling down eventually? It was another comic and quirky episode with a really puzzling whodunnit shot through with romance. Rather an anticlimax I'm sad to say.

Donner und Blitzen!

I woke up in time for 'Thought for the Day', and listened to Boris Johnson being interviewed by Mishal Hussein on the BBC Radio Four Today programme, being bullishly defiant in the face of the slow trickle of new calls for his resignation from his fellow Tories. I couldn't help notice the way in which he persisted in talking over his interviewer's attempt to question him. A man who doesn't listen or stop to think, but just keeps going regardless of the negative impression this gives of his treatment of female interrogator. I don't think he'd have been able to get away with this if he was up against a man, willing to stand up to his awful boorishness. 

After rising late, we had waffles for breakfast again this morning. Then we decided to drive to Penarth for a walk on the cliff top before lunch in one of the restaurants on the promenade. Half an hour into our walk, it started to thunder and rain heavily, we were compelled to shelter in Cioni's Bistro, the gelateria and snack bar by the children's playground on the cliff top, so we had a snack brunch instead, watching the downpour and listening to rumbles of thunder as we dried out. The sun then returned and we walked down to the pier to meet with Mark and Fran, who told us about the icon presentation they gave in Stroud last weekend to an audience of seventy, while we had a drink together.

We returned home, and while Clare rested, I walked up to the Cathedral and back. Once more dark clouds gathered and just as I left the park, thunder and lightening announced the opening of the heavens, slowly at first, but by the time I reached the front door, pelting rain was joined by heavy hail and more thunder and lightening, persisting for half an hour before sunshine briefly broke through dark grey clouds again before disappearing with another spell of rain. Quite a spectacle! 

As I have an earlier start tomorrow to get to the service I'm leading over in Cathays, I thought it would be a good idea to get an early night, rather than watch the penultimate episode of Inspector Montalbano, which finishes as eleven. As it was already available on iPlayer, we sat and watched it at seven instead. Next week is the premiere of the last ever Montalbano story, according to the BBC (or is it really the latest?) published a year before the death of author Antonio Camillieri in 2019, and filmed in 2021. There are two more published novels, I've discovered, and these haven't yet been turned into movies. After thirty six episodes, the regular characters in the fictional town of Vigata are as familiar and vivid as the cast of 'The Archers'. I wouldn't know about Easternders or Coronation Street characters as we've never watched either series.

A musical nation

Clouds and drizzle this morning, and it's ten degrees cooler than yesterday. When I went down to breakfast I was surprised to find that instead of Saturday pancakes, Clare had cooked waffles to a vegan recipe for a change. They were delicious, and destined to become a firm favourite, I think.

Later, we went for a walk through Bute Park and had a snack lunch at the Secret Garden cafe. Thankfully the drizzle held off, so we didn't get wet. There was a man with a lively dog in the cafe. The hound was dragging a large stick of dead wood around, which made a conspicuous noise when dropped. It stood by the doorway, occasionally picking up and dropping the stick. Then it would take a few steps back, looking eagerly for a response from its master, absorbed in his phone and drinking coffee. This attention seeking behaviour was reproduced at least half a dozen times in ten minutes, each time the hound took a few steps nearer until it reached its master's feet and started whimpering to get attention. An impressive fear of persistent nagging, even though it fell on deaf ears!

The cloud cover remained low, and though it threatened to rain again after morning showers, it didn't. We then went to the summer fayre in St Catherine's church grounds. All the usual stalls and activities, were there and the place was busy with a steady stream of visitors. An event that's a credit to the congregation. We had some strawberries without cream, and a go on the bottle staff. Clare won a can of coffee flavoured stout branded by Guinness. Neither of us fancied it, so I surreptitiously returned it for someone else to win and then won a can of quite strong IPA, but no lucky wine wins this time. I did buy a jar of plum jam and a fresh one of churchyard blackcurrant jam to replace the one I'm slowly savouring at the moment from last autumn's fayre. You can't have enough blackcurrant jam, in my estimation!

Clare then went down to the Castle for the annual Tafwyl festival, featuring some top Welsh language singers, including singer songwriter Meinyr Gwilym of whom she's a fan. I went home, and cooked us a pasta meal using the butter beans Clare cooked yesterday. I was pleased with the result, and only needed to cook the pasta when Clare arrived home after the performance. After supper we watched on S4C this year's Welsh national youth choir competition. There were some stunning performances from choirs up to fifty strong. Such vital energy, discipline, enthusiasm and musicianship. One of the judges, an Italian musical maestro I think, speaking in English, praised the uniqueness of Wales' choral music culture. All this with Sir Tom Jones and the Stereophonics singing tonight at the Principality Stadium. "Praise the Lord, we are a musical nation", as the Reverend Eli Jenkins said in Dylan Thomas' Under Milk Wood.

We have the first of three Inspector Montalbano episodes on BBC Four over the next fortnight. The first two are re-runs of the last available episodes. The third is the last ever Montalbano story, of the thirty six. It was made into a movie after the death of his creator Antonio Camillieri, who wouldn't let it be published while he was alive. That way the authentic character dies with him. A unique inimitable body of work. The mixture of sadness and humour, with vignettes exposing the poverty and corruption which still plague Sicilian life is portrayed in a most thought provoking way. The wait to see how it all ends for Montalbano will not be easy - like waiting for a friend to die. The story teller who can generate such a bond between his characters and audience is a true maestro with words.

Tap improvement

When I surfaced from sleep, Clare was awake and up cooking pancakes about half past six this morning. It turned out that she'd mis-read the clock. It didn't matter as she wanted to breakfast over earlier than usual for a Saturday since a plumber was arriving at nine thirty to install the new mixer tap for the kitchen sink. 

We made a good choice of tap and plumber as he fixed an error made when the original was installed that we've lived with for the past eleven years. Now at last we have the hot tap on the left and the cold on the right, as they are in every other sink in the house. Such a small change, but what an immediate difference it makes to the feel of working at the kitchen sink. While the plumber did the job, I recorded the audio for next Thursday upstairs, then added a slideshow and uploaded the video to YouTube before cooking lunch.

The rain stopped in the afternoon, so we took a muddy walk through Bute Park woods and had a coffee at the Secret Garden Café on the way back. The river Taff has risen up to cover the fish ladder again as it last did on New Year's Eve. It's rained most days since then, for hours at a time day and night. The Fields are getting waterlogged again, but I doubt if they will flood again back in February 2020, as the river bed and banks underwent a drastic surplus vegetation clearance operation to ensure unimpeded flow. The river runs much faster when in full spate these days. Let's hope it stays that way.

Nothing much of interest on telly this evening. On Four the thirty-sixth and last episode of 'Inspector Montalbano' available on iPlayer is being shown again in the Saturday Euro-crimmie slot. I think this is for the fourth time in two years. It's good, but I don't want to watch it again. There is a thirty-seventh episode, aired in Italian in 2021, but it hasn't yet been produced for a British audience. We're still waiting. All there is to do this evening is complete and print tomorrow's Epiphany sermon, and turn in.

iPad down and up

A day of respite from intermittent rain hail and cold wind, sunny and warm enough to go out with no top coat, proper spring weather. There were eight of us at the St Catherine's Eucharist. It was Emma's last service at St Catherine's before she goes on three month's secondment to Fairwater Parish. She will be missed, and it generates a certain level of uncertainty about how projects she initiated or catalysed will be able to continue.

I collected our organic veggy bag on the way home, and cooked what I call my Inspector Montalbano tribute lunch. Pasta with pesto mixed with spinach and carrots, and boil in the bag mussels in a white wine sauce, plus a bottle of a organic Sicilian white wine to accompany it. In all thirty of the movies based on Camillieri's novels I have never seen Salvo drink anything other than local white wine. It's not something seen here often but Lidl's had one when we visited yesterday. 

After lunch I collected our weekly grocery order from Beanfreaks, and then took my Sony Alpha 68 with me for a walk around the periphery of Llandaff Fields, equipped with a 11-18mm wide angle lens to take a succession of landscape photos of the trees whose leaf canopy is now almost fully developed. On three of the marked pitches, preparations were under way for evening cricket matches - at a guess, teams of Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi players, each group speaking a mixture of English and their national language. If there's a Caribbean team or league hereabouts, I'm not aware of it. It's just great that so much cricket is played. Most afternoons there are players practicing at the mobile nets array in a corner of the park. We're just a mile away from the SWALEC stadium, home of Glamorgan County Cricket, where there are even more practice nets, so it's understandable.

Yesterday, Clare's iPad froze on her. The touch screen stopped working, although it seemed that behind the inaccessible login screen, everything else was still working, but inaccessible. She took it to Turotech on her way into town, only to discover the shop is closed on a Wednesday. When she returned, she left the device on the kitchen worktop. I was pondering on why Apple would fail to provide the equivalent of a kill-switch and means to reboot iPad OS, as happens with all other electronic devices. 

The older iPad has a top edge button that works like a power switch to bring it out of hibernation, but no amount of prolonged pressing would shut the thing down properly. It also has a physical button below the touch screen that can take you back to the home screen whenever it's pressed. I tried pressing the two together. The screen went completely black, then after a few seconds, the Apple logo appeared and reboot started. We were both delighted to find the touch screen worked again and found out something neither of us knew before. But, why it froze when it froze is a complete mystery.

This evening, just for fun, and for practice, I made a three minute video slideshow using the photos I took this afternoon, and accompanied it with the first movement of Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons'. I was quite pleased the result, and uploaded it to YouTube for the family to see.

Fridge woes

Cloudy again today, with strong wind and occasional rain. We got up slowly and decided to to to Penarth for a walk after a light lunch. The day before Christmas Eve, Clare realised that our food laden fridge wasn't working properly. The thermostat, and maybe something more wasn't working, although the lower freezer compartment was, but not quite as efficiently as desired. It didn't improve after vacuuming the refrigeration unit at the back. Getting it repaired at this time posed all sorts of problems, not just finding a technician to do the job, but letting someone into the house without knowing if they were covid free. As the fridge is fourteen years old, it seemed better just to order a replacement fridge freezer on-line. 

Argos duly obliged with a delivery promised on Sunday, St John's day. Clare borrowed some freezer and fridge space from two neighbours in the street for food we didn't need for the moment, and the rest went in the garden shed. It's around four degrees or less at the moment. Thereafter Christmas catering went on as normal, lacking nothing. Today it was necessary to empty the remnants, decommission and remove the unit from its space in the fitted kitchen unit, ready to be taken away for recycling. Goodbye and thanks tomorrow morning, probably while I'm at St Catherine's, celebrating and preaching the Eucharist in honour of one our Parish patrons, St John the Evangelist. Thankfully the homily came together quite easily once I started it.

Penarth promenade was windy, cold and damp, but it was good to get out for some fresh air by the sea. We had turkey soup and cold meat for supper later, and sat together enjoying a fairly early episode of Inspector Montalbano on iPlayer, set just before New Year's Eve. A nice programming proposal on the part of iPlayer. I find it easier to follow the Italian these days, since my comprehension of spoken Spanish has improved. It's only natural as the two have so much in common.

Pastoral policing

Just another routine day yesterday, except that I walked over to Victoria Park for a change, after a circuit of Thompson's Park for a change, and completed my daily mileage walking in the dark around Llandaff Fields before turning in. Covid numbers continue to rise, and now an all-Wales short lock-down is being talked about in coming weeks. The idea is to curb infection rates and avoid overwhelming hospitals with critical care patients, long enough to get the test, track and trace system running more efficiently, as it's still failing to do its job in slowing infection rates and containing the epidemic.

In this morning's post I received a thick envelope with brochures and a letter from The Spire hospital confirming my surgical appointment on 10th November, and informing me that it would take place in the afternoon and not the morning. I'm delighted about this at it eliminates the prospect of a very early morning start to get there by seven. Now it's a twelve fifteen check-in, far less of a worry! Naturally I'm bound to keep hoping this will happen, but realistically, I can foresee another postponement unless there is a significant measure of success in containment. The Spire       

Clare cooked pancakes for breakfast again today after a lie-in, then set about making three Christmas puddings and putting them on to steam. It left us with the logistical challenge of cooking lunch with one ring and one suitable pan to work with, and both of us wanting to cook different things. Somehow we did this without giving each other too much grief or cross words.

After lunch, I finally got around to doing my tax return on-line and submitting it. Having done a little advance preparation, collecting necessary figures together on one sheet of paper, this took just over an hour. The web interface keeps evolving in a good way, clearer and easier to use once you understand all the technical jargon relevant to your own set of income streams. I don't have many fortunately.

Then we walked around the park and down to Blackweir Bridge. For most of the day until after sunset the sky remained overcast. More and more leaves are falling, creating pools of gold, orange or brown colour on the grass, photos, no matter how well tweaked in processing afterwards never quite succeed in capturing what the eye sees.

The second new episode of Inspector Montalbano was on BBC Four tonight. Superb again and several different stories to be told, no major crimes, but several narratives, you might think of as pastoral, all of which would be part of a Chief Inspector's job in a rural fishing community. One involved a Swedish film crew and Salvo's deputy Mimi misbehaving with a film star, another was about bullying the classroom tech geek in a local school, and another was a curious cold case involving mysterious super eight movie clips, leading to the discovery that a past suicide had been a covered up murder, in tragic unusual circumstances. In this latter scenario Salvo ends up listening to a dying man unburdening his conscience, underlining the pastoral role police officers often take when they're not playing cops and robbers, all part of keeping the peace. The perennial stars of this twenty year old series now look more middle aged, but none the worse for that. I'll be sad when there are no more of Andrea Camillieri's stories to tell.

Weekend pleasures

A lazy late lie-in with pancakes for breakfast yesterday. The morning slipped away with routine trivial tasks, then I cooked lunch, and later in the afternoon we walked up to Llandaff Weir. The weather was lovely, although as forecasted there was a light shower punctually at four o'clock. I had the Olympus OMD camera with me, and before putting it under cover took a chance shot across the fields bathed in sunlight with the rain falling. Much to my delight, it gave me a photo which showed raindrops lit up as they fell.

In the evening BBC Four treated us to a new episode of 'Inspector Montalbano', the thirty-fifth since the series started in 1999. There's another new episode next week and a third is still being made which I believe, will be shown some time next year. Will that be the last I wonder? The book on which the 37th episode is based was published only last week. Is this the final Montalbano novel which author Andrea Camillieri wrote, which he said would not be made public until after his death? He died in July last year.

It was good to be able to return to church this morning. Forty adults and children were present, which is an encouraging sign of the commitment people have to make live Sunday worship part of their 'new normal'. The BBC Radio Four Sunday Worship programme earlier came from Ewenny Priory in the Vale, led by Fr Edwin Counsell, with Bishop June preaching. Ewenny Village is home to a family pottery business which goes back seven generations. Two family members took part, talking about pot making, and sharing in the reflection on the parable of the potter in the prophecy of Jeremiah. I recognised Fr Edwin's voice after he had only spoken a few words and mentioned Ewenny. A lovely start to Sunday morning.

We were fortunate to have another sunny afternoon to walk around the park together. Clare baked apple and cinnamon scones for tea, their aroma gracing the house, just as the aroma of newly baked sourdough bread did earlier in the day, and the aroma of pancakes yesterday. All delightful, different. Things we love.

National isolation day one

Nothing in the post from UHW again today. I would have expected to hear by now. It's distressing. It was also annoying to have my Llandaff Diocesan safeguarding CRB check application form returned to me in the post because when I filled it in and did the identifying document check at Llys Esgob two weeks ago I missed a second form authorising consent to digital data sharing for safeguarding. Earlier this week I found the un-filled form and posted it to Sarah the Bishop's chaplain, but she's not in the office this week, so it won't have been dealt with. It's just as well my Llandaff PTO doesn't run out until the end of April, and I requested my application rather than wait to be notified. Both ways on top of Brexit starting at midnight in Brussels yesterday, a rotten start to the weekend.

I still can't believe brexit has started, let alone come to terms with it. It breaks my heart. Separation and division ferment conflict. Eleven months of negotiations now begin in earnest. Isolation makes us vulnerable. I believe those who have a high opinion of Britain's strength and capacity as a lone global player are profoundly mistaken. It's another propaganda con-trick. Just how vulnerable Britain now becomes may well be revealed in the coming years. All of us will suffer, apart from those who can figure out how to make a profit from the country's plight, then cut and run. 

I walked into town, keeping Clare company while she did some shopping in the afternoon. It was a six nations rugby international afternoon, and while Wales were imposing a humiliating defeat on the Italian ream, the streets and shops were very quiet. We saw a stall set up on Queen Street by a Muslim non-violent anti-extremism group wanting to convey to the world that authentic Islam in no way condones the evils perpetrated in its religious name. Good luck to them. I wonder what impact their campaign will have in a society which habitually stereotypes everyone and feeds on fake news poor quality journalism and 'newspeak', fond of calling good things bad and bad things good in a way which would have George Orwell saying "I told you so." from beyond the grave.

More scanning later in the day, this time a roll of film from a Greek island holiday in 2000 and from the wedding feast of Delbert and Ara in Geneva, on which occasion I played guitar with a Mariachi band of Latin American ex-pats in between courses. The daft things I did in those days!

A re-run of a Montalbano episode seen twice before on BBC Four tonight. Brillant slapstick from the inimitable Catarella, but a sad tale of betrayal, jealous passion and compassion, spanning a thousand miles from Sicily to the eastern Italian Alps.

  

  

Pop-up in the park

The absence of noise from the outside renovation work yesterday was most welcome, so we enjoyed a lie-in and a late breakfast. Then I wrote a fresh sermon for tomorrow, and following a siesta we walked to Llandaff in the sunshine for tea and cake.

On BBC Four, another re-run episode of Inspector Montalbano in the evening. I wonder how long it will be before the final novel in this wonderful series by Andrea Camillieri is published, or the movie made for TV?  He wrote it years ago, instructing his publisher that it shouldn't be issued until after his death. One way or another it will be the end of Montalbano. Will he be killed off? Will he finally marry Livia and retire? Will they become foster parents, given the loss of the child they wanted to adopt in an early series? Happy ever after or not? The author has left us a lovely legacy of pure speculation while we wait.

This morning, I celebrated and preached as planned at St Catherine's. I did my daily walk as half a dozen circuits of Thompson's Park in the late afternoon. Since it came into the local news six months ago, we've been waiting to see the old park keeper's hut and toilets converted into a cafe. It's not yet fully developed, but this weekend, a pop-up cafe run by Lufkin, Pontcanna's local gourmet coffee purveyors, opened for the first time. This was just closing when I arrived, but I stuck my head around the kitchen door and wished them well. Thompson's Park is already a convivial place, as many young parents bring their kids to visit the duck pond, so this is a welcome enhancement.

On the way back I bumped into Fr Rhys, who'd just taken Holy Communion to Emma at home. Thankfully, she returned from hospital earlier, but is going to be off-grid recovering for a couple of weeks. This evening, following through on several emails about tomorrow's funeral, I prepared my order of service, to accommodate what the family had already agreed with Emma. Glad I'm free and fit to cover some of her duties at least.

A church on top form

Yesterday, I was pleased to receive an email from one of the Europe diocesan administrators Emma Biaggi, enquiring if I would be free to  take on locum duties in Ankara Turkey any time soon, as the Embassy chaplaincy is going to be without a priest. Archdeacon Adele had suggested my name, in the hope that I might now be fit enough for locum duty again. But alas not yet, I had to reply. But, it's so nice to be asked!

I received an appointment letter from Llandough hospital out-patients admin this morning to telling me that the one issued on April 1st for 19th September had been cancelled, to br replaced by one on 8th August. This year. No mention of what I was told on Wednesday last by the surgeon's secretary that I was soon to be examined as a day patient 'under anaesthetic'. Immediately, I wrote a letter to the surgeon reporting this, and asking what I can expect to happen next. She told me last time we met to ignore the 19th September booking - although not to cancel yet, just in case it was needed. 

My letter won't arrive before Tuesday next. Who knows? I may hear something different by Monday. Meanwhile, the wound continues to improve and is slowly closing. That doesn't make it any less comfortable, so I have to be vigilant whenever I go to sit down, or stay seated for any length of time. I've noticed that things are more difficult Thursdays to Sundays, for the simple reason that on these evenings, I am more likely to spend time sitting and watching telly. Having Cardiff Singer of the World on all week for many hours meant that I had either to lie down and listen from afar, or else be sure to get up and move around, or stand to listen instead. But, it's been worth it. Such a wonderful week of music! And all of it from Cardiff city centre. Very proud I am.

Clare cooked one of her delicious bara brith loaves to offer for the refreshments stall at St Catherine's summer fair. It was a marvellous community social event, attracting hundreds of people out on a sunny summer afternoon, with a full range of stalls selling toys, drinks, bric-a-brac raffle tickets, with a throwing wall in a safe corner for those wanting to smash plates or win a coconut. There was a full Punch and Judy show for the kids, with scores of little ones and their parents for an audience. I reckon that most of the regular congregation members were running a stall or helping with one. The church grounds were comfortably full the entire time, and early reports indicated that a large sum of money was raised for church funds. It was a real good news event in my opinion.

When I popped into in Tesco's later, I saw a man wearing a tee-shirt declaring 'Christianity is Stupid'. I thought of St Paul's saying: "The foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom." and was tempted to accost him and ask him what he made of Paul's statement. But then I thought, would he be able to make sense of this?

If his tee-shirt had read 'Brexit is stupid' he might have been attacked for this out on the street. If he wore one saying 'Islam is stupid', he might be liable to prosecution for hate crime. The fact is, Christianity is broad shouldered and tolerant in the face of its detractors, because it bears Good News about freedom, even freedom to reject and not believe when searching for meaning and truth in life. It has to be resilient, even in the face of hostility and persecution, or it ceases to be Good News for all humankind. Such an amazing mystery.

The Cardiff Singer of the World title final was broadcast in the evening, and I watched some of it. The very worthy winner was Ukrainian baritone Andrey Kimach. who distinguished himself in his performances earlier in the week, in a strong field of finalists, all worth listening to. The length of the programme meant that Inspector Montalbano was shown an hour later than usual. It was a rerun from an earlier series, with a convoluted plot, about Mafia corrupt monopolies in the construction industry. It benefited from a second viewing, even though I was quite tired by then.
  

Small is beautiful but can be fiddly too

I took some flower photos during a sunny spell today with my Sony HX90. It has a tiny viewfinder which extracts from the body and this is one way of switching on the camera. This has a retractable and adjustable eyepiece which is especially useful for me with a impaired left eye vision, not yet impaired enough to warrant a cataract operation. The only this is, I forgot about this feature and in attempting to look through it, smudged the screen display with my nose. In the sunlight this smudge made it impossible to view the screen which has manually adjustable brightness, whose default isn't terribly bright. So I had to go indoors and find a lens cloth before making another attempt to use it. 

This is the smallest of all the high spec long zoom pocket cameras, and the physical difference means having to re-acquire user skill. Fortunately the Sony camera menu system interface is much the same as in my other cameras. It's not the best of the bunch, but the learning carries over from one device to another. I've noticed our garden flowers are visited by several different species of bee, and decided to try and photograph them. By the time I'd worked out how to use the viewfinder, zooming in on a foraging insect, cloud covered the sun, the temperature dropped, and there were raindrops, so the bees promptly vanished from sight.   Pleasing results with flowers despite this.

Later in the afternoon, I went into town and met with Clare for a cuppa in John Lewis. Having one out ahead of me, she'd hunted down some cushions and blackout curtain lining for Owain's flat. What a devoted mother, doing her best to ensure he's comfortable at nominal cost!

We watched 'Inspector Montalbano' in the evening. Disappointingly it was an episode repeated from season ten. Only two new episodes a year, it seems, but still great to watch.

  

Farewell Russell

We had an early start this morning to be sure to arrive at the Cardiff and Glamorgan Crematorium for our dear friend Russell's funeral. Unusually for a man of 94,  two hundred people came to pay their respects in a service lasting sixty five minutes, over-running the double slot reserved., a measure of how well and widely known he was. Fortunately it was the only event in the chapel that morning, and place was locked just after the congregation dispersed. 

This is the first time I have been to the funeral of an Anthroposophist, led by a priest of the Christian Community, a group established by followers of Rudolf Steiner, guided by his writing. Her apparel was after the manner of an early 20th century German Protestant cleric in the era when the group was founded. The wicker coffin was sprinkled with water and enveloped by incense. More Catholic than Protestant. The liturgical content other than the ritual, I found original thoughtful, and poetic. Instead of classic forms of prayer addressed to God, meditative reflections were offered containing similar content, biddings reflecting the intention and understanding of what it means to entrust someone to God in an invitation to personal prayer. It's a similar approach to what I've heard from other reformed pastors at funerals but express in more lyrical and creative way. Anthroposophists are confident of the life beyond this world in a way historic European Protestants are not, since the reformation banned prayer for the dead to combat the monetisation of ancient prayer tradition by mediaeval Catholicism.

The priest told Russell's life story, and several others gave tributes or read poems. Here the element of appreciation and gratitude for a life well lived was expressed by different voices. Also read out was a personal testimony he'd written a couple of months before his death, a beautiful piece of prose poetry reflecting on his personal spiritual journey. A few months ago, we met for a chat and he shared this with me, so I was already acquainted with it. It seems he left copies of it in several places around the house, rather than just leaving it with essential documents, to ensure it wasn't missed. He'd been conscious of his impending morality for several years, and prepared well for his demise to make things easy for his wife Jacquie. This was his apologia pro vita sua, and expressed confidence in the spiritual adventure lying ahead of him in life beyond.

As a young man with an enquiring mind, he had encountered Steiner's teaching on experiencing life's  spiritual dimensions. He delighted in exploring these in church discussion groups and outside, but in the end, the elders of Congregational Church he attended declared his activity was unorthodox, and pushed him out, so his educative work went public into community centres and a home group which has continued meeting over the forty years since then. It's always been open, never exclusive, and hundreds of people have passed through it in their explorations and enquiries about the meaning and purpose of life ever since.

We often talked about his past, particularly his church's rejection of his unique kind of lay ministry, ahead  of its time in giving a central place to dialogue and enquiry about what Tillich called 'Ultimate Reality'. He never joined another church, nor did he condemn those who opposed him. He expressed bewilderment that they couldn't see his approach was consistent with a Gospel approach to religious faith and was never bitter. He realised 'all things work together for good to those who love God', and as a natural leader confident and comfortable with making progress by asking the right questions of others, he embodied the classic notion of priesthood of all believers in an admirable way. I certainly will miss our conversations.

The congregation retired to Penarth Pier Pavilion for a reception and buffet after the service. This was followed by the gathering forming one big circle and telling stories about what Russell had meant to their lives. I didn't have energy to sit still and listen for another hour, so I made my excuses and left for home, have acquired a lift with Farah a young Muslim woman who knew Russell through the Fountain School which all three attended in their early years before moving on to Llandaff Cathedral School. We had an interesting conversation on the way back - she lives quite near us - so we agreed we'd meet up en famille, to pursue our shared interest in the life of faith some time after Eid ul Fitr.

Inspector Montalbano returned to BBC Four in the evening, another watchable mystery, with humour, pathos and tragedy all mixed in. Apparently this episode aroused resentment towards author Andrea Camilleri from right wing populists in Italy, as it opens with scenes of the local police having to deal with processing rescued immigrants, involving two people traffickers in an on board rape case. In the first fifteen minutes drama the audience is exposed to the tragedy of some who are refugees and not economic migrants. Thoughtfully presented.

There was however a possible flaw later on in the story, when the death of a man in a love triangle is interpreted as suicide when it was murder. He is found drowned after a marital quarrel with his hands tied together - tying your own hands is difficult though not impossible, just implausible if the victim was drugged. It's possible the Examining Magistrate didn't think an autopsy necessary however, and presumed unjustifiably the death wasn't suspicious. It is possible that legal process in the north Italian province of Udine a decade ago in the story was so lax? It depends on context. The audience is left bewildered. If it's been published as a book, I'd like to read this story to see if a relevant clue or two wasn't omitted by the movie makers.

New projects in sight

Yesterday afternoon, after going through the mail and filing or dumping content, I visited the CBS office and met with Ashley, having researched and put together a complete history of events in the life of CBS and the BCRP, for briefing a consultant about the present situation of the company, a story reaching back over twelve years. We have a huge amount of documentation, perhaps because Ashley and I are rather acquisitive, but our file system is somewhat complex and of late, a little disorderly. 

When asked to produce digital versions to support the briefing, I was able to, but it took longer than anticipated. It's all there, but must be hunted for. Search routines can't easily guess file names poorly recalled, so now there's another task to be done, creating, sooner rather than later, an easy access document database tailored for our purposes. I set up an account and used Evernote satisfactorily before, but first have to find the relevant access details. I suspect it's hiding in plain sight in my record of passcodes, not properly labelled.

This morning, Father Mark asked me to celebrate the Eucharist at St John's. It was good to be reunited with nine of the regulars, and tell them a little about Semana Santa in Malaga. Afterwards, a trip to the bank, then to Stavros' next door for a haircut. That was enough really, a certain tiredness engulfed me once I began to relax on arriving home, and just from the demands of early rising and travel. It's not just a matter of adjusting to the hour's time difference either, I seem to live with a different pace and rhythm when I'm away from here. It can take a week or ten days to re-balance. Or else, I'm starting to feel my age.

I also had time to catch up on the first two episodes of 'The Bridge' series four today, plus the first in a new Inspector Montalbano series. It wasn't possible to view any of these on catch-up while in Spain because of digital rights restrictions. Luckily, these time expired episodes were still available before tomorrow evening's third episode of The Bridge.

  

A trip over the Roeschtigraben

I started today slower than was necessary to get the 09.43 train from Montreux to Gstaad, as I had planned, arriving at Montreux gare ticket office minutes after it left. Fortunately, trains on the MOB line (Montreux Oberland Bernois) run to Zweizimmen every hour during the day. I kill time I went for a walk through streets to the station north side, in the Vevey direction. I found two imposing churches, one belonging to a German speaking Reformed Church community, the other to L'eglise neo-Apostolique, a minority church community, curiously enough with British origins. Several decades before the Great 1904 Revival, a charismatic movement emerged in Presbyterian churches, leading to a break-away high church sect called the Catholic Apostolic Church, called the Irvingites after its first influential Scottish Presbyterian teacher mid 19th century. It drew people seeking for spiritual renewal from across established denominations. 

Deeply influenced by the Oxford Movement, Eastern Orthodoxy and the Great Advent Awakening, it restored hierarchical ministerial leadership, full liturgical praxis and piety, to its congregations after the manner of the Scottish Book of Common Prayer. Its wealthy followers built a succession of fine neo-gothic churches in major British cities, which flourished until the mid 20th century, then declined to vanishing point, with only the buildings as a legacy to be passed on to other homeless Christian groups. The London University Chaplaincy is based around one such church building, and Bristol's Russian Church was given by the foundation's trustees in the mid sixties when I was a student there, witnessing the transformation of its use from an eccentric version of Western Rite to that of an Eastern Orthodox Church. As a young man, both were fascinating to me.

The teaching of Edward Irving and his associates was far reaching, influencing nascent evangelical revivalist groups in the USA and Holland and Germany, as well as high church British eccentrics. This gave rise to the New Apostolic Church among those who see themselves as part of the Pentecostal movement. Montreux, like Geneva, has had a Russian Orthodox Church building for a century, if not longer, built by wealthy emigrés. Recent decades of migration have seen the arrival of Middle Eastern, African, Asian and Latin American Christians to Switzerland. Older established churches often offer hospitality to worship groups which are nowadays unable to afford to build for themselves. In my lifetime, as support for western churches decline, they find a sense of purpose in a new relationship to diverse global Christian communities.

On my walk I also discovered the famous Montreux Palace Hotel, which has a garden overlooking the lake, containing sculptures of legendary twentieth century jazz musicians who had performed there, plus a statue of novelist Vladimir Nabakov, who lived there from 1960 until he died in 1977. A concert auditorium opposite is names after jazz trumpeter Miles Davies, who performed eleven times at the world renowned Montreux Jazz Festival. What an amazing celebrity corner of the world this is!

Anyway, I caught the 10.44 train and ascended to the Berner Oberland in mist and rain. It climbs up 700m snaking aorund the north flank of the mountain behind Montreux, over or should I say through the Col de Jaman (1500m) in a succession of tunnels before descending to the valley below. The river Sarine runs through the first part of this valley, before it turns and descends to Fribourg. This represents the linguistic fault line between French and German speaking Switzerland, and this is witnessed in the change of place names. After the town of Rougement (which we first visited in the 1980s on a motor caravan holiday) comes Saanen and then Gstaad. Hence the river is nicknamed the roeschtigraben, (literally roeschti ditch) after the famed Swiss German cheese and potato dish.

It was wet all day in Montreux, and although no rain was forecasted up there, it rained nevertheless, although the cloud base was higher and afforded an atmospheric landscape view. Photography was far from easy, and there were several fellow travellers as disappointed as I was, despite having an old style train carriage with pull down windows, making it possible to take some pictures without soaking one's neighbours.

I met and chatted with a young couple from Bombay on their first outing to Europe, on their way to Zweizimmen, the next stop beyond Gstaad. As we parted company, they insisted on taking a selfie with me in it outside the train on the platform. I waited for the train to pull out and snapped them as their carriage went past. Disappointingly my photo was just out of focus.

Gstaad was cold and damp. It's not an ancient village but has grown up in modern times as a winter sports resort, but it has been built using attractive traditional regional designs in wood and stone. There's quite a lot of variety in the scale and purpose of buildings, and fantastic use of colourful floral decorations on balconies and window stills. Everywhere looks good, but despite the great care and attention taken to get things right, to my mind it lacks a certain character, hard to describe, which belongs to towns and villages that have evolved over centuries. I wandered around for an hour and a half, then caught a train back to Montreux, rather than get cold and damp myself. The photos I took are here.

In the evening the fifth and last of the present Inspector Montalbano series, a disturbing tale of fatal violent abuse of a prostitute involving Balkan and Sicilian mafias, which resonates with criminal activity involving trafficking and sexual exploitation of women across Europe today. Novelist Andrea Camilleri's writing has kept a finger on the pulse of the dark side of European life for over half a century, and never fights shy of addressing painfully difficult issues, though never without humour and pathos, despite tragedies recounted. He's now in his nineties and still going strong.

Wedding in the clouds

Back on the train to Le Chable for the wedding this morning. The Saturday timetable for the Car Postal differs from the weekday, and I was faced with a long wait to make the ascent to Verbier, in the rain with little or no public shelter available at the building site of a station. So I bought a ticket for the téléfériqueCHF13 allez retour, rather than trust my return to a sub standard bus service, and reach Church House hours later than I needed to.

I was met by the wedding arranger outside the téléférique arrival area and taken up to Le Hameau in good time to meet the couple who were hired to play and sing for the wedding, and arrange points for their contribution during the service. Sadly, it was even more overcast than yesterday and it was raining intermittently, although the cloud began to life after the ceremony. There were sixteen family and friends, four of whom were children under two, including the bride and groom's own child Chester. It was an advantage that the chapel was only a third full, as it allowed parents minding their offspring to move around.

As guests arrived they were given a glass of champagne at the door. With the weather there was no question of hanging around long outdoors, so people sat in the chapel to drink and chat relaxedly until the bride arrived. In such an intimate space, everyone was very attentive during the service, and only once for a short while did Chester come into the sanctuary and climb on to his dad's knee. I had been exercised by the thought of what I could say in my wedding homily, and woke up at six thirty this morning to write down what was going through my head. I was pleased with the result, and just hope that it made sense to the audience. I may have gone on too long.

We finished just before three, and as the guests made ready to be ferried to the reception, I was given a lift back to the téléférique with enough time to have a late lunch of coffee and a pain aux raisins before riding down to Le Chable for the 16.11 train, both pleased and relieved that it had all worked without a hitch or an embarrassing moment for me, leaving the couple and their family with a memorable experience to treasure.

In the evening Clare and I were taken to a supper party in the village of Jongny on the mountainside above Vevey, hosted by Caroline, St John's sacristan, a long standing member of the congregation, for church members. It was an evening of splendid food and conversation, with white wine from the fields around the house being served - a Chardonnay. I'm not keen on Chardonnays I have tasted from elsewhere, but this one was drier, not quite so rich, reflecting the character of the stony soil, an unexpected and agreeable difference. Caroline is the daughter of novelist Graham Greene, who died in the nearby village of Corsier and is buried there. She inherited many of his memorabilia, and from her mother, a collector of doll's houses with a museum dedicated to them, a magnificent century old family doll's house, containing even older artifacts. It's in the hallway, and unfailingly attracts visitor curiosity.

It was such a comfort to enjoy the convivial hospitality of a family home after a day of confusing frustrating experiences in empty places largely managed by user friendly robotic devices which are still operating on the presumption that you know more than you do, at first use. We travelled back to Territet with Walter, who runs the Youth Hostel, just off the lakeside promenade on the south side of the port, tucked behind and beneath the railway line. It must be a noisy place, but is undoubtedly a popular destination for budget travellers to this area. Walter's a Swiss German, fluent in several languages, and St John's has been his spiritual home during his twenty years working here. During his previous twenty years, he worked in places all over Asia, so he's a well travelled man, typical of many people of different nationalities and faith backgrounds who find St John's and make it part of their life of discipleship.

We arrived at Church House just in time for this week's episode of 'Inspector Montalbano' on BBC Four. Whilst the story, about the death of a loan shark contained a few comic moments and exchanges of dialogue, the mood was a little different from usual. The tale wasn't about the victims of monetary injustice, but about the victims of a loan shark who was a sexual predator on young women, with an incestuous relationship with his daughter which drove his wife to suicide. His son decides to kill him to avoid dis-inheritance in favour of his father's latest paramour. The daughter decides to kill him out of jealousy. She succeeds with poison, but her brother turns up shortly after and doesn't realise he's dead, and shoots him.

It was an unusually dark story, reflecting the exposure of such dysfunctional family goings-on over recent years. What was impressive to me was the considerate treatment Montalbano showed as the investigating officer. Luca Zingaretti is a fine actor, and the acting of a succession of abused women which he had to interview was remarkably, well observed, a cut above the more stylised portrayal of wronged women of episodes made twenty years ago. Yet again, more food for thought on a Saturday night.

     

Another summer Saturday

 A day to complete sermon preparation and get myself ready for tomorrow's Christening at Villars. Also a day to go to Lidl's in Villeneuve for some weekend food shopping, while Clare went into Montreux for some retail therapy. Heavens, it was crowded in Lidl's, with families stocking up for trips to a favourite lakeside or mountain picnic places. The queues were long and slow because of the volume of of purchased being made. There's no fast track system for people with less than ten items to check out here. Migros and COOP, both have hi-tech scanning devices you can take around with your shopping trolley, and make fast track payments at a special electronic till. I must take time to try the system one of these days.

After lunch, we walked to the little beach by Chateau de Chillon, so that Clare could swim. It was crowded with families and groups of teenagers recovering from their first week back at school. Due to the amount of picnickers, the clear grassy areas above the beach were periodically invaded by a score of sparrows, a few related families I suspect, whose home is in bushes nearby. It was a lovely sight, as they were very tame, used to foraging for and fighting over discarded morsels of crisps. I daren't imagine what impact crisps have on their natural diet. Yet, there seem to be plenty of them.

Tonight, another episode of Inspector Montalbano, all about the different Mafia clans' efforts to run the Sicilian construction industry together, entirely in their own interests. It was complex story of criminal ingenuity, but the outcome was, as ever, that there's no honour among thieves, and the trail of victims, known and unknown, is everlastingly long.

  

Montalbano returns

This morning was spent writing a sermon for tomorrow on my Chromebook, and then transferring it to the church computer, a Lenovo laptop, for printing. It's the first time I'd powered up the latter, and a pleasant surprise to find it was completely up to date and working as intended. This is rarely the case with laptops I've encountered on locum duties. They may work, just, but need updating if a previous locum hasn't used it at all. It is, after all, an optional tool to use, and some don't bother.

As there's a boulangerie but no food shops here in Territet, we walked to Montreux to get some fruit and veg before lunch.  Clare said that she'd found an Italian specialist store which looked as if it was a small wholesalers, open on weekdays, but a notice said that clients should ring for a Saturday rendezous. She asked a neighbour about this store, and was told - "It's bizarre, having to telephone to buy a sausage."

After lunch we walked to the Chateau de Chillon along the lakeside path and found a small pebble beach where Clare could swim. She was delighted to report that the water inshore was warmer than that of the Mediterranean in Malaga, where she swam a month ago.

In the evening on BBC Four, I watched the newest episode of Inspector Montalbano starring Luca Zingaretti, and other key actors from the earlier series. It was the 27th episode to be broadcast over a 17 year time span. This is the first new one in three years. It's interesting to observe how the characters morph into middle age. The technology used has changed, but the townscape portrayed is, as it ever was, suspended in time, somewhere between the eighteenth and nineteenth century. Not for the first time, the plot portrayed the complex lives of elderly people and their secrets. Yet again, it was a masterpiece of story telling as well as ingenious slightly dubious detective methodology. So glad not to be missing this series while I'm here.

Getting hooked up

We had a slow, quiet Saturday, soaking up the heat. Clare is enjoying swimming in the communal pool behind the house, and it's doing her shoulder injury a power of good. Eating outdoors in the shade is a must whenever possible, although we've both noticed how much more noisier the environment is that it seemed when we were here first at Easter. Then it occurred to me that there's bound to be a much higher volume of motorway traffic this weekend and next, with holidaymakers coming and going. It's not a mighty roar we hear, it's more like the sound of mountain river, some distance away. The highway runs past our housing estate about two hundred metres away down a deep steep embankment which filters out much of the noise. Only occasionally can one identify the sound of a heavy vehicle or the high pitched whine of a motorbike. 

Reflecting on the notion that the N340/A7 must be one of the busiest highways in southern Europe at this time of year gave me an idea for tomorrow's sermon - about St Bartholemew and other apostles going out along the trade routes of the ancient world to evangelise in far flung places.

We took our first late afternoon stroll along a beach that was still crowded, even though most of it was now in shadow. The sun masked by the high rise buildings only lit up the water's edge. Several generations of a family relaxing, reading, talking, playing games, playing with their mobile phones. This month is when Madrid empties, and takes up residence on the sea shore. The Brits, Germans and Scandinavians who spend much of the colder part of the year hereabouts tend to go home to enjoy a traditional summer up North, come rain or come shine.

In the evening I finally made an effort to get to grips with finding BBC4 to watch the 'Inspector Montalbano' series repeat. Since we were last here, a 'Minix' branded internet TV box has been installed. It's very small and has a small, minimalist remote control device, which had to be learned first. The system is driven by a fairly familiar Android based user interface. The broadband speed is good enough to avoid latency, but Minix itself works rather slowly when it comes to acquiring a selected TV channel, so if you press a wrong button it can take an age to figure out what's gone wrong. Several reboots were required in the course of getting the hang of it, but in the end it delivered on time as promised.