Hearing the familiar with fresh ears.

It was nearly nine by the time I got up this morning, recovering from such a full day yesterday. The fitbit sleep tracker reckoned I slept only half of those hours, though I certainly wasn't tossing and turning all night. But then I don't rate very highly the smartness of smartwatches anyway. I did the house cleaning in fits and starts during the morning while Clare cooked a delicious chickpea curry.

I went out to inspect the moorhen's next in Thompson's Park, and found it empty,. The photos taken on the HX90 and phone camera showed what I think may be fragments of an eggshell. No sign of dead chicks or smashed eggs, but predatory gulls would make short work of them. In pond reed bed, sat a solitary bird on what, from the full length of the lens looked like a new nest. In a corner of the frame depicting the next, a black out of focus smudge which could be a chick, or not. 

I went home and collected my Sony HX300 and returned to see if I could get photos of the nest from an angle above and across the pond with a longer lens again. These confirmed a complete new nest made of reeds had been built in the reed bed. The bird that had been standing on a submerged twig when I arrived had moved into the nest. Only its back was visible. Is it sitting on a new clutch of eggs? Or a surviving chick transported from the ornamental pond to the wilder safer reed bed? 

For much of the last week only one moorhen seems to have been active in support of the other. Did one get predated or flee the scene, or been quietly busy preparing a second nest in the reed bed? It's a tantalising mystery, one which leads to conversations with other interested park visitors. Nature doesn't always give up its secrets easily. Maybe we'll find out what's going on eventually.

The bonus, however was a shot in evening light of a reed warbler under a bush on the edge of the water, a bird I've often heard, but pretty elusive in closeup.

When I got back, second time around, I emailed the best photo's I'd taken to Jasmine, and was delighted to have a response from here several hours later. She's off to Geneva tomorrow to start the road trip to the Cote d'Azur, via Turin. crazy distances in their time frame. 

I went for a brisk circuit of Llandaff Fields, to complete my daily walking distance before supper. My right ankle had been complaining slightly, and what I've learned is that I can remedy this by stretching my upper right quad with strides or knee bends, It seems to stabilise the ankle joint, though I'm not sure how.

I listened to some Miles Davis quintet early sixties tracks, from the Verve albums stored on my phone. As Clare wanted to watch Elton John's performance at the climax of this year's Glastonbury festival on BBC iPlayer, I went upstairs and sat on my bed instead. These tracks contain special memories of my sixth form years when I listened to Jazz more than pop music, thanks to my sister June and Penry my scoutmaster. It's amazing to discover that after sixty years my memory of the tracks and the solos within them are intact. When I listen to them now, they are fresher than when I first heard them, as I notice emotional expression within musical phrases, which I wouldn't have noticed nearly as much as a late teenager. It's like returning from a spell in Spain and noticing how fresh and colourful streets taken for granted at home can be.

Ministry upheaval

Fortunately, no rain today, warmer with the sun peeping through the clouds occasionally. After the daily reflection upload, breakfast and prayers, a walk to the GP surgery to get my medication prescription and then pick up the pills from the pharmacy opposite. After lunch and a snooze, a walk around Thompson's Park and Llandaff Fields. On my way home, I saw a young girl with what I thought was a tiny sausage dog on a lead. When I looked more closely, I realised the creature was a handsome sleek coated ferret. It's something I've never seen before! 

The weekly Parish newsletter arrived this afternoon, announcing the departure of Fr Benedict, who is to join the Whitchurch Ministry Area for the rest of his curacy. In addition Mthr Emma is being seconded for three months to Fairwater Parish at the other end of our Ministry Area, for an interim ministry until a new parish priest is appointed there. Mthr Frances is still on sick leave. For her to return to a situation in which two colleagues have departed, leaving her as the sole full time priest is, to my mind, an insensitive move. The three of us who are retired clergy living in the Benefice will doubtless fill in some of the gaps in the everyday duties of ministry, but the burden of responsibility for the three churches still remains with the Rector. Surely there could have been a better way to deal with the situation?

After supper we sat and listened to the early Miles Davis album Walkin' together for the first time. Owain sent it to me in MP3 form last spring in Ibiza, along with several others of Miles, and that was the first time I'd listened to it since I was a teenager. When Clare went up early to bed, I watched another episode of 'Inspektor Falke' on my Chromebook, a morality tale about what happens to a neighbourhood watch group when vehement social media activists make it mutate into a vigilante group capable of criminal acts. We need reminders of the dangers of social media operating in a climate of uncertainty and fear, over all kinds of common concern.

Jazz feast

Another damp grey day, but after lunch I made an effort to walk into town, and take photos of the latest changes to the layout of the public realm areas of Castle Street. The road closure still continues, although the sheltered dining area down the middle has now been removed. The carriageway has been narrowed, with one complete lane turned into a raised yellow coloured pavement extension on the side where there are several pubs. The same is happening in Westgate Street too outside licensed premises, so that chairs and tables can be laid out for outdoor drinkers. Indoors, everyone has to be seated, so making a properly delineated space where people can stand or sit in the street makes sense. Heaven help passing pedestrians.

This year's Winter Wonderland year end funfair has been relocated from the lawns in front of City Hall and the National Museum to the Castle interior and the open area in front. The grass is boarded over and cordoned with fencing, and there's a large bar/restaurant at the east end corner, all themed as an alpine ski village, with small chalets along the wall next to it, to provide sheltered dining and drinking spaces. It's all very nicely done. Inside the Castle are a selection of popular rides its been possible to make covid safe, plus a large fenced off oval with a raised walkway, which was intended to be iced over for skaters to use. A nice idea, but it failed understandably on health and safety grounds. Treating anyone who had an accident would be a nightmare in present circumstances for first responders.

I bought some packs of Christmas cards, then headed for home in the drizzle. I'm several weeks earlier in making a start on the annual round of festive greetings, although Clare was ahead of me by several days, and was ordering presents on-line when I got back. I began thinking about our annual family news letter, and spent the evening making a first draft, while watching music programmes on BBC Four. One was a contemporary re-take on the old Jazz 365 programme from the days of black and white 1970's TV telling the story of a British Jazz renaissance happening now, thanks to a community of young black musicians, male and female, mostly based in South East London. It was an amazing hour and a half of superb original music, innovative in combinations of style, cultural influences and use of instruments.

The music making was polished and adventurous, full of joyful energy. In the concert footage shown, the audience was on its feet dancing, participating with gusto, rather than still and silently attentive. It could have been a rave or a rock concert, and illustrates a big difference in the way jazz is appreciated today, and the audience for these performances are mostly teens and young adults. I recall reading an article on the new East London jazz scene a year ago. This is the first chance I've had to listen to the music. It was most impressive.

The programme following this was a documentary on the life and music of trumpeter Miles Davis told by several of his musical contemporaries, and using texts from his personal journal. So many pieces of his recordings played in between interviews I remember vividly, having heard them in my late teens at the home of our local scoutmaster, when I first became a fan of his. Love of Jazz ran in the family, even though we didn't have a record player that took LPs when I was growing up. When I was in Ibiza, Owain sent me a couple of Miles' albums in MP3 format, music unheard for fifty years. Tonight there was more of it, More joy, even though it meant going to bed later than usual.