Sobering stories

I slept well and woke up late, just after 'Sunday Worship' had started on Radio Four, with a service of Remembrance from Northern Ireland, telling a few stories of war time individuals who lived to tell the tale. Clare set her mind on attending the Welsh language Eucharist at St Luke's this evening, so I went to St Catherine's on my own. As well as the act of Remembrance there was an act of re-dedication for panels of a stained glass window repaired after it had been smashed by thieves during a break-in attempt. It contained the names of two brothers born and bred in Llanfair Road killed in the first World War. One was a soldier, the other was in the newly formed Royal Flying Corps, both in their twenties. A group of Brownie Guides on Church Parade presented their standards at the altar, and the Union Flag. 'God save the King' was sung at the end.  The Sunday School made their own Remembrance poppies. We were fifty adults and fifteen children. It was very traditional, not dumbed down, an all-age service as it needed to be.

After the service, I was asked to distribute Christmas Fayre publicity leaflets in our neighbourhood. Clare usually agrees to do this, so I could hardly say no and took about a hundred and fifty leaflets away with me. I went out straight after lunch, and delivered them, it only took me an hour and a quarter. I ended up lacking fifteen leaflets. Maybe I didn't take quite enough, or the total number needed was underestimated by ten per cent. This wouldn't surprise me, as a number of houses are now divided into separate dwellings.

It was an interesting experience, giving an impression of how many houses have undergone renovation in recent years, and those renovated 10-20 years back, and ones which haven't been renovated in forty years, and ones that look neglected. Interesting to notice how many houses have new wrought iron front gates, those that have gates which don't shut properly due to a dropped or broken hinge, those that now have no gate, and those which still work as they did half a century ago, but haven't been painted in decades. Also those whose front garden paths are unswept or unmaintained, and those that are kept clean. 

Lastly the letterboxes. Half the front doors are new with narrow letterbox apertures, requiring effort and dexterity to insert a leaflet into, lined internally with bristles, with strong springs in the lid. A few doors have letterbox openings almost at ground level. A few have vertical openings, most are horizontal, but at varying heights depending on the size of glass panels in the door. A few houses had mailboxes attached to an outside wall or fence.

Such diversity offers a small insight into domestic design history, with different styles from different eras. Older ones have no anti-theft or anti vandalism measures incorporated, they just cover a hole in the door, and mail plops perfectly on to the floor inside. Houses in Llanfair, Meadow, Bloom and Beacon Street were built piecemeal around 130 years ago. Some of the nicest looking letter boxes made of iron with door knockers attached must be a century old. The least interesting are ones in replacement modern doors, uniformly bland, designed to keep stuff out (including draughts of course) as to let stuff in. 

Delivering leaflets isn't as dull a job as it sounds as you need to pay attention to each house visited in turn. Behind each gate and front door are stories to be told about occupants past and present. Since this today's Remembrance service, I'm wondering which house in Llanfair Road saw the birth of the boys destined to die in World War One, and whether the present occupants have any idea about the tiny domestic fragment of history they have inherited.

As I returned from delivering a group of Clare's study group colleagues were arriving for a session. After a quick cup of coffee, I went out and walked in the park for an hour. For the first time in more than a week, the sun broke through the cloud layer, just above the horizon, offering a glimpse of blue sky and a little extra autumnal light for the hour before sunset. I stopped opposite the stables and sat on a bench for a while, enjoying the sight of golden leaves falling from the trees around me. Clare left for church shortly after I arrived home, leaving me to reflect in solitude and write, as darkness descended.

Clare returned from church in time for supper and The Archers. Then I watched a documentary which Fr Sion had recommended in his sermon this morning. 'Helmand' is a collection of interviews with a group of Welsh Guardsmen who served together on a six month tour of duty in the Afghan province sixteen years ago. It was a mercilessly brutal affair with the battalion commanding officer, an interpreter and eight soldiers being killed. Among survivors interviewed were men nearly died losing limbs, nearly drowned and others suffering from PTSD and nervous breakdown. Spouses were interviewed too. It was a powerful moving testimony to the price paid by those who are sent to the front line, but also an account of the deep bond between brothers in arms for whom shared experience of life together is as strong if not stronger than those of family life.

It was very intense watching, so I watched the first episode of the ninth series of 'Shetland' with its beautiful calming scenery, such a contrast to the desert landscape of Afghanistan, before going to bed. It's heartbreaking at this time of years to be living with wars in Eastern Europe, the Middle East, the Horn of Africa, and the hundreds of thousands of deaths and crippling injuries among military and civilians alike in the unending struggle for power and control over each other's destinies. For all our sophistication as a species we are far from being able to exist without doing violence to each other - and our planet.

From Remembrance to Winterfest

I woke up five minutes before my seven fifteen alarm sounded this morning, and was walking to Saint Catherine's to celebrate the eight o'clock Eucharist with eight others twenty minutes later. Home then for a leisurely breakfast before driving to St German's in good time to start the Solemn Mass of Remembrance Sunday with the two minute silence at eleven. On the way through the city centre a saw several besuited men wearing service medals walking to or from the Castle's Remembrance Poppies field, on their ways to the national cenotaph in Cathays Park behind City Hall. 

It was nearly half past one by the time I reached home afterwards, the road was busy with more traffic than usual I thought. Not because it's Remembrance Sunday, but because many people are already thinking about Christmas shopping and making a start on it. The city centre Christmas market is already under way, bringing extra light and colour to the streets around St John's. A skating rink has been built in the part of the Castle grounds not occupied by the Remembrance Poppies field, a big Ferris wheel has been erected, plus a small artificial ski slope on the lawn in front of City Hall and the Museum. 

I think the official launch of the city centre pre-Christmas 'Winter Wonderland' special activities is next week. This includes a night time walk in the dark through the Bute Park arboretum, decorated with a light show. We noticed yesterday that a large section of the woodland has been cordoned off with fencing, not just for the lighting installation, but also to create a zone you must pay to enter. Last Christmas it was too wet to become a mass attraction. Will it be a success this year, or another failed entertainment project, expensive to arrange, and expensive to go and visit? I wonder.

After lunch, I booked Clare's return journey from Malaga next Easter on the same flight as me. It's taken a fortnight to get around to doing it, so the homebound flight cost three times as much as the outbound. After an exchange of messages with Kath, she has booked flights for Anto, Rhiannon and herself to fly out for Easter weekend, and celebrate my birthday, which is on Easter Tuesday this year. That's a special birthday treat for me, and hopefully for them too. They did the same thing eight years ago when I was last in Fuengirola for Holy Week and Easter.

I don't enjoy booking flights these days as it's more complex, with too many options, and lots of extras pitched at you in the course of purchase, which you have to skip over, insurance, hotel, car hire, extra baggage etc, even though they may be irrelevant to you if you only want a flight. So many extra choices to make whether to take up or avoid. It's like passing through an oriental market and having traders pull at your sleeve or yell or wave things at you, holding you up.  I come away from the flight booking process stressed and tired. With all those distractions comes a greater risk of making mistakes. There has to be a better way, apart from getting someone younger and more savvy to do it for you.

Clare's study group arrive at four. Time for me to go for a walk  and clear my head. An hour and a half in the Thompson's Park as the sun was setting, then half a circuit of Llandaff Fields as dusk arrived was enough to sort me out. After supper, I watched three episodes I hadn't seen of Stanley Tucci's Italian gastro-tourism series, Calabria, Sardinia and Puglia. All very interesting and beautifully filmed, and so many regional dishes, food products, eating experiences portrayed, but not a good idea to binge watch. I felt a bit nauseous by the end, my imagination working overtime with all that 'virtual' tasting. Nothing that a cup of lemon and ginger tea couldn't cure before turning in for the night. 

Remembrance Sunday

A bright sunny morning for celebrating the Eucharist at St German's, no need to worry about not being able to read small print as the church was filled with sunlight. We started at five to eleven to process to the St German's and St Agnes Mission war memorials to read the names of those killed on active service. One was a priest of the parish, serving as a chaplain, and another was a nun of the Wantage Sisters who had a small group working in the parish, killed in a bombing raid. I was struck by the number of families which lost two sons, and shocked to discover several instances where three sons had died. 

At the end of my sermon I posed the rhetorical question about learning the lesson that in war everybody loses, even the very earth we stand on, saying "When will we ever learn." I then took a risk and invited the congregation to join me in singing 'Where have all the Flowers Gone?', the peacenik's anthem from when we were young. To my delight the congregation of two dozen joined in and sang very nicely. "You see Father, we're all of that age aren't we? said Mike the Lay Reader

In the evening there was a Remembrance Sunday 'Antiques Road Show' programme, shot on location in Étaples war cemetery on the Pas de Calais coast near Abbeville, in which people with memorabilia from the First World War showed and talked about the people to whom they belonged, a remarkable moving programme. I believe my Great Uncle Alfred is buried there.

The traffic congestion was terrible returning from church, and a fifteen minute journey took thirty five. I must try a different route next Sunday. I sat down to digest my lunch and to my surprise slept for an hour and a half, before going out for a walk, while Clare hosted her monthly study group meeting for the first time chez nous. When I came back from walking I suddenly developed a severe stomach cramp, which has happened before, quite specifically if I eat dairy milk chocolate, or anything else with butter in, which may have happened inadvertently twice earlier in the day. My gall bladder inefficiency means that I don't generate enough bile to tackle dairy fats. Fortunately a doze of Swedish Bitters in water works to restore the imbalance in the digestive fluids, and saves hours of stomach misery.

We watched another episode of 'Show Trial' after the 'Antiques Road Show'. It's quite a complex account of a crime seeing it from all angles - police, lawyers, victims and suspects and their families. It's difficult to remember who's who when it switches from one scene to another. If it was American made, each scene might be given it's own title to remind the audience of where they are, before they go channel hopping. As it's still a mystery as to who among the suspects is the perpetrator, and British made, it makes you work.

Staycation round two, day thirteen

A damp grey start to the day, listening to the Radio 4 Sunday Worship programme, from RAF Cranwell's chaplaincy, appropriate on this Remembrance Sunday, in the eightieth anniversary year of the Battle of Britain. Later on I watched the Remembrance ceremony at the Whitehall Cenotaph on telly.The Queen watched from a balcony above, while her sister, her son and grandson took part in the ceremony below. Prince  Charles laid a wreath on behalf of his mother, and a representative number of Commonwealth diplomats attended. 

It was all beautifully arranged with the hugely reduced number of participants safely socially distanced from each other. Quiet disciplined order give an extra sense of dignity to the occasion. This kind of social demonstration in a time of grave crisis and national lock-down is what characterises the United Kingdom rather than new footage of boozed up crowds thronging the streets of Soho, on the last night before pubs closed for the duration of the latest restrictions.

Beforehand, we logged into Facebook separately to watch the Parish Eucharist being celebrated from the Rectory this morning. Both of us had connectivity problems, picture freezing, or picture running without sound. It was most frustrating and distracting from prayer at a distance. Was this our internet connection playing up or an issue at source? Clare later heard from others on the Parish social network that we were not alone in experiencing this. I wish the Benefice would invest in proper digital streaming devices and a proper dedicated streaming web platform, not just get by with fancy phones and Facebook, which not all recipients trust or like using. It's hardly friendly to new users whose internet usage is limited. 

It's time to get used to the prospect of on-line broadcast services will be with us for the future. Even if the majority are eventually able to return to regular public worship, there will still be housebound people who want to continue benefiting from a local church service in a place they love, in a way they never could before.

My personal phone was switched off for charging for much of the day, and when I turned it on I found a text message from the Covid Test and Trace centre saying that my test was returned negative. Having been symptom free throughout the year, and living in quarantine or under restrictions much of the time for safety's sake, I was pretty confident that I had remained virus free throughout. So now due diligence has been satisfied, the op can go ahead on Tuesday. The text message delivered a code to insert into the NHS app on my phone, which I did, conscientiously, only to be informed in best big government Web-2 graphics that I didn't have the virus. What Ashley would call 'belt 'n braces' info, I think!

In the evening we had a family Zoom call with Rachel and Jasmine to celebrate her 47th birthday tomorrow, and Jasmine's 14th on Thursday this week. I watched the last episode of 'Roadkill' on iPlayer afterwards. I found the ending somewhat obscure. The dodgy popular politician anti-hero makes it to be prime minister and doesn't get the comeuppance he deserves. His mistress dumps him, he owns up to a grown up love child, and his wife who has been party to his secret perversion of the course of justice, withholds the means to a cover-up to keep him on a tight leash, while both enjoy the privileges of life at Number 10 Downing Street. 

It seems each of the characters portrayed in the 'Westminster bubble' has something incriminating on someone else, but don't use it in order not risk losing their own privileges and status. Whether that is truth telling fiction, but it's impossible not to see Boris Johnston as a model for the main character. I wonder if this is a first series with another to follow? Often it seems these days a serialised story ends on a note that allows for the possibility of a sequel, even when one isn't planned.  

More remembering

I'm certainly not used to being out late these days. I was tired yesterday morning, and took a long time to surface, thankful that I didn't have much to do, apart from finish off my Sunday sermon. 

Last night, before turning in I exchanged birthday greetings a few hours early with Rachel in AZ. Today we spoke to her on WhatsApp as she was starting her day with Jasmine making a fuss of her.

Today is also the thirtieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall, three weeks after I was in East Berlin with my good friend Geoff Johnston and seven others from Halesowen Parish, on our way back from spending time with members of the Stefanausgemiende in Leipzig, launching our Parish twinning initiative. It was the day Erich Honecker resigned as president. 

Being there in the DDR as witnesses in the thick of such dramatic events was a life-changing experience for both of us, and for all those present during those momentous days when demonstrations in the city reached their climax and precipitated the fall of the regime. The consequence for me was the desire that emerged which led to me opening myself up the the possibilities of ministry in Europe, ending up with our move to Geneva three years later, at the same time of year.

It was again late in the afternoon before I went out to walk and there was a distinct autumnal chill in the air. Across Llandaff Fields there was a mantle of mist a couple of meters think. I enjoyed finding out the best way to take pictures that reflected the beauty of the passing moment. Soon enough it passed as the temperature dropped, leaving the chill air clean and clear.

This morning I arrived at St Dyfrig & St Samson's church at a quarter to nine to celebrate Mass for twenty adults and three small children. The Remembrance Sunday observance was made an hour early, right at the end of the service. There's a memorial at the back of the church from the 1939-46 war with a dozen parishioners' names on it. I daresay that the names from Word War One were being read a little later at St Paul's Parish church, but today I wasn't required to take a service there as well.

With the Remembrance ceremony added, we finished a little late for me to drive to St Catherine's and join Clare there, so I went home and arrived in time to watch the national ceremony on Horseguards' Parade in London, a rare opportunity for me, and special this year, as it's the centenary of the first observance of Armistice Day tomorrow.

Clare had her study group n Bristol in the afternoon, so I went out early in clear bright sunshine, with my Sony Alpha 68, before she left, to make up for a week of walking just around sunset. I walked as far as Lidl's in Llandaff North along the Taff Trail, and photographed a solitary female cormorant in breeding plumage. She was on a ledge at the base of the central pillar of the road bridge over the Taff, looking lonely. Her entire front from neck to feet was as white. I don't think I've seen such an expanse of white on a breeding cormorant before. It certainly was a cormorant, to judge by the head and beak, however, I wonder why she was so far away from others, way up-river from their normal haunts?

Remembrance Sunday

The Ermita de San Pascual de Baylon was full to overflowing for this morning's Eucharist with act of Remembrance, altogether about a hundred people. We started at 10.45, and reached the appointed hour just as we finished singing Abide with Me before the Gospel reading. I'd have been less tense if we'd had a shorter hymn at that point, as singing it in full can drag and lose a minute or two, causing some old soldiers to inspect their watches.

As a locum priest, you take things as you find them. Left to my own devices I wouldn't have integrated the Act of Remembrance into the Eucharistic Ministry of the Word, but kept it as a stand-alone ceremony before Mass, as a number of people turn up for the ceremony and leave straight after, rather than stay for the full service. In fact, that was what I'd expected, or forgotten from last year! Presented with a printed order of service minutes beforehand, I had think on my feet too quickly for comfort. And, it didn't help that I'd slept badly and didn't feel as if I was on my best form. Anyway, by the time I preached, the adrenalin generated by an audience started working its magic.

At the end of the service, Val the Treasurer came to the front and read the formal announcement of the name of the coming new Chaplain, Canon Vincent Oram, currently working in St Alban's diocese, although his ministry began in the Anglican Province of the Church of South Africa, back in the time of apartheid. He's been in rural ministry there and in UK, and won't have any problem adjusting to a ministry involving long drive times for himself and his several flocks. It was for me a satisfying thing to be here when the announcement was made, having met him briefly just after I arrived for duty. I may never pass this way again, and look at my many photo albums of the region with nostalgia, but to have been here to help prepare the way for his arrival is a pleasure of its own.

I joined sixty members of the RBL Branch for lunch at the Bella Vista restaurant after church, but nearly came un-stuck. I arrived at the restaurant, same one as last year, thinking I was only just about on time, and the place was empty apart from three waiters waiting for something to happen. I could see no welcome to the RBL panel in the foyer, and thought I'd made a mistake about the venue. I was too dumbstruck to enquire, went back to the car and tried calling the organiser to check what I'd done wrong. No answer. So, I drove back to the apartment, unable to figure out what Id done wrong. Half an hour later, my call was returned. I was at the right venue, only half an hour early! If there were any diners present, or organisers, they were in a back bar, and not making any noise. I felt such a fool, but jumped in the car, and returned, saying Grace only ten minutes later than proposed. What an idiot!

After an enjoyable meal in pleasant company, I made my excuses and left, to be sure I was ready on time for the drive to Aljambra for Evensong. As I made my way up the Almanzora Valley, the setting sun was just above the horizon, right in my eyes, and slowing me down somewhat, but I was there a quarter of an hour before time, just enough to get organised with Duncan leading the office, and me preaching and baptizing. There were thirty of us present, almost full, and baby Tallia Sophia's three siblings were there taking part, along with parents, godparents and friends. It was a delightful finale to my Aljambra sojourn, and there were some warm and kind words of farewell to send me off into the night, back to base in Mojácar after an eventful day.

 

A memorable Remembrance Sunday

I made sure to get to the Ermita de San Pascual early this morning, our Remembrance Sunday Eucharist was to start fifteen minutes early, so that the two minutes silence could be observed at exactly eleven o'clock. Thankfully, the readings and hymns chosen ensured this would be possible. A I parked the car a few hundred metres away from church to make room for others to park, the sound of bagpipes reached me on the still morning air. Nothing better to send a shiver down the spine and awaken the senses.

This is most likely the last time the local resident piper David will play, as he's of an age that requires him to return to family in Britain, after caring for his wife until her recent death. A familiar and much loved figure in local expat life, he's been here for ages, since they retired, playing for Burns nights, funerals and Veterans' events - a real labour of love and honour.

There were nearly a hundred people in church for the service, and sixty four communicants, about the usual number. I broke my own rule and preached longer than usual, but didn't seem to lose people. I had several appreciative, as opposed to irritating comments afterwards.

Then I went with other church members to a special lunch at 'Sensations' restuarant, which is next to the Bella Vista where I dined last week with Archdeanon Geoff, Pam and Alwyn. The service was slow. Clearly the kitchen was understaffed, and we waited an hour between courses. It was nearly four when I got back, and had to reciver my eving sermon, print it off, and get out of the house and on my way to Aljambra for Evensong by five.

Thankfully, I arrived in good time, officiated at Evensong preached for the last time to the congregation there, and reached home just after eight. Then, there was an evening meal to prepare, making enough to cover tomorrow's lunch also. Little time to pack before bed time, and so busy, I forgot to call Clare. It was a busy day but a fulfilling day. I've enjoyed good will and kindness here during my stay. I hope it won't be too long before another permanent chaplain can be welcomed. But, if the opportunity arose I'd love to return for another locum spell, and bring Clare with me. There's so much more I'd like to learn and discover about this extraordinary region.
   

Remembrance Sunday

I started to have second thoughts about my Sunday sermon on Saturday morning, realising that it would be better to shorten what I would preach at Vinaròs in the light of having the Act of Remembrance and traditional (lengthy) hymns expected for such a solemn occasion. As ever, shortening it took as much time again as writing the original, and it was late afternoon before got outdoors for a walk along the coastal path towards the town and back.  As I walked back up to the main road alongside the barranco I heard the sound of guitars being played. At first I thought it was coming from a garden where some children were playing. Then I saw two young men practising intensely on a park bench, sounding really good. A couple of touring bicycles laden with their baggage stood nearby. They must have kept their instruments in backpack cases while riding. An interesting take on musical adventures. 

Kath and Anto were performing 'Once in a Blue Moon' with their dance company in Newport today, so Rhiannon has been with Grandma. The weekend has been clouded for them by news that Anto's sister Viv's partner Paul has had a stroke and a heart attack, and is not expected to survive. I was glad of the opportunity to speak to them all on Skype in the evening as they stayed the night before returning home.

There were sixteen of us at the Vinaròs service. I was on my way to Alcocebre by 11.05 and arrived at 11.45, and so had just enough time to sort myself out and start the Act of Remembrance in sync with the UK ceremony at the national cenotaph in Whitehall, London. Although not quite enough time to get used to the liturgical space, as I knocked over a large pot plant, placed in front of the processional cross. I seem to remember doing the same thing when I was last here two years ago. 

There were fifty people present, although less than half took Communion, a sign of the times, I guess. Some had travelled from Peñíscola to join us, as no ceremony of Remembrance was held there this year. We'd prepared for twice as many communicants as we got, so consuming the left-overs had to be delayed until after the service. A couple of dozen people stayed a short while for a drink and a chat on the terrace outside the church afterwards. I was home cooking lunch just after half past two.

This is a significant day for Catalunya as the day of an opinion poll is taking place on the subject of independence from Spain, and the need for a referendum on this issue. Prime Minister Rajoy declared the referendum call illegal on the advice of the constitutional court, but can't prevent the opinion poll. This is a long standing contentious issue in Spain, but the recent referendum on Scottish independence, may encourage more people to say 'Why not?' 

To mark the occasion, at the end of the afternoon I went north on the coastal path, as far as Sol de Riu, and the barranco that marks the border between the Generalitats of Valencia and Catalunya. Hardly anyone about as the sun was setting just a few people out sea fishing from low cliffs or beach rocks. It's a two hour walk there and back. I was certainly dragging my feet, that last kilometre in the twilight.

   

Remembrance Sunday

I drove west on the N340 in good time to find my way to Calahonda for the first Remembrance Sunday Eucharist. It's a drive of about fifteen kilometres from where I'm staying, another five from Peter and Linda's nearest junction, so I was venturing into unfamiliar territory, looking out for the correct turning. It wasn't too hard to spot, but on a first visit with a time deadline I was nervous about over-running the turning, until I saw it and made it. 

The parish church of San Miguel is set just above the highway junction in the middle of a big roundabout. It's an attractive modern building with rooms behind where a Sunday school can meet.

I noted from the noticeboard that an English speaking evangelical church meets here in the afternoon, so the local Catholic community is ecumenically generous. There were thirty adults and five children present, and some enthusiastic singing from a choir of half a dozen. When I arrived before the service, the choir was rehearsing Christmas music for the first time this autumn.

As the service included the Act of Remembrance and lengthy notices, it went on longer than usual, so I was unable to stop for a coffee and chat before taking the fifteen minute drive back to Los Boliches for the eleven thirty Eucharist. Thankfully I found a convenient parking place near St Andrew's, and that left me plenty of time to prepare.

This morning during both observances of the Two Minutes Silence, my mind was back at St John's Cardiff, remembering Bill John reciting the allocution - "They shall not grow old ...", no longer with the voice of the stern History teacher of my adolescence, but the frailer gentler voice that comes with great age, charged with recollection and insight from the hidden days of his youth - sixty-odd years after his return from Burma. As a schoolboy, I don't ever recall any of our masters speaking of their war-time service. In fact, I only learned of Bill's participation in the Burma campaign when I went to St John's.

We will remember them.

    

Remembering

We've had Kath, Anto and Rhiannon with us for the weekend. Anto was playing a gig last night at Chapter Arts Centre just down the road from us. It was a night of re-union for 'The Third Uncles' a Cardiff 1980s rock band in which Anto had been bass guitarist before he and Kath married. This was their first gig in 23 years. The band was good enough to be signed by a big record label, then later dropped. This experience of the music business in those early days of electronic sound samples being added into live performances gave Anto a taste for making and recording his own music. This was how his post teaching career, running his own library sound track production company AKM Music began.

Clare and went to the gig, played to a packed house in an upstairs studio, a hundred or so of mostly middle aged people, re-united around their youthful memories, of bonding over loud music. The band played their hour long set with their hallmark tight precision. Either the protective earplugs I was wearing or the sound system balance muffled the vocalist, so the sounds retained their indistinct unfamiliarity. It wasn't really my kind of music, to be honest. I much prefer the Latino music Kath and Anto are performing these days with their group 'Lament', soon to be more cheerfully re-branded as 'Sonrisa'. I can even sing along to some of their songs. Thankfully, the gig didn't finish too late, so I was able to walk home and watch the first half of  the last series two episode Inspector Montalbano on iPlayer before bed.

I was up early for an eight o'clock Mass at St David's Ely, followed by the nine fifteen Mass at St Timothy's. As it's Remembrance Sunday, I considered going into town for the Cenotaph ceremony, but by the time I was ready to leave church, it was already too late to arrive on time, so I listened to the Whitehall Cenotaph ceremony on the car radio as I drove home. Strange to miss out, after so many years of habitual attendance at Remembrance parades. But, if things had worked out differently in the summer, I might still have been out in Spain, where remembering victims of past conflicts is still a painful little mentioned issue for many.

After a family lunch and departures, I drove out to Tongwynlais to attend Evensong and hear Philip, one of my tutor group members preach his first sermon since arriving in College. He did well with both content and delivery, a promising start. The service was the much loved Prayer Book Evensong, seventeen people present, with four of the hymns sung traditionally sung at Remembrance-tide. I enjoyed it, not least because I found myself remembering my father who had attended my first ever preachment at St James' Taff's Well, the other church in the Parish, just a mile away. He'd spent some of his childhood living and going to school locally. It was easy to imagine his presence, and casual enjoyment of worship in this way, hardly changed since he was a boy nearly a century ago.