Beyond credibility

It was one degree when I woke up this morning and overcast. By the time I'd had breakfast and prayed my way through Matins and the Eucharist on my own, light snow was starting to fall, so I went for a walk and took some photos. It wasn't cold enough for the snow to stick for long, but it looked pretty and it was such a delightful change to walk in. The parks were very busy with people looking more cheerful than usual, enjoying the respite from the seemingly endless rain we've had all through January. 

By mid afternoon, when I went out again snow had become light drizzle and though the temperature had only gone up two degrees it felt even chillier. While I walked, I listened to Choral Evensong on my phone with the BBC Sounds app. BBC live outside broadcasts have continued since the first on 7th October 1926 and is the longest live outside broadcast series running.  The pandemic has disrupted but not put an end to this tradition. They are now fewer and further between for health and safety if not logistical reasons. Recourse is made to the Beeb's vast archive of recorded services. Today it was a service recorded in St Paul's Cathedral on 26th January 2015. It's not the same as having the actual liturgy of the day - a bit like having yesterday's toast you might say, like all re-runs of recorded worship services. It makes Choral Evensong, more a sacred concert, but it'll do. 

The quality of the recording from St Paul's was exceptionally good. The audio recording infrastructure may be a permanent feature which the Beeb attaches to its network. There's a long echo to contend with, but the microphones are well positioned for maximum clarity. I could hear clearly the words of both the Psalms and Canticles sung, and the hear the echo during the pauses in the chant. From some Cathedrals the sound is muddy or distant due to the building acoustic and microphone positioning. So this service was an audio treat, and I found it was easy to pray along with as I walked without distraction away from traffic. It's amazing how the noise of car tyres on the road swamps the sound emitting from a pair of headphones. We're used to this, our brains filter it out, what a waste of energy. When lock-down greatly restricted all road and air traffic, many people commented on how peaceful the world became. It doesn't take long for the noise to return. Such a pity.

I whiled away the late afternoon watching the rest of the Norwegian 'Monster' crimmie. I'm still trying to figure out who murdered whom and what the relationship was between the fundamentalist Christian sect and an esoteric nature cult. They don't call it a 'mystery' for nothing, but my main criticism was the reality of some of its scenes. Two mildly obese sexegenarian men tumble out of a sauna naked and fight on snow packed ground until they knock each other out or faint with exhaustion. Night passes and at least one of them is alive enough to get in his car naked and drive himself to hospital where he's put into intensive care and lives to tell the tale. Frostbite? Thermal shock or Hypothermia surely? No evidence. 

Then two women fight on the surf at the edge of the sea, and get soaking wet. One of them walks into the ocean, and when the other realises she walks back into the sea fully clad in cold soaked clothing looking to rescue the other. She's as skinny as a rake, and not shivering or teeth chattering. Then there's the cop who tampers twice with evidence to avoid sanction for drug taking and an accidental shooting, entering a forensic lab and later a morgue undetected, both unlocked and not covered by CCTV. All ridiculous. If there is a second series. the only reason to watch it would be to see how many more totally implausible scenes there are, and pour scorn on.

Then, after supper more proper telly drama with David Attenborough's essays on threats to our planet from climate change, and another episode of the slightly bizarre bereavement drama verging on sitcom 'Finding Alice'. That's rather an overdose of TV. I was four months without telly in Ibiza and didn't miss it. Perhaps I should give it up for Lent.

Darker days ahead

Pancakes for Saturday breakfast seem to come around quicker than ever, weeks slip by at a pace when everyday life routines are familiarly the same. It rained until mid afternoon, keeping us indoors until we donned our wet weather gear and walked around the park in the drizzle. Then it stopped. After a visit to the Co-op to buy phone top-ups for both of us, Clare returned home, but I carried on walking further to maintain my daily mileage. We noticed how much less traffic was on the road for a Saturday, far fewer people going into town to shop with many non-essential stores being closed. 

First Minister Mark Drakeford seems to have committed a rare error of judgement by insisting that the supermarkets shouldn't sell non-essential items during the lock-down period, as so many stores selling clothes and non-essential utilities were obliged to close. All on the grounds of chwarae deg, fair play, not giving the supermarkets an advantage over other retailers. One criticism made is that the ban hands business over to on-line retailers, unfair in a different way. It seems to have caused an outcry from the public, people complaining it stops them from acquiring items other than food and toiletries they need to help them live as normal a life as possible under lock-down. By this evening it seems the First Minister's office is already reviewing the ban.

It was closing time as I reached the gates of Thomson's Park, then I heard a loud whistle being blown by the park-keeper, announcing gate closure, so I walked on to Victoria Park, did a circuit of the periphery and headed back. The sun wasn't yet on the horizon but with low cloud it was already dusk an hour before sunset. The clocks go back tonight. Sunset tomorrow will be at five. I don't look forward to this, especially as overcast weather is going to prevail for much of the lock-down and my self-quarantine.

We watched a lovely programme about the history of Venice by Francisco de Mosto, architect and historian, himself a Venetian, giving a clear account of the impact on the city's fabric and community life of environmental damage due to 20th century regional industrialisation, climate change and mass tourism. The poor quality of life there is driving younger people, the mobile enough to be able move away to live and work, making it into a city with the highest average age per capita in Italy, where one in five people are pensioners. 

Tony Robinson's Scandianvian train journey programme which followed seemed lacking in content and interest. Then I noticed a Danish crime drama simply called DNA was on straight afterwards, and indulged further. It's developing an interesting plot, and has dialogue so far in Danish, English and Polish, the latter being a reminder of how close countries of Eastern Europe are to Denmark, now that all are covered by the EU Schengen agreement. We can't travel anywhere for the time being. It's nice to see a little of what places abroad look like on our TV screens.

Epiphany confusion

Yesterday I had a sermon to write, and documents to prepare with photocopies of my passport and driving license, which can be verified as copies by an office holder's signature, GPs and clerics do this. I have often done it for others, but this time I must get someone to do it for me. Fr Rhys has agreed to. He's a GP and a cleric! The point of the exercise is to have an identity document to send to the Spanish police database to secure an official certificate stating that I have no criminal convictions in Spain. This is necessary to renew my European Permission to Officiate. 

It's a fiddly task which has to be perfectly correct to succeed, and that makes me nervous, even though I know there's nothing to worry about, as there's nothing to find. The trouble is, I don't trust anybody's big information systems, as none of them can be absolutely error free. It's one of the obstacles of modern life that has to be lived with.

My afternoon walk took me past Tesco Extra on Western Avenue. The stretch of woodland behind the store a few years ago hosted a huge flock of starlings, which came to roost there at sunset. These have been supplanted by a huge flock of crows. I have never seen so many in one place, hundreds of them. Alarm calls from birds overhead caught my attention. I looked up and saw several crows attacking a couple of starlings, driving them away from the roost which used to be theirs. People can behave like that too, if they think they have the numbers or strength. We're no better.

I spent several hours writing my novel until late, taking time off just to watch this week's double episode of 'Wisting' on BBC Four. Although this is the first time it's been screened in the UK, the plot has an air of déja-vu about it. It's worth watching for its backdrop of Norwegian winter landscape, but part of the entertainment is predicting twists in the story-line.

I was thankful for a later start this morning celebrating the Eucharist of the Baptism of Christ at St Paul's Grangetown at ten thirty this morning. There was a certain confusion about whether Epiphany ended last Sunday or ends today and Ordinary Time (changing to green liturgical décor) begins. I regret that lectionary revision fifty years ago didn't keep the rest of January as time 'after Epiphany', up until Candlemass. Just because the Roman Catholic church does Ordinary Time is no justification for everyone else to do it.

Clare had her monthly afternoon study group so we had an early lunch. This meant I could get out for longer walk and went up the Taff Trail to the top end of Hailey Park in Llandaff North and back, six miles in two hours. It's great to be able to do that and still have energy to spend hours writing.

We watched this evening's  the second episode of 'Doctor Who'. The goobledgook sci-fi content is barely intelligible let alone credible, but it was good to see Sir Lennie Henry again, playing a baddie whose tech genius dominates and controls the internet using 'big data' harvested from people's personal web accounts. He had some rather good lines, much closer to contemporary truth than any of the sci-fi. Then, more novel writing until late. I've gained a good deal of plot momentum this weekend, but the end is not quite in sight yet.

Fruitful season

Today we had a long lie in and a lazy morning, then went blackberry picking in the boundary hedge on the northern side of Pontcanna Fields in the afternoon. Between us we picked a kilo, which Clare then transformed into a delicious puree. It goes nicely with the tasty cooking apples I was given on Thursday at St John's from Ruth's generous garden tree. "Last year no fruit" , she said. "This year more than we can eat or store."

I'm getting used to being back in waiting mode until the next op, reassured by having received a new appointment letter this morning, confirming what the surgeon told me on Thursday. I'm comforted as well by the continued improvement in my condition, even though I am still being rudely awakened in the small hours of the night, by a strong sensation in my perineum of receiving an electric shock, as nerve ending reconnect. Each night at the moment, however, I find I'm able to sleep longer, waking up 3-4 times rather than 5-6. 

After supper, I caught up on the latest BBC Four crimmie "Darkness - Those who kill." It's grim, with a strong sub-theme on the impact of childhood abuse, and violence against, with mini discourses on criminal profiling thrown in, hence the English title, I suppose. I'd love to know how accurate the info is in reality, but am disinclined to start reading up on the subject.

   

Post op day two

Something seems to have gone wrong with the wound dressing I had on since yesterday's clinic visit as it slipped off rather too easily. When I inspected the new surgical incision using a mirror I was shocked to see that it was gaping open, not superficial as I'd thought, but quite deep. I wondered if I had done myself some damage by not lying carefully in bed, or getting in and out. The incision was not secured by staples or stitches, just like the previous one. As I'd not seen the surgeon after the op and not received a promised phone call. I had no idea of what had been done or what to expect. This I found worrying enough to phone and ask for a District Nurse home visit to ask for advice.

The nurse arrived just after lunch, inspected the wound, and changed the dressing done earlier by Clare, but was unable to pass an opinion on how it was meant to be post surgery. She'd not seen the surgeon's referral letter, though I had, so I recounted to her what it said, which wasn't much. She said that if I was worried I should go to A&E at UHW and ask to be seen, since Llandough's out-patient surgical ward closed over the weekend. 

The thought of spending 4-6 hours on a Saturday afternoon waiting to be seen in A&E, was as far as I'm concerned, out of the question when I knew I wouldn't be able to sit for any length of time, and couldn't guarantee that a colorectal surgical consultant would be on call - learned from experience of waiting on previous occasions in A&E. To stressful by half, the same as phoning the on-call GP service and having to repeat one's story thrice in order to get an appointment to be seen. As it didn't hurt much, and showed no sign of infection, lie low, be extra careful and do nothing seemed to be the least worse option. I found the surgeon's work mobile number on my phone from her previous contact with me, and left a message stating my concern. If she's not on weekend duty, I don't expect to hear from her before Monday. Just a little more explanation about what to expect post-op would have spared both Clare and I a lot of worry, and not made an extra nurse call-out necessary.

Owain came over to see us, a belated Mothering Sunday visit, and he brought a nice take-away salad lunch for all of us to share. We walked around Pontcanna Fields afterwards, then he left us to go to a local friend's 20th wedding anniversary party locally before returning to Bristol. We see a little less of him now that he has a place of his own to call home and manage for himself. It's only natural.

This evening's BBC Four scandi-drama was the third in the Danish series 'Follow the Money', about the investigation of crimes which have a particular economic dimension to them'. This series has a few of the same characters as in the previous two, and focuses on the intricacies of narcotics trading international organised crime and money laundering from top to bottom. It's very educational, and does a good job of exploring through personal stories the complex reasons why different people get drawn into the web of exploitation and subterfuge. First class watching.

Grand Slam weekend fiesta

Clare went for a swim and gym session yesterday morning and we met for lunch afterwards in John Lewis' restaurant, before I walked back to Riverside Clinic for my daily dressing appointment, at a  later time than usual. Already the influx of green shirted rugby fans was noticeable, standing outside pubs, drinking and chatting in the damp afternoon air, enjoying the weekend around tomorrow's six nations final match. A quarter of a million people are expected to descend on Cardiff to watch inside the Principality Stadium, or outside.

This morning I walked to Lidl's in Leckwith to get some bargain packs of cashew nuts, which mixed with olive oil and a dash of salt can be blended into a deliciously tasty butter substitute. Walking there and back along 150 metres of footpath alongside the park next to the store, I collected around fifty discarded cans, bottles and paper cups, disfiguring the greensward. The sight of this offends me, and still the best way to cope with the resentment this arouses in me is to do some 'wombling' as the family call it. 

Returning up Llandaff Road, I saw small groups of mainly men dressed in red shirts walking towards town, chatting about the prospects for the day. They walk in, rather than driving and attempting to park close in to the centre. Bus services become rather erratic on days of high congestion like this one, and stop altogether two hours before the match, so those with stadium tickets won't risk being held up - and they need time for a few beers as well.

The earlier wind brought first drizzle, then a steady downpour of rain, so going out and walking into town to savour the atmosphere lost all its appeal.  I watched the second half of the match on TV and was astonished at how superbly the Welsh team played to claim its fourteenth victory in a row, not to mention its fourth Grand Slam victory in the new millennium. Cardiff will be a happy rowdy place tonight. I dread to think about the amount of litter that will be generated. For the most part it will have been cleared away by lunchtime tomorrow. If only the same effort and focus were applied to tidying all the city's parks and public spaces! 

Because I walk the same streets almost daily, on my way to the clinic or the shops, I am aware that dropped or parked bottles, cans, cups and cartons lie in the same place for days, even weeks at a time. I don't think that the thinly distributed array of local litter bins get emptied more than once a week either. By the time the weekend arrives, park bins may already on their way to being full, and by Sunday night are overflowing. Our filthy streets are a testimony to consumer carelessness and to cutbacks in municipal spending.

The evening, the last couple of episodes of Icelandic crimmie 'Trapped' were shown on BBC Four. An impressive and touching drama, full of interesting characters with tragic family secrets, topical social issues, and a backdrop of amazing scenery. People I know have spoken highly of the holiday visits to Iceland. I don't think I could enjoy the clouds and rain however. Cross country skiing in midwinter would be great, but for the short days and long nights, so it won't feature on my tourism wish list any time soon. At the moment all I can hope for is to be fit enough and able to travel again.

Post-op day two

A slightly more disturbed night's sleep, but very little pain or discomfort throughout, apart from a strained back muscle from unusual exercise getting on and off beds, and holding positions for wound treatment. I think I've found a remedy for this however, in the form of a stool placed at the bedside that can take my weight and help me maintain unstressed posture when moving on off a mattress that gives too much at the edge. The stool was placed there accidentally when Clare needed it to take a small water container while cleaning me up. It'll stay there now as long as it's needed!

Just as I was finishing lunch we had a nurse visit, to do a dressing and bring us fresh supplies to see us through the weekend. Another Q&A session about wound care for Clare. She needs to feel sure and confident in dealing with a changed scenario. I'm a lucky man to have such a caring wife.

Today, I've been noticeably tireder and slept deeply in the afternoon. Nevertheless I did get out for a walk as planned, while Clare was out at the gym, and walked a mile or so to the shops and back. I needed to walk at a slower pace than usual, being careful to work within my energy limits. Apart from that, I spent several hours watching catch-up TV crime series - 'The River' from Norway on More Four Walter Presents, and 'Trapped' from Iceland on BBC Four. Heavy stuff, both recently made and both reflecting emerging political and social concerns in telling tragic human stories. It brings a different more real perspective to the endless stream of news and comment to which we are daily exposed.

Having completed all but one of the French Duo Lingo exercises, I decided to abandon it. One set of tests of a past subjunctive I repeatedly failed, not just because of its difficulty or its irrelevance, but because it insisted on English expressions and translations which made no practical sense to use. Just a bad set of exercise, which seem designed to humiliate. I continue daily Spanish drills however, as it's far less annoying. I know I can communicate in French, but I have yet to prove to myself that I can communicate just as well in Spanish. I look forward to more opportunities for this once I have recovered and am fit to travel again.

Match day in town

A Saturday afternoon walk into town with Clare, while the Wales v Scotland rugby match was on, leaving the streets relatively quiet. She wanted to buy some new boots, I just wanted exercise. Then  tea in the top floor restaurant at John Lewis before walking back home, having failed to identify if or from where buses were running, just as the match ended, and the streets began to fill with happy Wales supporters, going out to celebrate.

It was dark when we passed along Wood Street. The new buildings are all lit internally. and on the east side of number three Central Square, soon to be fully functional as the headquarters of BBC Wales, a large Boots store has opened, and a Greggs. There's now an alleyway running past them with the construction site of the long awaited new transport hub (aka Bus Station). Little seems to be happening there. I'm not sure if a final plan has been agreed that contractors can work on.

The evening's viewing saw a new Scandie crimmie on BBC Four, series seven of 'Beck', which I find enjoyable watching. It deals frequently with topical issues. This episode dealt with two issues; one the impact of Islamist terrorism on a Turkish migrant family, another was working in retirement.  His quirky sociable neighbour is back. Now they while away their idleness playing chess together.

Beck quit the force at the end of the last series. This time he is in the throes of trying to settle into a new lifestyle when he's called on to advise the team tracking a terror threat, since Beck knows the suspect's family from times past for other reasons. It was lovely to see former colleagues teasing him over his new status. As expected, his experience and knowledge is instrumental in solving the case. Then, he's invited to rejoin the police, but not in his former role - he was always happiest working within a team - but in a more senior supervisory role. Does he really want it? Will he, won't he? We wait until next week to find out.

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.

  

Contrasting portraits of evil

For our third opera outing of the winter season, we invited our old friends Martin and Chris to join us, and they took us to lunch beforehand, at a brasserie on the other side of Roald Dahl Plas from the Millennium Centre. It's ages since we last got together, as I've been abroad so much, so it was good to catch up with their news.

Then, we went to the matinee performance of Mozart's 'Don Giovanni', a production we last saw with Eddy and Ann when they came over from Felixstowe to celebrate Clare's birthday in 2011. It's a morality play, set to the finest music. The portrayal of the wicked exploits and downfall of this manipulative sexual psychopath is presented, for the most part as a farce despite its dark undertones. The acting and singing of all taking part was, as we have come to expect from WNO, superb. It's fine to play most of the action for its comic content, but I would have liked to see more menace mixed in with Don Juan's charm, and more craven cowardice in his servant Leporello.

At the end, just before he can be brought to face human justice, supernatural retribution overtakes Don Juan. Heaven and earth in turn are appalled by his behaviour. It's a narrative cop-out really. A fairytale magical end to the bad guy implies human justice is incapable faced with such extreme wickedness. Over the last century, humankind has often believed that. Nevertheless, we've also seen that justice can eventually done, by persistent, patient application of due legal process, globally and locally. Perhaps things were that much worse in Mozart's time

Like the real Spanish 'Don Juan', the villain keeps a journal boasting of his seductions, narrating his own success as a serial sexual abuser. His reputation as a 'lover' makes him a source of fascination for some women, if not envy on the part of men. This is unusually relevant in the light of recent revelations of abusive sexual behaviour by movie and media men, and attitudes to this, disclosed or undisclosed. After the opera's final set piece madrigal reminding the audience of the moral of the story, Don Jan's journal is picked up and peered into by some of the singers, with fascination and curiosity written on their faces, rather than disgust or horror. It's a subtle final comment on attitudes despite the moralistic conclusion.

We arrived home by half past eight, in good time for supper followed by another double episode of 'Modus', the latest BBC Four Scandi-noir blockbuster about the kidnap of a female US President in Stockholm. The plot is complex, and a certain suspension of disbelief is required. What's interesting, however, is the role of a senior FBI officer, with a history as a serial abuser and rapist, who seems to be the orchestrator of the kidnap or may be a double agent with inside knowledge. A monstrous conspiracy is slowly being unveiled. The top G-man is the smoothest of operators, persuasive, calmly sinister at every turn. Nothing funny to see here.

Candlemass revisited

I ventured to the Post Office this morning to mail a parcel to old friend and colleague Bernice, with a blouse she'd left behind in Montreux. She preceded me there, doing locum duty in December. I also collected a new CBS bank card, sent to my local HSBC branch, as there is now no longer any counter service in the two City Center branches. Only banking machine services are now on offer, plus advice sessions on appointment. Does the bank no longer want to attract city business custom?  

As today is actually Candlemass day, I took a bus into town and went to Mass at St John's, to enjoy being on the receiving end for a change. In twelve days time already, Lent begins. I'm not sure I feel ready for this yet. Still, Fr Mark emailed me as I was arriving in Cardiff on Tuesday, to booked me for St Catherine's this Sunday, and who knows what else after this, while I'm back in Cardiff. Canon Sarah has booked me to stand in for her on a Lent Friday later in the month, when she has to go and make decisions about the Deanery house in St David's, where she'll live once she's inducted as Dean after Easter.

I didn't stay long in town, or go to the CBS office, as I wanted to return and have lunch with Clare, as she'll be out this evening, leaving me to while away hours watching Belgian and Swedish crime dramas on telly. How indulgent! But, it's what happens when I've been abroad, where UK catch-up TV is not available via the internet and often can't be accessed on Freesat didgy-box either. I continue to resist using a VPN to spoof my location and allow me on-line access what my UK viewing license permits me to watch freely. Frankly, I don't trust this kind of digital app to be a covert channel for malware or surreptitious bitcoin mining. Better not to take a risk with something you can't be sure of.
   

   

Birthday take-away

Unfortunately, Clare has been doing battle with a horrible cold this past few days, and was brave to have made it to the opera last night. It's amazing how, year after year, she succumbs to illness on or around her birthday, for no apparent reason. Today, out of sheer self preservation, she spent much of the day in bed. She has much to do next week, accompanying Ann to the inquest into Eddie's death last year, and wants to be fit to travel to East Anglia for this. 

So, until Kath and Rhiannon arrived at tea time, we had a rather quiet day. When they arrived, we decided to get a take-away meal from 'The Italian Way' restaurant on Cowbridge Road East, we'd booked at table in, to spare Clare having to go out, and this was quite a success, apart from the amount of disposable packaging to be dealt with afterwards. It's one good reason to shun ready meals, and cook from fresh, no matter how much effort it takes.

Ann and I watched the penultimate set of episodes of Black Lake, on BBC Four which continues to un-impress. The acting of people in roles confronted by disturbingly traumatic experiences leaves much to be desired. I don't think it's a matter of culturally different responses to tragedy, but rather a failure of the movie producers to understand and reflect real human reactions to situations they cannot control. There may well be an interplay between the use of Danish, Swedish and Norwegian languages rather lost in subtitles, but many feelings can be conveyed by facial expressions and body language, which in this series are absent. The plot is flaky enough already without stretching credibility further. 

I keep watching, if only to observe how stupid the producers believe their audience is. It's waste of time really, but at the moment I have time to spare. It's odd, when the movie production values disturb you more than the intended horrific narrative. Like Mel Gibson's 'Passion of Christ'.

  

Acrobatic Montreux

Delighted this morning to receive a call from our friend Andrea from our Geneva days, whom we have visited several times in Scarborough, where she now lives. She is here, staying for a week with mutual friend Yvette, and they are coming to Territet to meet me and have lunch on Monday, which is just marvellous news.

I finished the intercessions of Sermon for tomorrow, then walked into town for some shopping late afternoon. When I arrived, I immediately regretted not having brought a camera, as the covered Market Hall was hosting a community festival of acrobatics, the Montreux Acro d'Acro as it's called with an outdoor trampoline, various kinds of bar apparatus for balancing and swinging from, and a large acrobatic floor stage, hosting not only ordinary gymnastic routines but also used for what I'd call BMX bikes. Two young men performed on these while I was passing by, extraordinary balletic as well as athletic routines of strength, speed, flexibility and balance. I've never seen anything like it, close up. Most impressive.

In the evening, I watched the second pair of episodes of BBC Four's latest Scandi-noir melodrama, having almost lost patience with the story after the first pair of episodes last week. It's set in the frozen wastes of northern Sweden in the haunts of the Sami. Beguiling photography, but so far it's unclear as to whether this is a psychological or a supernatural crime thriller. It puts a certain strain on the story's credibility, while not reaching out to invite one to suspend disbelief. Not the same plot standard as previous Scandi-noir thrillers. Psychological thrillers which play out well within the bounds of ordinary reality can be far more scary than supernaturalistic melodrama, in which the monster most likely to be revealed is figure more of childish fantasy than natural life. Why suspend disbelief when things happening in the real world can challenge beliefs we have about ourselves.

Bay watch

After preparing my sermon for tomorrow and an early lunch, Clare and I walked along the Taff Trail down to the Bay wetland area, enjoying the Spring warmth, bluebells and cherry blossom. We saw a few pairs of Great Crested Grebes in the wetland area. We saw one couple performing mating rituals, posing to each other, displaying the full extent of their head plumage and elongating their necks. We saw one bird disengage, dive and bring to the surface something in its beak, which it then presented to the other. I thought it might be a fish, but on checking later with a decent bird book, learned that it was fishing for strands of seaweed to offer. 

Being a good fifty meters offshore, my photos were taken almost at full length zoom with my HX300 so the quality and composition wasn't wonderful. Clare remarked that I'd have been better off taking video. Funny, all my Sony cameras make a good job of this, but it never occurs to me to use the built in facility. But I still enjoy the challenge of old school 'hunt 'n shoot'. This is one of the better shots.

We had tea in the Millennium Centre, then caught buses to take us back to Pontcanna, as we were both quite tired after a four and a half mile walk. Later, after supper I watched the third in the  Danish series 'Department Q'. This time an investigation into the disappearance of children from families of Christian religious sects, due to a murderous psychopath convinced he was an agent of the devil with a mission to destroy the faith of true believers by making them helpless witnesses of unspeakable suffering of innocent children. 

It was pretty nasty stuff, but it gave me cause for thought. One of the detective heroes is a practising Muslim. The other is an atheist who claims to hold no belief in God or anything metaphysical. His only conviction is that justice must be pursued regardless of the cost to himself or others, and that no crime victim should go without redress. The conversation is fragmentary and disjointed like the characters themselves. The atheist nearly loses his own life to rescue two kidnapped children, and it's the Muslim who finally catches the perpetrator, and drowns him in the sea in a life or death struggle with the diabolical killer.

Earlier in the film there were images of the religious sect practicing full immersion baptism in church so these resonated with that of the killer drowning as he resisted subjugation and arrest. It reminded me of parents speaking about babies crying at the font when they have water poured over them, as 'crying the devil out'. The film auteur plays with religious themes and symbols, raising the question of whether the existence of evil is more tangible and oddly credible than that of goodness. 

The atheist survives, his unbelief intact, just grateful to see children restored to their widowed mother. It's the religious man who is compelled to use lethal force at close quarters to stop the perpetrator's violence in its tracks, aware of the trail of death left behind him in a hospital. Experiences which will impact upon this kind, gentle and devout man. It's the kind of paradox which is not at all foreign to those who serve in security forces or the military, while the rest of us remain, for the most part unaffected. I what would Kierkegaad, that 'melancholy Dane' have made of this, I wonder?

      

An afternoon in the Garden (National Botanic)

We took advantage of a free sunny day to drive west this morning along the A48 and the M4 to visit the Welsh National Botanic Garden at Llanarthne. It's hard to believe we last visited six years ago, time has just flown by. Most of the early daffodils are now dying back, but later blossoming varieties are in full flower, and primroses are out in force, all offering patches of yellow differently shaded to the grass cover of the terrain. 

Many trees are in blossom, but leaves are still tiny, and for the most part, branches still have that bare wintry look about them. Despite cut-backs n public spending, the place looks well maintained and cared for, thanks to a host of devoted volunteers, as well as paid staff, no doubt. On such a lovely day, we thought the number of visitors would be greater that it seemed to be. Garden visitor numbers seem to be increasing across the country. I'd forgotten that the RHS show was taking place in Cardiff this weekend, however.

One notable addition to the landscape is a collection of giant hardwood tree trunks from Ghana's rain forests, each with histories and names as distinctive as their shapes. These are set in the ground on the south east flank of the giant domed greenhouse. They resemble giant artworks sculpted intricately from wood coloured elephant grey since the bark was stripped from it, leaving it to dry outdoors. They will stay were they've been installed for a very long time, as the wood is very durable, and not always susceptible to degradation by rainwater. There are photos here

I took a number of close-up photos of birds feeding off crumbs dropped from tables in the outdoor courtyard of the restaurant, also of vividly coloured tropical butterflies, kept in the large green house in a corner of the double walled kitchen garden. The greenhouse was there previously, although I don't recall seeing or photographing any butterflies at that time. There are photos here. 

We returned in time to cook supper and relax, before watching the latest Scandi Noir crime drama on BBC Four, Department Q. Sister June says it's part of a series re-run, so I reckon I may have been out of the country when it was last aired. It was complex, 'cold case' story, rather implausible, although I loved the maverick investigators. One character is a devout muslim, probably meant to be Syrian or Iraqui called Assad. That made me smile, being a direct assault on stereotyping Muslims and middle eastern names. A liberal effort to compensate for fallout from the blasphemous cartoon episode maybe?