Final duty assignment, and winding up

Saturday was, as ever, a day for finishing a sermon, while coping with heat and humidity. At the end of the afternoon I walked into the Old Town, and saw many smartly dressed people on their way to or returning from a baptism or a wedding in one of other of the parish churches. The marvellous 'Genesis' photo exhibition by Sebastian Salgado has now gone from Plaza de la Constitucion. It now seems so empty and spacious in contrast.

When the Cathedral bells rang, I walked over and joined in the Sunday Vigil Mass. An elderly priest was assisted by an elderly server, and two much younger Sisters, who led the singing, and assisted with proceedings. A couple of hundred people were present, but didn't join in the singing. I made an effort, as well as I could, having still not memorised the Spanish Ordinary of the Mass. It wasn't as easy to follow on this occasion, as the priest's accent made it difficult for me, even though earlier I had rehearsed the same readings in my sermon preparation.  I still have a long way to go, moving beyond guesswork with the spoken language.

This morning, I drove to Velez Malaga to celebrate their 10.30 Eucharist. There were two dozen of us present, and there was Pat and Peter's 60th wedding anniversary with food and drink after the service. They came up last for Communion, and stayed behind so I could give a special anniversary blessing. I had a prayer in mind, on my tablet, and stupidly forgot to take it with me, so I had to pray ad extempore instead, which was probably better, in the joy and serenity of the moment. Somehow, the Spirit compensates for all we lack.

After a delicious lunch, I drove back and impulsively started gathering in my things from around the apartment and packing them. When I'd done as much as I could, I tackled the church computer, removing my working files from it, leaving it ready for the next locum. Then, I finished my end of stay report, and had supper. Tomorrow, apart from cleaning up, there's not much to do apart from wait for my 04.00am airport taxi. I hate have to leave so early. I'd rather be able to go by public transport,  but it doesn't leave early enough for me to check in without time pressure. 

If I come here again, I'll aim to take cabin baggage, so I don't have to queue half an hour for Bag Drop, and so can take the earliest RENFE Cercania train to the airport, clear security and walk straight through to the departure gate in good time, eliminating all my present worries over missing the flight. The older I get, the easier I want to passage from one country to another to be. 

Nerja and an old friend re-visited

I got to the Muelle Heredia bus station in good time for the 10.35 ALSA coach to Nerja, but it didn't arrive until 10.50, perhaps because there were enough travellers to fill two coaches. I was on the non-stop one, which reached Nerja in just an hour. Muddled myself into thinking I was meeting Judith at our usual venue on the Balcon de Europa. I walked down there, and when I failed to find her, sent her a message and discovered our rendezvous was on the Balcon de Maro. I was lucky enough to arrive at the bus station again as a bus from Velez Malaga to the Nerja Caves, via Maro was pulling in. I was its only passenger, and only half an hour late.

We spent the best part of four hours sitting in the shade, drinking beer, eating a salad lunch and catching up on a couple f year's worth of news. It seems that no sooner had she stepped down as Church Warden after an eight year stint, last Easter, than her hip joint started giving her trouble. He is awaiting further investigation and a plan of action, which will probably involve a hip replacement operation in the coming year. She's in good spirits, but hating to need a walking stick for the time being. She told me how kind and supportive her Spanish neighbours are, helping her spontaneously whenever she needs a bag carried to her door. They have really accepted her as a fellow village even though she speaks very little Spanish. It's all done with the smile, I think.

Finding a local bus timetable for the return journey to Nerja proved impossible. Nothing on the bus and nothing readily findable on the smartphone web browser, except a bus after the time my coach leaves Nerja. So, decided to walk, afternoon heat and lack of shade notwithstanding. It's only four kilometres to the coach station, and the exercise did me good, after sitting for so long. I just got a little scorched on the legs, but nothing serious. The return journey was an hour and forty minutes, as the coach went via Torrox Playa and Torre del Mar. I was back in the apartment by eight, and ready for supper. 

I didn't go out again later, as I had work to do for Ashley on a RadioNet Newsletter to make public some details of the major frequency changes successfully executed by CBS during the past year. A few weeks ago I found the church laptop version of Office 2010 includes MS Publisher 2010. I downloaded  from CBS Cloud storage the last newsletter edition I prepared ages ago, and found it loaded perfectly well in the newer program. The saved file, won't be backwards compatible with software on my home PC so reluctantly I admit it's time for an upgrade from Publisher 2000.

  

A saintly parochial doctor

Today was another day of lying low, avoiding the heat, reading and writing until early evening, when I ventured out to Muelle Heredia bus station down the port to book a bus ticket to get me to Maro and back, to see former Nerja Chaplaincy Church Warden Judith Austwick. Moored in port was a 19th century two masted sailing ship, Jersey registered 'Eye of the Wind'. I think it must have been a promotional visit, to advertise sailing holidays as a crew member for the select few who are fit enough and can afford the experience.

Then I walked through the old town to visit the 16-17th century Church of Our Lady of Victories, a big prestigious looking building on a hillside with a grand patio of steps ascending to its main entrance. It's said to have been build on the site where King Ferdinand set up camp in 1487, to lay siege to Malaga during the reconquista campaign. It's a remarkable building, highly decorated and endowed with artworks, and an elaborately sculpted crypt, worth a separate visit some time maybe.

As it was late enough in the day for it to be open to visitors, I thought it would be worth the effort, even if the road leading to it out of the Old Town is noisy and polluted. Indeed, it was open, and a few people were gathered in the entrance porch, embracing each other. The Mass was about to start and when the priest appeared in purple, I realised it was a requiem Mass, and didn't stay. 

I had long enough however to look around breifly, and learn about a devout 19-20th century parishioner, Dr Jose Galvez, a gynaecologist and health care reformer who worked among the poor in the area, especially lepers, and developed a large hospital on the hill above the church. He's known as 'Gálvez Ginachero'. Only later did I realise 'Ginachero' is Spanish for gynaecologist. It seems the Spanish, like the Welsh, can nickname a man by his profession. A framed photo of him hangs on the wall near his tomb in the crypt. An enquiry process to lead to his beatification has been started by Málaga diocese with the Vatican Congregation for the Causes of Saints.

On my return walk I went along the Paseo de Malagueta, and saw that a couple of hundred plastic chairs had been laid out neatly on the beach in rows, ready for tonight's open air free cinema. The huge inflatable screen had not yet arrived, but the projection and sound systems were being tested. A French comedy is showing tonight 'Un hombre de altura' in Spanish, originally 'Un homme a la hauteur'. A Tall Man. It starts at 22.15. Too late for me.

Midweek pilgrim encounter

There were none of the regulars at St George's this morning, but two American women arrived for the Eucharist. They'd been in church last Sunday, learned of the midweek service and decided to come. Today it was my turn to celebrate St James the Apostle and pray for Spain, after last night's celebration at Santiago Parish Church in the Old Town and they were glad to share this.

I learned that they were related through the marriage of their children to each other. Both had been widowed in the previous year. They decided to take time out to travel, and to think about what they might do with their lives, post three score years and ten. Over the months past they had lived and travelled an unplanned journey in Europe, especially Spain, and felt much enriched by people they'd met and places discovered they never knew about before on their personal pilgrimage. 

They hadn't yet come to a decision about their futures, but both said they had experienced freedom of the Spirit in a new way, having sold up their homes before leaving, to make ready for whatever new life might lay ahead of them. I thought about T S Eliot's phrase in the last stanza of 'East Coker, which equally applies to women

'Old men ought to be explorers

Here or there does not matter

We must be still and still moving

Into another intensity

For a further union, a deeper communion...'

After we parted company I went to the bank nearby to cash a cheque I had been given by the church treasurer. Last time I queued for ten minutes, this time I was there for forty, chilled by the air-con, which didn't seem to have a de-humidifier setting. I was glad to get back to the apartment for a cold cerveza sin alcohol before making lunch. This week I have been winding down the perishable food stocks, as the apartment will be empty for six weeks or so. It means I have to think more carefully about what I need to buy, so there's nothing but rubbish to dispose of at the end of Monday, when I have to clean, pack up and wait for a 04.00am taxi to the airport. I'll appreciate a more temperate climate back home for a while, but soon start missing endless sunshine.

In the evening, I took a walk along the Paseo La Malagueta and around the port. At the moment no cruise ships are docked, just a few luxury sailing yachts, so it was quieter and less crowded than usual, and perhaps a little more hazardous to walk as more space makes pavement cyclists and skateboarders bolder in weaving their path at speed among walkers.

  

Tale of two Jameses

Yesterday, I spent most of the day relaxing indoors, avoiding the sun and writing a couple of reports I needed to get done. I even made a start on next Sunday's sermon. Strange how some days my mind seems to be active and productive, when the heat makes me want to slow right down and do little.

It was gone six when I made myself go out for a walk around the port, and was compensated for the effort by the Transmediterraneo ferry 'Sorolla' from Melilla entering port and executing the precise manoeuvre in tight spaces which it turns it round to present its stern to the quay for docking and the unloading of vehicles and passengers. It's the first time I've watched any big vessel enter port and doing this. Annoyingly, I walked out without my camera, but a few snapshots would not have done it justice. A video or time-lapse would be better.

Today was the same, although I was reading rather than writing most of the time. I'm tackling a big paperback by expert Dead Sea Scrolls scholar Robert Eisenmann on James the brother of Jesus. It's material I've entirely missed out on, presenting a forensic literary analysis of biblical and other ancient near Eastern texts from that era, as well as the Scrolls, demonstrating the relationship between them and his subject material. It's an attempt to reconstruct the story of the first century Jerusalem church when it was led by James the Elder, writer of the New Testament Epistle.

It's very detailed reading, with complex arguments based, it seems to me as much on what is unsaid, or removed from a text, or changed, as much as what is actually stated. It's a literary method that to my mind resembles that of a criminal profiler, looking for patterns to interpret. I have a long way to go with this book. The worst thing is its physical size and weight. It's heavier than my Chromebook and not pleasant to hold for a long period of time. I won't be taking it home, but leaving it here, and seeing if I can borrow a copy to read when I return.

Today is however, St James' Day - the other St James, one of the twelve Apostles. When I ventured out around six, I walked through the tunnel to the nearby barrio de Santiago, to see if there was any festive activity at the church. Sure enough, the place was open, and preparations were being made for the singing of Latin Vespers of the Feast by a Gregorian choir, with Mass to follow. I sat in the church, meditated, and enjoyed the quiet hustle and bustle of the place during the hour I had to wait.

There were eight choir-men, one accompanied on keyboard another conducted. All wore black shirt and trousers. Each wore a minimal scapular with a symbol on the front of it, to denote their role. It's too hot for any fuller form of vesture. Six clergy concelebrated the Mass which followed. The one who presided at Vespers also presided at Mass, exchanging his red cope for a chasuble. The MC and altar servers were all adults, and not in any kind of liturgical vesture. 

We were treated to a homily, which I mostly understood. The president spoke of the importance of Santiago de Compostella in the hispanic soul, of pilgrimage, simplification of life, fellowship, solidarity and peace. About a hundred people were seated on the pews in the nave, and another sixty on chairs either side of the sanctuary, and another forty odd scattered around the aisles or standing at the back. Two hundred people, of all ages, on a weeknight evening. 

It was impressive, and uplifting, especially when it came to singing the Missa de Angelis, which many worshippers know enough of to join in with the choir, and best of all the paschaltide 'Alleluia', which everyone seems to know and joined in with. I could just about recite the Lord's Prayer in Latin for Vespers, but still haven't managed in in Spanish. I'm also stuck on reciting the Apostles Creed in either language. This seems to be used more than the Nicene Creed these days at Masses I have attended. Apart from being conveniently shorter, I wonder if there's a reason for this.

   

Another up-country visit

This morning, I collected the car from St George's cemetery and drove out of town towards Granada for my second visit to celebrate the Eucharist for the Salinas congregation. I made sure I was early enough to get a drink in one of the village hostelries beforehand, and take a stroll around the place with my camera. I discovered there's a working train line running through the place, that connects Cordoba with Granada, although Salinas station is no longer operational, so it's necessary to drive 18km to Loja for a train.

There were fourteen of us for a Sung Mass, with eight in the choir. Once again I enjoyed the quiet and reflective nature of the occasion. It was great to have such a good sing. We met at Bar Manolo for a drink afterwards. Curate Doreen soon arrived from taking the service and Velez Malaga so that we could have lunch together, and spend the afternoon discussing ministry and the chaplaincy. It was something we'd promised ourselves we'd do during my stay, as we did during last September's locum duty here.

It was six by the time I drove back to Malaga. The countryside of the Comarc de Noroma on the plateau 600m up behind the coastal sierras is heartbreakingly beautiful. Heartbreaking, because it's impossible to stop and take pictures where the views are best. It's so photogenic in the warmth of early evening light, richly green, but with darker greens than we get further north. The slopes grow olive and almond trees. 

The rolling plains grow cereals and have recently been harvested, leaving swathes of bright golden stubble tinted red, grey or white, depending on the underlying soil. That palette of yellows and greens is so exquisite it almost moves me to tears. I can't even gaze at it on the move, as I must keep my eyes on the road! I could do with a few days to wander the back roads and capture this landscape at different times of day. Villages and farms are relatively few and far between. Three small towns along this route have Villanueva as their first name. But, it's the open rolling countryside that captures the eye.

I can see what draws painters to Spain, like Provence. I wish I could paint, not just take travel snaps. But that requires the kind of time and patience as well as vantage points I don't have. Well, at least I can talk about it!

Memorable Magdalene's Day

This morning, Bishop June Osborne was being enthroned in Llandaff Cathedral, and remembering her with thanksgiving prayer was a duty happily done. Later, it was good to see photos on social media and quotes from her address. I'd really like to read the whole thing, but haven't been able to find it on-line so far. It's great that she chose the Feast of St Mary Magdalene, Apostle to the Apostles for this landmark occasion in Llandaff diocesan history. Celebration of Mary Magdalene's feast day disappeared from the Book of Common Prayer in 1552, only to reappear in subsequent 19th and 20th century revisions across the Anglican Communion. Recently the Pope has upgraded the festive status of Mary Madgalene to the same rank as that of the Apostles, and the Roman Church has adopted her Orthodox title 'Apostle to the Apostles'. About time too, and the same about the ministry and leadership of women in the church. 'In Christ there is no male nor female'. Funny how that has been ignored for so long.

I was amused to see that a small group of fans camped on the pavement overnight outside the Plaza de Toros, in anticipation of this evening's concert by Vanessa Martin. I wondered where they came from for this ordeal, and why. It's something I've seen often enough outside the Cardiff Motorpoint Arena before a celebrity gig, and it's hard to see the point of it. From mid morning, the sound and stage crew were in evidence, along with some members of the band, testing and balancing their equipment. Occasionally there's be a burst of song, whether live or rehearsed, it was hard to tell. It was just loud. By the time I went for a walk around town, the fast food stalls were setting up to feed people queuing to be let in.

I walked to the far side of the old town, and took some photographs of the barrio where the church of Nuestra Señora de la Peña is located, closest to the Rio Guadalmedina (which our guide at the Flamenco Museum told me means 'City River' in Arabic. What's left of the northern aspect of the mediaeval town wall is in the sector also. In this barrio there's an interesting number of modern buildings, discrete, minimalist in their appearance, some apartments, others business or artistic workshops by the looks of it. Some remaining older tenement buildings are ripe for renovation, some being worked on to retain the facades and make entirely new interiors.

It's as if there's an architectural debate going on about here what can be done to make something different of a decaying area. There are some striking contrasts between plain modern facades and those which are a century or two older. It's different from the nearby Lagunas barrio where a rearguard action seems to be taking place between grass roots conservationists and enterprising modernisers.. Well, that's my impression. How it all holds together in the grand city centre plan I have no idea. So much depends on who owns what, and who in power can be persuaded to do what.

On this excursion, I took some photos of the Interactive Music and Flamenco Museums that I failed to get on the day we visited them. Before returning to the apartment, I walked up the Gibralfaro to the mirador to get a few photos of stage arrangements in the Plaza de Toros. The music was audible loud and clear from on high. Concert goers were filing into the arena to grab their places as I called in at SuperSol for a few last minute weekend purchases.

I noticed in the arena bull-pen a couple of dozen back-clad security officials assembled for a briefing before the action started. At this point, all was quiet, preparations concluded. Shortly after sunset the support band struck up. An hour later the main act began. It wasn't as loud as the Queen concert, and it was only as loud as anticipated, until just after midnight, when the volume was turned down. Soon after this, it was all over, and by then I was nearly asleep, thankfully.

The irritating part for me was that the star singer wasn't, to my ear, pitch accurate against the backing band. This could be due to the acoustic impact of being in a circular building framed by tower blocs affecting the sound emanating from the building, as opposed to what's heard on stage. But, it's not unusual at really loud concerts, or in a studio setting, where performers can hear each other is through ear pieces, channelling their microphone output through a mixing desk. It's a distressing experience for a performer to listen to a recording of themselves in these conditions after the event. Anyway, glad it's all over now. It could have been worse.

Malaga Summer Festival Movies

I had two loads of washing to do this morning, a sermon to complete, and a couple of documents to prepare. Also I had a brief video chat with grand daughter Jasmine, who is over from Arizona for holiday travel in France and Britain with her Dad and Stepmother. She had not long arrived to stay with Clare in Cardiff, before going together to Kenilworth, so that cousins Rhiannon and Jasmine can spend the weekend together. They get on so well together. It's sad that they live so far apart.

Apart from shopping, I didn't get out of the apartment for a walk to the port until sunset. An event was just concluding on the Artsenal stage, and a setup crew was struggling to erect and secure a large inflatable cinema screen on the open patio above. Rows of white plastic chairs, seating for a couple of hundred was already laid out, and were rapidly being occupied. 

Tonight is the first of a series of free open air movies to be screened at different venues around the city under the title 'Cine abierto'. The movie? 'Hunger Games: Sinsajo Part 2', a fantasy genre of which I know nothing. Spanish subtitles accompanied Spanish dialogue, to compensate for lack of acoustic enclosure plus background noise from traffic and distant muzak from shops. Perhaps it would have done me good to stop and watch, but the first few minutes seen failed to arouse interest, so I strolled back to the apartment, and settled for an early bed time instead.

Night music

I didn't sleep much. Clare's alarm went off well before mine, so I cancelled it. We left the apartment to retrieve the car from the cemetery at four fifteen, and by twenty to five, after driving through empty streets with most traffic lights showing green, we were hastily kissing goodbye, whilst coping with new drop off parking arrangements I wasn't prepared for. 

Very short stay cars must now take a ticket and get corralled into the multi storey parking complex, level with the departure hall, and you get fifteen minutes for free, though the system isn't clear as to whether you must validate your ticket before leaving within the free time, as you must when you need to pay. I was able to drop Clare off as close as possible to the entry where Terminals Two and Three meet. This is convenient, as Vueling check-in desks are opposite this entrance. She had all the time to spare she needed, and texted me progress reports until she arrived in Cardiff.

As I drove back, still two hours before dawn, the new moon was rising over the horizon, an orange sliver of light in dust laden darkness, hanging above the Avenida de Andalusia as I drove eastwards back into the city centre. A wondrous sight. I went back to bed and made up some of the sleep I'd lost, though not enough, and passed the day pottering about until it was cool enough in the evening to do some food shopping, and then go far a stroll along the Palmeria de las Sopresas.

A bassist and a singing electric guitar player were busking at the start of the open air sculpture display. I think they were singing in Portuguese. On the open air stage of the 'Artsenal' art-space, a jazz quartet was busy re-creating the music and ethos of Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grapelly in the 1930s Hot Club de Paris quintet. The violinist, apparently classically trained, learning how to swing, was using sheet music when she wasn't improvising. The two guitarists and bassist were using tablets showing chord sequences for tunes. It sounded pretty authentic, despite lacking the third guitarist. Each evening I go down there, something different is happening live. What a treat.
   

A flamenco day to remember

I said Morning Prayer in St George's at the appointed hour, as nobody came for the Eucharist. There were signs the church yard hadn't been opened to the public yesterday or today. Once duty was done, Clare and I walked into the Old Town to visit the Flamenco Museum just around the corner from the Museum of Interactive Music we went to yesterday. 

The museum occupies the second and third floors of the Casa de la Peña Juan Breva. The word peña translates as 'rock' or 'crag' in English as in the dedication Nuestra Señora de la Peña, which shows up in Marian mountain sanctuaries. I came across this first in the parish of Mijas, not too far from Malaga. The word is, however, also used to describe a circle of friends who form an association, so, peña flamenca, are to be found all over Spain. These are associations of people who sing, play or dance flamenco, and enthusiastic supporters and promoters who want not just to preserve but also to promote this performing art.

The ground floor of the Casa de la Peña is a clubroom bar and restaurant. I think the courtyard area is a performance space., but we didn't see that. We paid one euro each and were taken upstairs and shown around by one of the peña stalwarts, a man about our age. He spoke some English, perhaps an assortment of other European language phrases as well, but was pleased that we made an effort not just to listen but to converse with him about every aspect of the material on display. He spent an hour with us, explaining, telling stories at a pace we could manage, with such enthusiasm, it was a real delight, and not difficult to keep up with him either, when he speeded up.

The museum has artifacts belonging to the history of 19th-20th century Malaguenian flamenco heroes - photos, portraits, sketches, engravings, publicity posters, clothing, flamenco dancers' shoes, percussion instruments, and best of all, a dozen well worn twentieth century guitars, played by one or other of los maestros. The one that caught my attention quickly was a 1930s Valencian guitar, by Vicente Tatay. My first Spanish guitar was a 1960's instrument by the same luthier, so it thrilled me to observe the likeness, although worn and aged, I think mine is more worn, given so much less than expert use over the past 54 years. 

Enthusing about this in Spanish with our guide at the start really boosted my confidence for this little extra curricular learning exercise. I learned, however, that for the past 54 years I have been pronouncing the maker's name incorrectly. 'Tatay', sounds like Tat-ae (as in och'ae). I never knew, but won't forget what I've discovered in this amazing encounter.

We left the peña and went for a drink on one of the nearby plazas, discussing what we should do next. Clare was keen to see a flamenco show, and regretted that tonight's performance at the peña would start too late for it to be possible to attend with an airport departure at four in the morning. On our Museum of Interactive Music visit yesterday, people were queuing as we departed for an in house flamenco show. Clare thought it was a one-off show, but agreed we should return and check. Happily, we discovered it happens most days, and seems to make use of performers from an escuela flamenca in the city, and, the show was just about to start. Well, after fifteen minutes waiting in a chilly air conditioned performance studio, along with a couple of dozen others.

The forty minute show featured three high quality artists; a virtuoso guitarist, a singer, and a dancer. The studio has room for about thirty, so everyone sits close to the performers. It must be quite hard for them, as it's hard to draw in a formal audience of inhibited strangers, conditioned to watch, and not to join in, with no alcohol or camaraderie to help generate an atmosphere. I noticed advertising for the evening show at Peña Juan Breva, stated that the price included tapas and a glass of vino malagueño. That would do the trick for sure. Still, the lunchtime performance was excellent, well worthwhile, and it put us in the mood for lunching while we were out.

Just off the east side of the Plaza de la Constitución is a famous alley - paisaje de Chinitas, where there was once a coffee house frequented by artists and intellectuals, among them, the poet Federico Garcia Lorca. He immortalised the place with a verse which is displayed on a panel of tiles high above the fish restuarant which now occupies the buildings. Here we dined well, with fresh fired berenjenas Andalusian style with cane sugar garnish, a marvellous sopa de mariscos, followed by pascadito and salmonillas. It was quite hot in the alley, although we were shielded from the sun by a toldo, but we ate unhurriedly and made the most of this last opportunity to feast together.

We returned at tea time so Clare could pack her case, then walked to the cemetery to check that the church car parked there hadn't been blocked in by some unannounced vehicle arrival. Then we went to the beach, so she could have a paddle in the sea at sunset, before retiring early to bed, before the inevitable three thirty wake up call, heading for a six forty Vueling flight back to Cardiff. Once more my life will change its pace tomorrow, returning to solitude for the last eleven days of my sojourn in the wonderful city. 

Ten second wisdom

We walked into town after breakfast this morning and visited Malaga's Interactive Music Museum. It has a great collection of instruments of all kinds from Western Europe, Africa, the Middle East and Asia, including a remarkable number of 19th and early 20th century European pianos, all in beautiful condition. It has a section dedicated to modern hearing tests, and several booths where one can try out different kinds of instruments, percussion, stringed and wind. 

I was tempted to try out the hearing test section, as I've had troubles lately with ear wax blockage due to the heat, an annual summer nightmare for me these days. Then I realised the impairment has diminished over the past couple of days due to anointing my ear cavities with a smidgeon of olive oil. For the moment, I can hear almost equally well with both ears. So I skipped that section, and went on to look at the amazing collection of traditional and hybrid stringed instruments. 

Tow large adjacent houses in the same block have been given over to this museum, and transformed by renovation to accommodate the museum. The ground floor of the second building is paved with glass for visitors to be able to look down at a section of the mediaeval city walls which, I guess at one time would have formed the boundary to the basement of the property. Such a delightful place to visit.

From there we wove our way through the back streets to find a vegetarian restaurant for lunch which was in the same street as La Casa Invisible which we visited last week, called Vegetariano El Calafate. We enjoyed a high quality menu del dia for just under 10 euros in a pleasant back street environment. This is just close to a residential Old Town barrio which is undergoing a measure of regeneration, with the church of Nuestra Señora de la Peña at its heart. It's an area I've not noticed hitherto. 

One of its local characteristics is writing on the walls - not graffiti, though there's a certain amount of that as well - but rather, cleanly stencilled aphorisms from poets and philosophers, four metres above the pavement on surfaces freshly rendered and painted. Is this the thinking man's barrio, I wonder? In Germany and Austria, quotations from scripture or devotional hymns or poetry are commonplace traditional forms of domestic decor. Then I remembered how often in cafes, here in Malaga, and elsewhere in Spain for that matter, the little packets of sugar you're served with have a quotation on the side without advertising on it. It can be an aphorism, or a joke. Great practice to decode when you're learning a language. This is probably not unique to Spain, but here is where I have noticed and appreciated the proliferation of ten second wisdom. I wonder where this began?

We returned to the apartment for a siesta, and afterwards, as Clare didn't want to go for a swim, we walked out on the eastern quay of the port to inspect the most recent cruise liner to arrive. All three seen on Sunday afternoon were long gone. The Royal Caribbean Line's Bahamas registered MV Navigator of the Seas was docked at Terminal one. Although it's not as big as the Celebrity Reflection, docked on Sunday, it carries ten per cent more passengers. It's fascinating to see these giants of the sea coming and going, but I find it hard to imagine taking a holiday on what is, in effect, a floating city.

  

Competa re-visited

We were invited by Mike and Patricia to visit them at their mountainside finca outside of one of the regions best known and much loved (especially by ex-pats) pueblos blancos, Competa. They've been living there for twenty two years, and crafted gardens out of the hillside and tended orchards of olive, fruit and nut trees, as well as making their simple ancient stone cottage into a home with all mod cons. The sixteen kilometer drive from sea level up to 600 meters is on a well maintained road with countless hairpin bends and views you'd really like to stop and gawp at. 

With the Sierra La Maroma at the head of the deep wide valley is over 2,000 meters, and can be snow capped in winter. The water captured by the high mountains makes the valley unusually green, good for growing fruit and olives. On the ascent, Sayalonga is the largest village, straddled along a promontory on the side of the valley. There are other pueblos blancos on the valley slopes too, and farms, perched remotely on places seemingly hard to access. It's easy to imagine how much tougher and slower life must have been before the advent of motor transport and metalled roads.

We received a warm welcome and showed around the place, before we set off for lunch in Competa at the Restaurante Perico in the main village square, Plaza Almihara, owned and run by the same extended family for several generations. We ate very well indeed, and enjoyed the company and conversation of Mike and Patricia's student grand daughter, who joined us for lunch. We arrived just before two. I noted the door of the nearby parish church was not yet shut for siesta, so I was able to slip in a take a photo of the interior, something I'd been unable to do on our last visit in 2011.

Looking back at the photos taken back then, there's one of stone masons at work in the Plaza Almihara, laying an image of the town's heraldic shield in coloured pebbles and fragments of rock in the middle of the square. I'd forgotten that happened while we were there, during a programme of improvements to the town's public realm, designed to make it more appealing to visitors and boost civic pride, no doubt.

After lunch we returned to Finca Patricia and continued talking for another hour, and then began our return journey, this time with Clare taking photos from the car window with my Sony HX300, and me driving slowly, for comfort as much as anything. She doesn't use a camera much, so it took her a

while to get to grips with it on the move, but it was still worthwhile. It's a valley I wouldn't mind visiting again for a lengthy stop start photo opportunity, to satiate my curiosity.

Mad dogs and ship spotters

This morning we drove to Velez-Malaga for the celebration of the Eucharist with a congregation of seventeen people. I was please to have an opportunity for Clare to meet the congregation here, in such a different environment from Malaga, yet with the same open, warm welcoming spirit. After, we joined the majority of worshippers for coffee and churros at Cafe el Tomate just along the street, before driving back to Malaga for lunch at the apartment.

On the last stretch of the drive along the Paseo Maritime, I noticed three large cruise ships docked in the port, as well as the usual Malaga-Melilla ferry. While Clare had a siesta, I walked out along the eastern quay to take photos. TUI Discovery 2 was docked at Terminal One, she's visited Malaga several times during my stay so far. At Terminal Two, Celebrity Reflection was docked - nearly a quarter of a mile long with 2300 passengers and 1200 crew. It's one of the giants of Mediterranean cruise ships.The area was a hive of activity with shuttle buses plying to and fro, taking visitors into the city.  

Moored at the quay further away from the terminals, in isolation and apparent inactivity behind locked security gates was Europa 2. I think it may be in between cruises, changing crew, re-stocking for its next voyage. This is one of the newest, most luxurious vessels of German Hapag Lloyd Line, taking just over five hundred passengers, all over the world. I think I may have seen it docked here before.

I got back to the apartment just as Clare was waking from her siesta, so then we went down to the beach for her afternoon swim. By suppertime, I was beginning to feel a little over-cooked. Although I am quite used to being outdoors in a hot and sunny climate, I have to be very careful, and avoid as much direct sun as possible. Already, I have an embarrassingly well tanned face, for someone who always wears a sun hat and stays in the shadows as much as possible.

Unexpected Windows wobbles

Late last night, we walked around the port and ended up again at 'Artsenal', where a 'Poetry Jam' was taking place. A succession of men and women of various ages came out of the audience, and spoke their own works, accompanied by two guitarists improvising a background accompaniment. It was pleasant to listen to, even if our understanding of the Spanish was limited. A gathering of this kind onm a hot summer evening, despite its contemporary setting, has a truly timeless dimension to it. This event could have occurred in any era over the past three thousand years. Wonderful.

Malaga was shrouded in sea mist with a topping of low cloud when we woke up this morning, so we made the effort to get out as soon as possible and climb up to the Gibralfaro Fortress before the sun appeared in full strength. Plenty of others were out with the same objective in mind. We toured the ramparts, and had a beer at the cafeteria before walking back down. In the largest open coutyard, a stage with sound system had been erected and couple of hundred black plastic chairs laid out, ready for a performance, probably this evening, although there was no information readily to hand to tell what this might be. 

It made me wonder if a lot more publicity, particular for nice performances here is done on line. If a ticked event was already fully booked, there'd be less need to advertise in a traditional way. This would also explain why little information in the form of posters about events is displayed in La Malagueta barrio about event in in the Plaza de Toros. Certainly any time I have sought information about the next event most likely to deliver us a reduced night's sleep, I've been directed to the ticketing website for bullring events, and more of a hunt is required to find a website delivering a full season's event diary. No information delivery system can avoid making assumptions about how best to serve its clientele, and that can lead to variations in difficulty when it comes to finding out what you need to know, when crossing boundaries of language and culture. Intriguing thought.

On our return from Gibralfaro, we walked to Mercadona to do our weekend shopping, then cooked lunch, and had a siesta. When I came to use the office computer to get my sermon printed off, it failed to start and went into repair mode. It stayed in repair mode for several hours, during which I went with Clare to the beach for her daily swim. The system seemed frozen in time, so I switched it off, a hard reset using the power button and re-started it, with the same result. I did the same again, pressing F8 at boot, to supply the various trouble shooting and repair menus. Same result each time, it was stuck somewhere in loading the Windows environment files, a repair job I could do nothing about without have possession of a Windows 7 system disk.

Having forgotten to make a copy to USB stick of my Sunday sermon, the original was inaccessible. So, I hunted down my digital toolkit, which currently includes a bootable copy of Ubuntu Studio on a Memory Stick. The PC booted this with ease. It was reassuring, as it meant the problem was not a hardware failure, but just a Windows 7 missing file. Then I was able copy the sermon file across to another flash drive, for transfer to my Chromebook. From there I could shift the file to my tablet, and read it from there tomorrow. The Bluetooth link on the Nexus 7 and Toshiba Chromebook both staid they were working, but refused to handshake properly after performing protocols correctly. If two Google devices have this kind of hassle, how useful is Bluetooth at any time. I emailed the file to myself, and got it to display satisfactorily, just before supper.

Later, I switched on the Windows 7 laptop again, and when it displayed the 'Repair' menu, I opted to go straight to normal Windows boot routine - much to  my surprise it worked normally. This meant I could print off my sermon after all, and take the machine through clean up and de-fragmentation routines, just in case.

Maybe the initialisation part of the boot routine threw up an error message calling up the 'Repair' menu because of some minute impact on the machine of heat and/or humidity. Maybe it's running too hot for its own good. It certainly gave me five hours of bother I could have done without on a Saturday. Amazing, nevertheless, how well the live boot version of Ubuntu Studio worked, to give me hope. Where it failed was in attaching the wi-fi module to the system, making it impossible to search for and download and install the Linux HPLIP driver package which so often delivers just what you need for a printer to work properly with no messing about. Ah well, nice try.

Glad that I had my little box of tricks with me to rescue the sermon file, even if, in the end, Windows 7 got around to working the way it was intended to.

A journey through Russian art

This morning, we walked over to the Paseo del Parque to catch a number 16 bus that would take us to visit a remarkable Malaga cultural institution, housed in one third of an imposing stylish 1920s building which was once a tobacco factory. Now it houses a major automobile collection in one wing, a tech' startup incubator in another, and an amazing art gallery in the central section. It houses a permanent collection of Russian art, with fresh exhibits from St Petersburg art gallery collection of 400,000 works from the past millennium.

After we got on the bus, a young lady carrying a microphone and a man with a video camera got on the bus. I noticed they were wearing bus company authorisation badges. Once we were under way, the camera was set to work, and the young woman started to address passengers enthusiastically and loudly, inviting them to be interviewed on camera and say what they love about the city. They got an equally enthusiastic response from travellers. I believe they were on an assignment from a local cable TV channel. It certainly made the bus ride a bit more interesting than we'd expected.

The exhibition we were going to visit focuses on the art of the three centuries of the Romanov dynasty, which ended with the 1917 Russian revolution. It was a huge illustrated guide to three centuries of Russian political and cultural history. Substantial if rather heavyweight on times, but an occasion to see a remarkable variety of art works without having to travel to St Petersburg.

Alongside this was an exhibition of the earlier works of Vassily Kandinsky, a Russian artist and musician, friend of Arnold Schoenberg. Kandinsky was born and bred in Russia, and lived there until after the revolution. The exhibition demonstrated how profoundly influenced he was by the colours and forms of Russian folk art and iconography. It was an excellent essay in art history.

The vast gallery space, in the upper floor of the old factory, with bookshop and restaurant are minimally furnished, making good use of glass walls, simply images and lighting. Best of all, with our pensioners' discount, we paid just eight euros for a double ticket, plus a menu del dia for under ten euros each. A great four hour excursion, with a travel time of twenty minutes each way.

Later in the evening, after sunset, we went out for a walk around the port, and found our way to the open air contemporary art gallery and bar next to the Malaga Pompidou Centre, called 'Artsenal' - a play on the word Arsenal, written with a 'no nukes' background logo, making the point that this area is a safe place for cultural 'weapons' to be displayed and safely stored. A jazz trio with a singer in the Billie Holliday style were just finishing their gig. Many of the audience were on their feet, jiving or dancing quickstep in front of the open air stage. All part of a laid back open air night time lifestyle which comes naturally to people in this part of the world.

As we returned to the apartment, walking past the bullring, the sound of a musical performance issued from within. Italian singer song-writer Franco Battiato was on stage, thankfully not as loud as last Saturday night's Queen event. Thankfully, when there events finish, there's not much noise or rowdiness in the streets afterwards. This city, this barrio, is such a delight to be part of, even if the humidity and heat are almost unbearable on times and drive sleep away.
 
  

Repair days

Tuesday afternoon we had a visit from a craftsman who specialises in the installation and repair of built-in shutters and window blinds, as several in the apartment no longer work. It was a good opportunity to make my Spanish work, while looking up technical words and phrases I didn't know. We had a big laugh when we discovered that the reason for the shutter in the main lounge not to work was the removal of its guide rails, and concreting over of the containing channel at the time when double glazing was fitted to the window, years ago. A historic instance of communications breakdown for this to have been done, and never noticed.

The other problem shutters were all fixable, although showing signs of their age. The man worked solidly for an hour to put them right, then cheerily went on his way, setting us free to walk to the Old Town for a visit to the Picasso Museum. Interestingly, this time we were offered pensioner discount tickets. This didn't happen when I went with Owain, perhaps because I didn't take my hat off to reveal my white hair.

On the way there, we passed Santiago Parish Church, where Picasso was baptized, and it was open, post-siesta, so we were able to look inside. It's said to be the first church to be built in 1490 after Malaga's reconquest. Its tower and west facade reflect the Andalusian mudéjar architectural style, but the rest of the building is renaissance gothic. I took a photo of the famous font, but was annoyed to discover later that it was slightly out of focus. Very unusual for my HX50. I probably didn't give it enough time to adjust to lighting condition.

This morning, we celebrated the memory of St Benedict (a day late) at the midweek Eucharist, just three of us present. Afterwards I re-parked the car away from its usual place, as building contractors are due any time this week to bring in their equipment and start work on repairing terrace walls in the cemetery, and construct new columbaria, for future interments of cremated remains. This will in effect make the small parking area on the north side of the church unusable due to contractor's equipment, but also potentially make it impossible for cars to park around the church in future. 

This is a cause of great concern, as many regulars travel great distances by car to attend worship. If they had to use public parking, this would involve several hundred metres of a walk and the last stretch steeply uphill, quite a difficulty for older churchgoers. It seems as if some elements of this plan have not been well thought through by the Fundacion which now manages the cemetery as an historic asset of the city. Archdeacon Geoff and Bishop David have been trying to engage those in authority to discuss these matters, but so far communication is not proving easy. It's not so much a matter of language difficulties as difference in perception of the part the churchyard plays in the life of a worshipping congregation.

This is a besetting problem for many churches which have ancient churchyards. They are both a big liability to maintain, but also a social, historical, cultural and spiritual resource as well as outdoor meeting place for the community, a tourism venue. Many church people fail to see the value of their 'church plant', to recall a very sixties phrase describing parochial assets, rather than starting a new mission congregation. Relationships with people are given such dominant priority that the physical social environment is under-valued. Perhaps we have simply failed in our teaching about Christian stewardship, or in helping people understand that there a practical consequences to having an incarnational spirituality. It's easy for me to be wise after the event. 

Managing buildings and land are huge worries for parish clergy, so necessary, but so difficult if few people can be bothered to take proper responsibility for them. I must say that in all my incumbency jobs, I was blessed with people who did care. It didn't mean that I never had to do any care-taking, but it could have been so much worse.

After the Eucharist, we walked into the Old Town and visited La Casa Invisible for a delightful menu del dia alumerzo. Then we visited the Cathedral, spent half an hour looking around, and paid five euros each for the privilege. You don't have to pay if you arrive in the half hour before the evening Mass, as I have several times. Then, as we were making our way home for siesta, I had a call to say we could expect to receive a visit within half an hour from the MAPFRE insurance company repair team to re-tile the bathroom floor and wall, broken into for pipe repairs Saturday last. Fortunately, we got back just ten minutes ahead of them. In two and a half hours, they were on their way home, job done, place left clean and tidy. Splendidly efficient.

We were then free to go down the beach for Clare's daily swim before supper. It hasn't been a very hot day today, but it has been humid, leaving you feeling as if you had a fever. I don't know how anyone can labour physically in heat like this, let alone sleep at night.

  

Ministry in a familiar place

This morning, we rose later than usual. I had preparations for today's funeral to complete, and some photocopies of the order of service to get done. Conveniently, there's a well equipped print shop just a few doors down from the apartment block. It's often busy, but on this occasion, I walked in and had the job done within a couple of minutes, quicker and cheaper than I could have done it in the chaplain's office if there'd been a copier or a printer to use for this purpose. That was a relief as it spared me time queuing, or delivering and collecting later.

Then I went with Clare to the beach for her daily swim, and on the return trip we did some food shopping at Mercadona, prior to lunch and an siesta, before driving to Fuengirola for the funeral. I dropped Clare off in Los Boliches, so that she could visit the small 'El Corte Ingles', to look for a few items of summer clothing she'd not been able to find in the giant store in Malaga city centre.

There were about eighty people present for the service. As ever there were problems with the chapel sound system only being able to play standard CDs, and burned CDs being the the wrong format, but one of the mourners brought an all-format player from home which worked, although it was not something I could control and conduct the service smoothly, so a member of the family helped out with this.

These days it's quite normal to have a photo of the deceased on the coffin. On this occasion, the one produced was somewhat unusual, a large A3 print of a picture taken when the man had landed a small part in a movie being made while he was working as a football coach in Alexandria, Egypt.  It was a part of the story of his life which I hadn't heard about until the photo was produced before the service, and the problem was how to display it without a frame. It ended up being Blu-tacked to the catafalque. The family would have known the story. I hope they told people about it afterwards at the wake.

As I had to collect Clare from Los Boliches, I declined the invitation to go back to Puebla Blanca to join them for a drink. Two branches of family, one from Bristol, the other from Tyneside were being united by this bereavement, some meeting again for the first time in decades. Having given them of my best, it was better to let them continue without me. On my way out several people stopped me to express their appreciation for the service. There was nothing more to be said.

Clare's shopping mission was fruitful, and she was pleased with her several purchases. I missed the entrance to the A7 autovia, leaving Los Boliches, so we followed the N340 all the way along the coast back to Malaga. The traffic wasn't too heavy, and it was relaxing to cruise through familiar places, passed through during the eight months of 2013-14 spent on locum duty for the Costa del Sol East Chaplaincy and remember good times past.

  

Hidden spiritual treasure

Well, the streets were quiet and empty by two in the morning, but I still woke up at the usual time and found it hard to slumber on in the heat. There were thirty of us at St George's for the Eucharist including three small children, and a couple who'd arrived on one of the cruise ships which arrived overnight - two of larger regular craft which take holidaymakers around the Mediterranean and the Aegean. Afterwards we were taken out to lunch in a nearby Italian restaurant called 'Mamma Mia, to which it was possible to walk. There were seven of us. The conversation was interesting and the food was good.

After the obligatory siesta and recovery time, I went with Clare to La Malagueta beach for her daily swim. On the way there she pointed out a gateway into a hillside domain in between two apartment blocks on Paseo Reding, which I'd seen but not previously taken notice of. The marble name plate reads: 'Casa Ejercicios Villa San Pedro'. It's a retreat house for the practice of Ignatian spirituality right in the heart of the city. 

While Clare was swimming I googled the place, and was much surprised by what I discovered. It's one of a pair of places in Andalusia with this mission. The other is in Seville. A Spanish nun, Sister Nazaria Ignacia March y Mesa working in Bolivia founded a community in 1925 called 'The Missionary Crusaders of the church' with the aim of living and propagating Ignation spiritual path. 

In 1943, the Villa San Pedro, a rather grand mansion at the foot of the Gibralfaro, was acquired and became a Casa Espiritualidad. The domain and its gardens are nowadays hemmed in by apartment blocks, but at least this means it's shielded from traffic noise and so able to offer a tranquil space for individuals and groups of retreatants. Some time soon, I think I'll go and visit the place and find out more. In Britain, Ignation spirituality continues to grow n appeal, to non-Catholics as much as to Catholics, thanks to a new generation of translators and interpreters of the tradition for our time. I wonder if this is equally true, here in the land which brought St Ignatius to birth? 

  

Upheaval day

I was delighted to see this morning the return of the organic farmers' street market across the street beneath the trees lining the pavement outside the bullring, as it gave Clare an opportunity to explore what was on offer, and buy a few extra special things to eat while she's here. After this, we went to the beach for her daily swim. Although the sun was high in the sky, there was a cool breeze which made it tolerable to spend an hour there in the shade of a tall palm tree.

On our return, the man living in the apartment underneath ours approached me and asked if I was aware of a leak, as he was trying to work out where water was coming from into his bathroom, right underneath ours. There were no surface symptoms in our bathroom, and nothing was flowing down into ours, so we closed the stop-cocks we could find, and I reported this to churchwarden Rosella, who talked with the neighbour on the phone. The building's maintenance man was summoned and expressed the view that there was most likely a problem with the supply of water to the bathroom hot water tank, as the leak was of clean water, not sewage.

Rosella sent me to the church to consult the files of essential documents kept in the sacristy, which include church and apartment insurance policies. I was able to tell her by phone from church the policy and phone help line numbers for MAPFRE, the insurance company, for her to pursue the necessary arrangements to commission an emergency plumber. By half past two, said plumber was ringing the doorbell, and after completing his diagnostic, he broke through both the wall and floor tiles in the corner where the pipes supply the heater, uncovered the source of leak and repaired it. By four, he was on his way out, repair done, hot and cold water supplies restored. Amazing, and quite a challenge for communicating with neighbours and plumber in Spanish. My new word of the day? What else but 'fontanero' - plumber. 

As I'd been due to leave for the bereavement visit to Torreblanca at four, I left later than planned. It was twenty five to six when I arrived at the house in Puebla Blanca, a charming collection of houses on a hillside, with a communal swimming pool and its own small bar. I learned that the man who died had been a footballer on a modest weekly wage from the late fifties, and had spent his working life and some of his retirement in the profession. Best of all, he'd played for Bristol City, around the time when we were at University there.

Thanks to the marvellous Cercania rail link with Malaga, I was home again by eight. Moreover, this time my tarjeta dorada worked as intended. After supper, I set about preparing the order of service for the funeral, ready for approval and printing, with the sound of the Queen Symphonic Rhapsody concert in the bullring booming all around us. This time, for real. No escape - four hours of it, with intervals.

Symphonic Rhapsody at the Bullring

A quiet uneventful day for us, until the eaerly afternoon, when I received a call about officiating at a funeral in Fuengirola Municipal Cementerio on Monday, through Gloria of Lux Mundi, the ecumenical body based there, who'd been approached to help find someone, as the St Andrew's Chaplain is away. Co-incidentally, the same thing happened when I was here last September. The bereaved family live in Torreblanca, in an area I remember from my previous long sojourn as locum Chaplain, living in neighbouring Fuengirola. The last time Gloria and I spoke, we used English. This time, Spanish. She's a capable linguist, but appreciative of my progress, willing to converse slowly and clearly, enabling me to find the right words. I'll make a pastoral visit tomorrow.

Later, we began to hear noises signifying the testing of a large sound system penetrating the usual traffic roar on the Paseo de Reding, emanating from the Plaza de Toros across the road. Later the sound of a drummer rehearsing was added to the mix. As we were preparing to go out for supper, we heard the sound of Prog Rock on a grand scale in rehearsal, and this finally prompted a little on-line research into what was going on across the road.

I discovered there's a special live performance of Queen's 'Symphonic Rhapsody' taking place there tomorrow evening, starting at 9.30pm, and finishing at heaven knows what time, with an orchestra, a rock band and star soloists, so the streets will be busy and noisy until the small hours.

We had a marvellous meal at the El Cachalote Chiruguito, where Owain and I ate two weeks ago, with an almost full moon rising above the horizon across the bay during the meal. I had sardinas again, and Clare had a huge dorada, some of which I shared as it was more than she could manage on her own. Then, back to another hour of loud rehearsal music from across the road before bed, but thankfully, quiet was restored before Friday turned into Saturday.