The End of the Tunnel

It's Palm Sunday. It's a bright Spring morning, with just a few flecks of rain. I've had a lot of dry sunny Palm Sundays, and a lot of cold wet and even snowy Good Fridays and Easters. I walk the dogs over the hill to look at the view of the little town spread out below me. The church bells are ringing. We have a lovely Palm Sunday procession, with a very obliging donkey, processing through the town for the service in church. This is my last Palm Sunday, but I'm not there. The Bishop is taking the service. I shall go off to keep Easter quietly on retreat and then come back and carry out the process of extracting myself from the vicarage. I hope, as always, for a meaningful Holy Week, and a joyful celebration of resurrected life.

A February Sunday

One advantage of being on light duties or "therapeutic work" as my doctor calls it, is that I can do some of the things I've wanted to do but never got around to. Last Sunday was bright sunshine after overnight snow, so i crunched off across the fields to the small Friends meeting house, to the weekly Quaker meeting for worship. I've always been around Quakers, and have great respect for them, though I did find on peace actions in the eighties that some of the old lady pacifists were in fact some of the fiercest people you are ever likely to meet. I've been to meetings for worship, but mainly in big cities. Here the meeting is held in the upper room of an old building that used to be a barn - i suppose it was a hay loft or some such. The beams are old and low, so it's easy to crack your head. The focus of the room is not an altar, or a candle, or a picture, but a huge woodburning stove, crackling merrily. Chairs around the edge of the simple room accommodate the dozen of us who turn up. Outside we can hear the bleating from the farm mother and baby unit, with new lambs and protective mums not sure whether to approach the gate because we are going to feed them, or stay back because we might do them some harm. An hour of silence, broken by a few well chosen words, and then hot coffee and flapjacks. Then a walk back, the sun still shining, and home at 12.

Michaelmas reflection

We have passed the equinox; now the hours of night are gradually longer than the hours of daylight. This has always been a time for feasting and celebrating, combined with the most intensive work of the agricultural year, culminating in harvest. Rural Britain used Michaelmas as a time for harvest suppers and feasts, which most churches still observe; for the hiring of servants and the paying of rents, which few still do, and for the celebration of the dedication of churches and chapels. This last was one of the statutes of the English Reformation, passed by King Henry VIII, who wanted to prevent people celebrating on saints days throughout the year, and instead insisted that they should all observe the first Sunday of October as the feast of dedication.

Of all the laws passed during that period, this one was almost universally ignored, which gives great cause for hope, as we still live in a time when both church and state seem to feel the need to legislate their way towards desired outcomes, to form society through telling people what to do, or what to believe. Knowing when to turn a blind eye to such attempts at regulation is a necessary skill in these times.

Here Michaelmas (celebrated according to the equinox, not the Church festival on the 29th) was warm and sunny, and our fair was a good hearted occasion, with music, dancing, lots of food and beer. The main street was closed for two days. Many re-emerged on Monday slightly the worse for wear, and enquiring of their neighbours as to whether or not they had had a good time.

It's luurrve 2

The SMD also loves the Magic Bus. While Mrs Demon was on night duty we snuck off for a night up in the hills, just the two of us. Whenever I open the bus doors, to put things away, or just to let the heat out, the SMD is in there, looking expectant; "Come on! Let's go on a trip!" If I fail to start up and drive off, she stays there anyway, sprawled out on the rug (she also loves rugs).

It's luurrve

The SMD is in love. We can't get past the Little Pub with the Big Brewer because SMD has fallen for the pub dog in a big way. And he's a big dog; nearly one year old, a very large black Labrador. The SMD likes black dogs. She plays very well with her brothers when she sees them. She likes lots of other black things too, such as her bed, her chewy toy dogs and cats, and my shoes. But the love she holds for the big Labrador is something else. We are dragged down the road to the pub, and then she's jumping up at the doors and windows in case she can get a glimpse of her beloved; dragging us through the door if it's open, and scratching if it's shut. Now, as regular readers will be aware, I am not entirely unknown to the staff and customers at the Little Pub. But I'm not in there all the time. And not at nine in the morning. I've had a few sideways glances on my way up the street, I can tell you.

For fear of something worse

The funeral over, people seem to expect what the Americans call "closure". Except that such a thing is very unlikely when the event is almost inexplicable in any reasonable terms. Also, it is clear that, bad though it was, many were afraid of something worse; but then even relief brings feelings of guilt. Mix in some anger, and you have a heady mixture. It wouldn't be so bad if things were uniformly awful, but mixed in are some really very happy events, that again bring on feelings of guilt, and the thought that we shouldn't be enjoying ourselves "at a time like this". Others have simply removed themselves from the local scene for a time, unable or unwilling to engage with the hopeless task of trying to make sense of things. On Wednesday, after the funeral, I did the same, and too off in the Bus for 24 hours. Staring across the hills from a Neolithic stone circle at least restores some sort of perpective on time, that so-called great healer.

I'm coming round

Oooff!! What a week, but I'm coming round. You'd think that after years of experience I'd be ready for this sort of stuff, but no. But, as they say, where bad things happen, good things are not far \away. Met some really great people and able to forge some good new relationships with people in the community. But people are very shaken, and it will take time to heal wounds.

Falling into a TV drama

Shortly after the incident described in my last post, something so unpleasant, so disturbing happened, that I foundf I just couldn't write about it. This is partly because I don't want to give details away that identify me and this place, but also because for a time I was unable to gather any thoughts that made sense of what had just happened. Sometimes people's reaction to extreme events is to say that it was like finding yourself in an episode of Jonathan Creek or Midsomer Murders. Well, it was just like that. In fact, if someone had come up with this as a plot line, I'd have probably said it was implausible. But it happened. And it shook me. And I'm just coming round again.

P minus seven

Heavy snow, so lots of things not happening or working today. Like London, very little public transport available. Unlike London, we have the same level of public transport that we usually have, and the few buses scheduled are all running through the blizzard. Plenty of time to keep up my reading; "The Spiral Staircase" and "The Dog Listener". There will be a test on the latter when Mrs Demon returns from shifts on Thursday, assuming it is possible to get here. Seven days to puppydom. Hope the dog has read the same books we have.

That reminds me of a story ...

I was restored to a better frame of mind by a visit to the Little Pub with the Big Brewer, in the company of GL. GL is a retired priest who helps us out. He was born and bred in this part of the world, and seems to be related to most people between Bridgnorth and Aberystwyth. Before he was ordained about twenty years ago he was a Lay Reader (an Anglican lay minister) for years before that. Looking back in the service registers, GL’s initials appear as far back as 1965. he has never lost his roots, and never become part of the “clergy club”. He has a fund of stories, is never lost for words, and is generally good company. I always feel better after an hour in his company. Some treat him as a long-winded buffoon, but that is a big mistake. He has great sensitivity and understanding, and especially an understanding for the ordinary people of this area, and great pastoral gifts.

Telling GL of my current “local difficulties” produces a number of anecdotes which involve him taking the wind out of the sails of his “elders and betters”, reminding me that this sort of behaviour has been going on round these parts for a very long time; tweedy churchwardens who tell clergy they are there “to do as they are told”; rude remarks about clergy wives who do their own housework; snide comments on the quality of sermons. All these ways of putting down and taking control have been practiced and honed over years. He helps me get things back in perspective.

That reminds me of a story …

Harolldd!!!

I’ve been going around in a Thinsulate hat, fingerless gloves, several jumpers and a body-warmer, plus several other layers that cannot be seen by the casual observer. Nothing unusual in that, but this was inside the house. I came along the upstairs passage, and was surprised to see Albert Steptoe coming the other way. But it was just me, in the wardrobe mirror.

The Great Frost

The Great Frost, which has recently Afflicted our Nation, causing great Inconvenience and Consternation, has now lifted, to the Relief of the Entire Population. Now Rivers and Streams are swollen with rain, and a Great Wind is blowing, bringing down the trees and Disturbing our Sleep.

Roll on Spring.

Emergency! Which service do you require?

The call we must all prepare for but hope never comes came on Sunday afternoon. The snooker was just getting interesting, and the log fire was well banked up. I had a nice cup of tea and a piece of Battenberg cake beside me. Suddenly, the red phone on the coffee table began to ring and flash on and off. “Emergency!” I said, “Which service do you require?”

“Evensong!” said an anxious voice. “Now!” It was the curate. “Eh?” I said, “It’s six o’clock already, and it’s your turn!”

“No can do!” she panted, “The dog’s having her puppies!” she gasped, “Gotta get her to the vet! She needs a caesarean!”

“Leave it with me!” I said, and sprinted to the study where a cassock and surplice hang ready for just this eventuality. I grabbed a prayer book, stuck the flashing light on top of the car (the purple one, for Advent), and drove at top speed four miles through the freezing night. The noise of my pounding feet rang on the stones as I dashed up the church path, and reached the door.

“Let me through, I’m a vicar!” I said, to no-one in particular, but I’d always wanted to say it. The congregation of eight looked around, rather startled.

I arrived just in time. “You’ve arrived just in time!” said the churchwarden, “I’ve announced the first hymn!”

“Keep calm, everyone,” I said in my reassuring, measured tones, “Everything’s going to be OK.”

Ah, yes, the Olympics 2

So I popped into the Little Pub earlier for a lunchtime pint. The Big Brewer was dispensing marmite and cashew nut butter toast as usual (see earlier post) and conversation turned to the Olympics, and, as it happens, to the topic of my last post, namely what sports we should be including in 2012. The 1908 games were cited as a good example (though no-one had actually been present at them). Then, apparently, we cleaned up gold, silver and bronze in the tug-of-war. We did OK at cricket. And darts was also one of the contested medals. No doubt someone is going to comment and correct all this, but, it seems to me, this is the way we should be going.

Whats the difference between God and a doctor?

A joke, courtesy of Doctor Death:
Q. What's the difference between God and a doctor?
A. God doesn't think he's a doctor.

Tea with Doctor Death

Walking up the High Street I bumped into Doctor Death, who invited me to tea. Delighted, I said. We walked round to his comfortable bungalow with a lovely view over the town.

In the old days the family doctor was a figure of some standing in any rural community, along with the vicar. When you have been the doctor for fifty years, and retired into the same community; when you have looked up the tail-end of most of the women of the parish; when you can remember and have been involved in the birth of most of the men of fifty years and under; when you are also on the town, district and county councils; then you are a powerful man indeed. The Doctor is a dead ringer for the actor Ian Richardson, who played the sinister Prime Minister in the TV series House of Cards (“You may say so; I couldn’t possibly comment”). At over eighty, the Doctor is a shrewd local politician, and no-one should ever underestimate him. He is used to getting his own way. He is also extremely urbane and charming. Some use darker language to describe him. As one of the sons said when about four years old and watching a film on TV “That man’s a baddy, isn’t he daddy, because he smiles a lot”. Or as Anne Widdicombe once said of Michael Howard, many say there is “something of the night about him”. Some of my clergy predecessors have not got on with him. We seem to have established a relationship, even though after shaking hands with him I would always check carefully to see that I have had all my fingers returned to me.

I sat and looked at the view across the little town, while he put the kettle on. What’s marvellous, said Doctor Death, is that absolutely no-one knows you are here! Ah, but I did say I’d be back at five, I said, rather too hurriedly. But you can sit here and relax and enjoy a moment’s peace! He said, smiling. Why, what did you think I meant? Smile, smile. Oooh-er.

Homemade organic brown bread was produced, and some of Mrs Death’s delicious damson jam, together with a fruit cake. The conversation kept returning to the same subject. A recent funeral produced observations about the behaviour of the bereaved, and of the extended family (“death produces selfishness in families”). We recalled one man who had a headstone propped up in his hearth, complete with his name inscribed upon it. All that was necessary was the addition of the date of his demise when the time came. He had bought it when good stone was a lot cheaper and more plentiful than it is today, and he may yet have the last laugh on those who thought his purchase eccentric. As I left, the clouds parted and the evening sun burst through.

Two pounds of sugar please!

The fact that a lot of other stuff, meetings, etc, doesn’t happen in August means that I can get out and see people at home and stuff like what vicars are supposed to do but never have the time.

I went to see T, who is having to sit very still in front of the telly, because he is getting over major heart surgery, and had a slight stroke last week. He’s OK, but bored and a bit cross, because he thinks the doctors have told him to sit still and do nothing in case he does something and has a heart attack and they get the blame.

Don’t do anything, don’t lift anything, they told him. OK, he said, but does that really mean anything? Pretty much, they said. You’re OK if you take it steady, like a 2lb bag of sugar, they told him. I need some sugar, I said, you could go and fetch it. But what if I need 2lb of potatoes? he said. No chance, I said. You can lift a coffee mug, but not the kettle, they said. What bloody use is that? he said, in an exasperated tone. All too risky, I said, best sit there and watch the Jeremy Kyle Show and I’ll do it.

Waxing and Waning

A friend of mine, when presented with his newborn son, took a look at him and said “He must wax, and I shall wane”. In St John’s Gospel, 3:30, John the Baptist is recorded as saying of Jesus Christ, He must increase and I must decrease. In the light of this text, St Augustine of Hippo decreed that the feast day of the Nativity of John the Baptist should be held on Midsummer’s Day. After this the days get gradually shorter, until the feast of Our Lord’s Nativity at Christmas, when they begin once again to lengthen. This also had the handy effect of Christianising the popular pagan festivities of the Summer Solstice. The new feast took over the great fires of renewal and protection which had been a part of the old heathen festival. Bonfires blazed on hilltops; burning tar barrels were pushed about the streets; flaming wheels were sent hurtling down slopes. The festivities remained the same, but now said to be in honour of the Baptist, rather than a solar ritual to strengthen the sun at the beginning of its long slow decline to the Winter Solstice.

The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water,
We gather every day.

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small.
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

In some parts rushbearing ceremonies were also held in June and early July. Churches and other buildings had earth floors, strewn with rushes to make them more pleasant. The rush was worth harvesting, to make wicks for torches, thatching roofs, plastering on walls, weaving for seats, ropes and mats. This was a good time to go out and cut new rushes to renew and replace those that had been walked over for the past twelve months. The rush cart would be brought back with merriment, singing and dancing and, yes, beer would be drunk and the carrying-on would carry on through several days.

Some places, such as the little town, still carry these things on. Last night we welcomed visiting morris dancers. A rush cart has been constructed. Today there is a fair, and in the evening a concert and a country dance. And on Sunday, the whole procession heads to the church for a service the like of which is not often seen.

Your Views are Important to Us

“Mr Prosser said; “You were quite entitled to make any suggestions or protests at the appropriate time you know.”
“Appropriate time?” hooted Arthur, “Appropriate time? The first time I knew about it was when a workman arrived at my home yesterday. I asked him if he’d come to clean the windows, and he aid no, he’d come to demolish the house….”
“But Mr Dent, the plans have been available at the local planning office for the last nine months.”
“Oh yes, well as soon as I heard I went straight round to see them, yesterday afternoon. You hadn’t exactly gone out of your way to call attention to them had you? I mean, like actually telling anyone or anything?”
“But the plans were on display …”
“On display? I had to go down to the cellar to find them.”
“That’s the display department.”
“With a torch.”
“Ah well, the lights had probably gone.”
“So had the stairs.”
“But look, you found the notice, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Arthur,” I did. It was on display at the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying Beware of the Leopard.”
Douglas Adams
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

This is a not very much more exaggerated account of planning and consultation processes than the one we are currently engaged in locally. Last September one of our rural primary schools was starting the academic year with a headteacher and rising numbers of pupils. By October the headteacher had gone to another job and the county council was pushing through a policy for re-organisation that put schools like this one well below a threshold for “viability”. Suddenly we found ourselves in a battle for survival against a local government bureaucracy that seems willing and capable to use any methods to get its policy passed and implemented. But all while punctuating its actions with letters which say

YOUR VIEWS ARE IMPORTANT TO US

When we contribute opinions, when we ask questions, when we seek clarification, we are treated as meddlers, mischief makers, nuisances. Then another letter comes back:

YOUR VIEWS ARE IMPORTANT TO US

When we try to correct inaccuracies, they express dismay that the professional competence of council officers has been questioned. Then a letter comes round;

YOUR VIEWS ARE IMPORTANT TO US

We offer to resign as governors, demand the resignation of the chief executive, threaten to block the lanes with tractors, and all we get is another letter;

YOUR VIEWS ARE IMPORTANT TO US

Six months of this, and our volunteers are exhausted, even the most optimistic is despairing of ever getting our points across, but still they reassure us

YOUR VIEWS ARE IMPORTANT TO US

All we want is for our school to continue to deliver its first class education for the local children, half of whom walk to school, all of whom love it very much. The council tell us that we must all work together; that consensus is what is required; yet everyone is in agreement against what they propose, but still they will not give in and do not listen.

Almost a quarter of the village population turned out today, got on a coach and came up to make their views known by their presence. Including several elderly ladies, and a gentleman suffering badly with Parkinsons Disease. Mums with babies on their arms. Dads taking a day off work to be there.

YOUR VIEWS ARE IMPORTANT TO US

Sorry, but we find that hard to believe.

“People of Earth, your attention please. This is Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council. Plans for the development of the outlying regions of the Galaxy require the building of a hyperspatial express route through your star system, and, regrettably, your planet is scheduled for demolition. The process will take slightly less than two of your Earth minutes. Thank you.”
Douglas Adams

Summer is a-coming in!

There are two UK Bank Holidays in May; we have understood that this was because a grateful nation wished to draw aside from day to day concerns and give thanks, on the first occasion for Tigger’s birthday, and on the second for mine, as they both always fall on or around those times. (What?)

The May holiday can be very, shall we say, variable, weatherwise. We’ve had some hot ones, over the last few years out on the boat in sweltering conditions, or at folk festivals in shorts. And we’ve frozen too. This one was not bad, and got better as we went along. Round these parts the Green Man still battles the Frost Queen for supremacy; if the Frost Queen wins, there’s no summer! (He won). Good to see the ladies with the flowers in their hair and everyone strolling in the sun.

Hal an Tow,
Jolly rumbelow,
All we are up,
Long before the day-o,
To welcome in the summertime,
To welcome in the May-o,
For summer is a-coming in,
And winter’s gone away-o!

So then, wow, went to see Oysterband! Third or fourth time, and always a good gig; makes you feel happy and angry and want to change things and dance (yes even me!) all at the same time! They’ve been at thirty years but still turn in a good set, and get through so many numbers, unlike some of these bands who set a mood with one song and then talk for five minutes, letting everything go flat again. Nice one for Tigger's mid-decade observance!