Lack of heat

I had already decided that the theme of this posting was going to be about the lack of heating in our ancient rural churches before I read my colleague’s blog about the loss of his central heating in his clerical abode on Long Island. He makes the point about how we are now so used to living in heated homes that a loss such as this is seen as a crisis by some. Well, they should try coming over to the “old country” and worshipping in the churches in this Benefice.

In the two churches where I celebrated the Eucharist this morning, the breath from the sparse congregation plumed out of their mouths like smoke as they sang the hymns. One, having removed its ineffective bar heaters high on the nave walls, has just underpew heaters, and in the other the boiler has broken down and there are only ancient heaters under six or so pews.

I suggested that people brought blankets or hot-water bottles with them, but “We couldn’t do that” was the general response. My reply was “Why not?” If you know it’s going to be cold then why not prepare for it? It wouldn’t bother me if people sat there wrapped up if they were warm. How on earth did our worshipping forefathers manage in the “Little Ice-age” of the 18th century? There may have been stoves in some of the churches, and this old photograph of the church at Ilketshall St. Margaret shows such a contraption with the chimney going out of one of the south windows. But equally, some of the churches would have been without any sort of heating, yet the congregations (and clergy) survived.

It seems that we’re breeding church-goers who expect these ancient buildings to have the same level of warmth and comfort as their hothouse double-glazed hermetically-sealed homes. I think they're going to remain very disappointed ..... but, as my clerical comrade-in-arms says, probably much more healthy.

L'hiver sont arrive

But the Lord was not in the wind

Well, we didn’t get blown away this last week, but it was rough. No damage to the house or trees, but all around there are signs of the fierceness of the wind. One of the Scots Pine trees in the churchyard at Ilketshall St. John was snapped off about 9ft above the ground, the falling trunk missing the church and all the gravestones. Large branches off the same trees at St. Cross South Elmham, again falling onto the grass. Some tiles dislodged on the porch and chancel roof at Ilketshall St. Lawrence, which we were able to replace once it had all calmed down. A tree down in St. James South Elmham and another in All Saints SE. Large trees down at Flixton across the driveway to the Old Rectory and church car parking area. Tiles off roofs in Bungay, and lots of debris on the narrow lanes, which made driving a bit dodgy.

Although the power stayed on during the storm, we had two lengthy cuts yesterday, and I rummaged in the garage and got out the small camping gas stove to boil water, and, as darkness fell, an oil lamp which supplemented the candles in the lounge. That’s one thing a Vicarage doesn’t run out of – candles.

Today, Sunday, has been calmer, though the temperature is now dropping and the forecast is for possible snow showers on Wednesday as the wind shifts to the north-east. That is when we usually get some snow as it blows down the North Sea from Scandinavia and hits land on the East Anglian “bump”.

So winter hasn’t finished with us yet even though the snowdrops are coming out already. They might get a shock! But at least the hosepipe ban has been lifted ......

BBC news picture of Brighton's Palace Pier

Constable or Turner?

The wind is howling again, but the open expanses of Suffolk do allow some rather spectacular views of the scudding clouds.
Is it a John Constable sky, or a one more suited to J W M Turner with his rainstorms and winds?

Hot chocolate

It's amazing how far chocolate powder will spread if you drop a full carton of "Grand Poulain" onto the kitchen worktop and the lid flies off .....

Perhaps someone's trying to tell me something ...

chocolate ... ...

diet ... ...

but it's been a stormy old day and I want some comfort ...

*slurp*

Stormy weather

Well, that was a bit rough! It’s a turbulent day, weather wise, rain, with a strong gale-force south-westerly blowing, and we’ve just had a squall pass through. The wind howling and blowing water under the garage door and the back passage door, roaring in the chimneys, and making the lights flicker. So I sit here with a mug of hot coffee and chomping on de-frosted a chocolate éclair and watching the cobwebs get blown away. I love weather like this. Put it down to my growing-up in Brighton where the “sou-westerlies” would scream in from the Atlantic and hammer into the sea-front. I would go down to the beach and watch the waves surge onto the promenade, the sound of the moving shingle almost deafening. On really rough days I’d head out to Rottingdean where the spray would drift across the road, and where you would continually have to lick the salt from your lips. If I was feeling in need of added excitement, I would make my way along the Undercliff Walk, a path some 10-15 feet wide that ran from East Brighton’s “Black Rock” the three or so miles eastwards along to Rottingdean. That was fun at high tide, for the waves would break over the walkway, and you would have to dash from one raised seat to the next to avoid them. It only ever caught me out the once, when I misjudged the wave on the narrowest part of the Walk. It was a wet and cold walk back to my flat that day.

The Global Warming predictions say that the weather is going to get more extreme. If you’re in a safe, dry house, then it can be enjoyable, but for those whose homes get damaged, or who are homeless, or who have to work out in such conditions, I do have sympathy. But I still look forward to experiencing more wild weather.

Twelfth night

Is this Twelfth Night or not? If you count Christmas Day as the First day of Christmas, then tonight is Twelfth Night, and all decorations, apart from a sprig of holly or greenery, should be down. But if you take Boxing Day as the First Day of Christmas, then it's tomorrow. And I was brought up with January 6th, Feast of the Epiphany, being Twelfth Night. But this year, and today, I've taken the decorations down, and the tree stands bare in the hall waiting to be carried outside. The baubles are wrapped in their tissue paper and packed into the old box, and the cards lie waiting to be trimmed into gift tags with a pair of pinking shears. And although I had to change three bulbs on the light sets at the start of the Feast, I haven't had to touch them since. We'll see how many still work when I unpack them at the end of this year.

The crib scene has been dismantled, and Mary, Joseph and the child now await the arrival of the Magi. That second version of the Crib will remain up until Candlemas, February 2nd, as will the illuminated star on the top of the church tower, as well as the one on the front of my house. A note of explanation will be attached to the garden fence.

I have managed to get the Christmas boxes away into the hall cupboard, but I can see that there is going to have to be a bit of a sort out later on. I have old suitcases piled in there which are filled with costumes, art materials, and camping equipment. I think they will have to be culled, maybe as part of Spring-cleaning.

I host my monthly Coffee Morning tomorrow, and the marmalade is bubbling on the stove. We move into the season of Light and Revelation. What Wise Men will knock at my door tomorrow? As is the custom in Eastern Europe, I shall put the initial letters K M G there to welcome them in place of the now-removed Christmas wreath.

Fast away the old year passes

2007 - and I saw it in watching one of my favourite films ....

... wishing that the Aston Martin DB5 had a longer run and was more successful in evading the pursuit.

It's a bit like watching "The Great Escape" and hoping that this time Steve McQueen manages to leap the barbed wire fence on his motorcycle and make it into Switzerland ....

My New Year's Resolution of getting off my backside and taking more exercise has already been put into practice. It's a glorious morning here, clear blue skies, bright sunshine, with a stiff and cool north-westerly breeze. Just right for walking, so I've tramped the foootpath circuit out of the village and across the fields to the south. The last section, across a sown field, was particularly muddy, and when I got back it took me ten minutes to clean off my boots. Still, as proof that I actually went ...


The walk isn't really long enough though, so I shall have to consult the footpaths map and see which one will take me through to Brooke Lane. That way I can return to the village on a dry road, rather than across our version of the Somme!

Hot coffee now, and maybe a biscuit since it's "elevenses" time.

I wonder what film's on the telly this afternoon?

HAPPY NEW YEAR

The gate of the year

And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: "Give me a light, that I may tread safely into the unknown!" And he replied: "Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way."

Darkness has fallen on this New Year’s Eve, and shortly I shall be walking across the road and down the gravel path to take the Watchnight Compline in St. Margaret’s church. The candles will be lit, and we shall sit in their warm glow and sing “Here we come a-wassailing” and “Deck the halls” – perhaps a bit secular, but these traditional songs speak of the New Year and so are fitting for the occasion.

And what of my New Year resolutions? Well, my main one is to regain my fitness. When I was in post in the large Midlands Potteries city I had access to all sorts of sporting facilities. I swam once and often twice a week, and played badminton weekly, but since moving down here to this rural location the opportunities are limited. The nearby town has a swimming pool, which local wags consistently rename on the direction signs “Swim_in Poo_”, which is quite descriptive. When I’ve been there on the late night public swimming times the pool has always been full of corpulent ladies of the female sex resting after their hour-long “aqua-robics” session, and standing around in the Shallow End nattering, thus preventing anyone from doing decent lengths. I haven’t been for ages.

But, surrounded as I am by glorious countryside, there’s no real excuse. All I have to do is put on my walking boots and stride out of the door. There’s a straight-forward road walk of a mile to the Brewery and pub at St. Peter’s, but then I’d have to buy a mug of their ale for the return journey, which wouldn’t do me any good at all.

Or there’s a circular route that takes me across several fields and back towards the village at the rear of the Old Vicarage. It’s a good circuit, but not that long. I shall need to study the footpath map a bit more and find an extension.

Maybe the resolution should be, rather than regain my fitness, to get out and do a walk, anywhere. Having tramped over 360 miles through France a decade or so ago, I know how well regular walking takes the weight off, and how it tones the muscles. I just need to get up and do it.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

“So, I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night, And He led me toward the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.”

From “The Desert” 1908
Minnie Louise Haskins 1876 - 1957

Three French Hens

With Christmas Day now past, the 12 days of the Feast roll onward. Today there are three French Hens perched outside my study window as I draw together the prayers for the Feast of Holy Innocents tomorrow, and our opportunity to commemorate lost children whose days on earth were short-lived. In these small communities I know of about 12 families who have undergone such a loss, but I do not impose this remembrance upon then by including the names of their children without their knowledge or consent. As it is, I so far have two names to read out, one being that of my mother’s infant sister who only lived a few days. Up until about five years ago, when I did some research at the Family History Centre in London, my mother never knew why her sister died, but when I located and obtained a copy of the death certificate, it was revealed. No major surprises as it was due to illness, but to a certain extent it provided closure on that episode of her past. And this is the purpose of all remembrance – not so much to hear the names again, though this is valuable, but to complete the circle - to recognise the loss and thereby to rob it of its power.

In a way, the remembrance of Christ’s birth at Bethlehem closes a circle, and begins it again. The annual cycle of Christian Feasts and Festivals take us from before the birth, through the life, death and resurrection, and onward into the operations of the Holy Spirit, who has been there from the beginning, and who therefore was there with the Word that is made flesh, and so on ….

In this yearly celebration of light in darkness, the remembrance is strongest for those who see beyond the commercialism and secularisation and look to the manger throne. For those of us who can see the significance of this birth, Christmas is more than just remembrance. It’s part of the cycle of faith in our own lives that gives meaning to who and what we are. We are more than mere fireflies, here for a span and then extinguished in the dark. We have a significance that is greater than the sum of our parts. Our existence is bound up with the Word that is the light and life of all people, and which the darkness cannot overwhelm, no matter what human losses are suffered along the way.

Three French Hens sing their Trinitarian song for this season of festivities. Tomorrow the Four Calling Birds will invite us to the Eucharist, and along with the Innocents and other lost children we shall remember and celebrate the gift of God’s only-begotten Son.

The fog has lifted ....

... and with just a light mist it's definitely warmer!
No need to light the fire in the study today, and tonight the outside lights will be visible to passers-by!

Frost on my baubles

Wonderful wintry weather these last few days. Freezing fog, which although it's brought chaos to the airports and domestic flights, has created some wonderful natural effects on the trees and bushes. The outside lanterns in the garden are all covered in rime and although it means that I have to "spot-heat" the rooms I'm using in the house (it's down to 9 degrees C in the kitchen at present!) it's seasonal and pretty. With another Carol service tonight (and the last one tomorrow), the atmosphere of Christmas is growing. A glass of mulled wine, a mince pie and warm clothing, and not a humbug in sight.

A great and mighty wonder

The Christmas Feast is thundering upon us, and life seems to be one long preparation at present. I have managed to get my Christmas sermons written today (Midnight Mass and Christmas morning) as well as one for this coming Sunday morning (Advent 4). Plus I've put together a short address for a funeral on Wednesday. Past compilations and resources have helped, but they still have to be edited and adjusted to make them relevant to the setting and time.

The Feast itself may be timeless, but our understanding and appreciation of it changes with every year. At times it's the theme of the Logos that seems to be central - this year it's the reality of the stable birth that is coming to the fore - the general ordinariness of the shepherds, their language and sheepy aroma - that is on my mind. God incarnate in the ordinary, in the unprepared, in the temporary. And still we are not ready to receive Him.

I have a child's poetry book that I remember from my early years, entitled "If Jesus came to my house". It goes through how we would welcome him, and what we would offer as hospitality. It could be quite an effective reading at a Carol service, and I may use it next year.

The weather has turned cold today, and since I was going to be in my study most of the day writing the sermons, I lit the fire. I very rarely use that fireplace, but it's been lovely and cosy, and visually it has made it look like Christmas. As a cleric I find it hard to capture the feeling of the season, being caught up in preparing worship so that others may encounter the holy amidst the secular merriment. But that's all part of the calling, and so long as I keep in mind the reason for it all, then I do manage to enjoy it on a personal level as well.

So three more Carol services to lead - more mince pies to consume, and hopefully more mulled wine to warm the cockles. That was one of the benefits of my recent retreat to the English Convent in Brugge, the availability of the warm wine in the bars of the city. The first one I had was incredibly potent, and kept me nicely heated on the walk back to the Convent with a tray of chips and mayonnaise. It's a great city to visit in all seasons, but pre-Christmas it's really rather special.

Now with darkness falling the fog is rising off the Waveney valley and the temperature is dropping fast. Time to put a couple of baked potatoes into the oven for tonight's supper.

Pinch, punch ...

... another tradition is to yell "White Rabbits" at the top of your voice as soon as you wake up! Neither practice is particularly neighbourly.

I see that the first big winter storm is heading across the northern US as we prepare for a bit of a blow tomorrow and Sunday. Chicago was forecast 6-10 inches of snow! We're just wet and windy. It can't be anything I've eaten either. I had lunch out today with someone, and they had French onion soup, so I don't give much for their chances this weekend!

I host the regular monthly Benefice Coffee Morning tomorrow. Marmalade is all made and labelled. Parmesan and sun-dried tomato rolls have just been baked, and the house smells wonderful. I have more pots of preserves to put out on the Sales table, along with lots of other items, and with 15 prizes in the Raffle (and quite good ones as well since it's the Christmas "do") we should get a respectable result. The weather doesn't put off the "punters", and like bees round a honey pot, they'll be scrabbling at the table looking for bargains.

I blame my parents. I was brought up helping out at church Jumble Sales, so the whole ethos of collecting stuff to sell and then selling it is deeply ingrained into my understanding of what it means to be an Anglican church. I was clothed from those jumble sales for several years, until I began to have some money of my own. I was never allowed a pair of jeans, and I was probably 16 before I had any. I have a slightly blurred photo of myself climbing up a hillside in the Campsie Fells near Milngavie in Scotland around that time, and I'm wearing denims, with turn-ups that must be 9 inches or more! What style!

The promised wind will probably bring down most of the remaining apples. I have a dozen fruit trays full of them standing in the garage at the moment. I shall have to see if I can shift some of them tomorrow, or else make tons of chutney.

Somehow I don't think that Advent preparation means preparing fruit.

Blow ye winds and crack your cheeks

The first gale of the winter (and indeed for the year) is threatening to blast the cobwebs away this night. It's 12.50 a.m. as I write, and the wind is picking up outside. Leaves are swirling, and there's a continual drumming from the garden as the rosy-red apples fall from the two old trees onto the lawn. (For lawn read moss!) The Met Office is predicting gust of up to 70 mph in the early hours, so we'll see what happens. We'll also discover if the new roof on the house is fixed and watertight. I don't fancy picking up broken tiles as well as apples in the morning. I hope the apple trees survive. One of them has a hollow trunk and main branch. I have no idea how it keeps producing such a crop as we've had this year, but it does. It's bound to snap off one of these days, but hopefully not yet. It's a lovely shape and there's a small stone buddha sitting at its base that gives the garden a peaceful ambience. If the main branch comes down, the eastern mystic will get a nasty crack on the head!

Lo, he comes

The Coffee Morning made over £90 for our Benefice funds, and all but one jar of marmalade was sold. The Remembrance Sunday service was very well attended with more than 80 people, including the local Sea Cadets who brought their Standard. And now we turn our eyes towards Advent and the swift journey to Bethlehem.

However, our Bethlehem will have little in common with today's Bethlehem. No shepherds out on the hillsides watching over the flocks by night - they wouldn't be able to get through the Israeli concrete wall that divides the city. Plenty of room at the Inn though, since the tourists can't get there. Any bunch of angels that decide to hover over the fields singing "Glory to God in the highest" had better take care, or they'll be shot down by Israeli tanks. Not much "Peace on Earth" there this year .....

I've all but finished my Christmas shopping. Just two or three more items to find, and then I shall have to get down to the wrapping, especially the ones that are being posted. I never leave the buying until the last moment - in fact I start putting things away for the next Christmas in the January sales. Sad, isn't it.

Hubble bubble ...

Right, that's another batch of 3-fruit marmalade made in readiness for the monthly Coffee Morning on Saturday. I get moaned at if I don't have any for sale, and as I was down to the last 2 pots, I had to get cooking. It's done with ruby grapefruit this time as the nearest Tesco didn't have the yellow variety, and it makes a slight difference to not only the colour but to the set. However, all seems to have worked well, and althought the jars are still warm at the time of writing, I'm sure the preserve will be firm when they've cooled down.

And it's not just the jars that will cool down tonight. It's been a bit of a chilly day, and autumn has certainly established itself. Leaves are swirling in the gusts of strong wind that presage another hefty rain shower, although the apples on my two old trees are still grimly hanging on. If previous years are anything to go by, they'll still be there come Christmas. Trouble is, apple sauce doesn't really go with turkey.

All Souls Day, and the annual Remembrance of the Departed service should now be drawing to its conclusion in Flixton Church. This seems to be attracting greater numbers each year, so it will be interesting to get the feedback on tonight's liturgy. With the opportunity to light candles, and the names of all those whose funeral services we have conducted over the past 12 months, as well as additional names people want mentioned, those who attend feel that they have not only remembered but also participated. The simple symbolic action of lighting a small candle becomes quite profound for them. It's the old educational adage in action ... "I hear and I forget - I see and I remember - I do and I understand." It doesn't bode well for our sermonising, but we all know the power of visial aids, and if people have done something as well, more of the meaning of what was being celebrated is bound to be passed on.

Sunday is November 5th and the annual celebration of Guy Fawkes and his failed attempt to blow up the English Parliament. If I'm to hold to the above tenet, then perhaps I should let off some fireworks from the pulpit. I wonder if that needs a Faculty?

Chilly and chilli

Standing at my open study window, sipping a freshly-made espresso, I look out on a day turned grey. It's not cold, but the weathermen forecast a change tomorrow as fresher winds blow down from the north and the first frosts of autumn may arrive.

I've sorted out the duvets and decided the time has come to switch the 11.5 Tog for the 13.5 one. I've had friends stay for the weekend, and as I coped with washing the bedding today I took the opportunity to check what was on each bed and cull the spare duvets that fill one of the cupboards in my bedroom. I also need to sort through the bedding, for I seem to have piles of sheets and duvet covers that never get used, as well as a growing mountain of pillow cases.

This was not the case in France a couple of weeks ago. I carefully packed the bedding for the three of us, and it was only as we unpacked at the Gite that I discovered that I'd not taken any sheets. It was a quick trip to the local E. Leclerc hypermarket the next day to remedy the omission. Therefore I now have three more sheets in the airing cupboard! (And just what does the initial E stand for in the Leclerc name? We've had a tradition of some 20 years of calling him "Eddie Leclerc", but as good as it sounds it won't be right.)

The trip was relaxing, and an opportunity to revisit some sights and see new ones. I descended into the depths of the earth at the Gouffre de Padirac again, complete with its 450 or so steps down into the main cave, and then its boat trip across the underground lake. I trod the paths of Rocamadour once more, and found that the Chapel of the Black Madonna had been cleaned, and much of the candle soot removed. Unfortunately, along with the darkness has gone some of the atmosphere. I went into the church of St. Andre at Monflanquin to find it too had been cleaned, as had the Abbey at Fontrevaud where lie the tombs of Henry II, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Richard Couer de Lion. I also managed to get into the Castle at Bonaguil which I have only observed before. This was the village where, many years ago, the local restaurant owner came over a chatted incessantly to us as we were eating. She wanted to practise her English, and we were the recipients. She asked us to return. We never did.

Now within a week of returning home the clocks have changed and the dusk rushes upon us. A fortnight ago the evenings were still reasonably light and we were walking around in shirtsleeves. Now I've changed the duvets and the fleece is out. So the world turns and the seasons change. Summer salad gives way to winter veg. Baked potato and chilli-con-carne was on the menu this last weekend for my guests. It was good, and there was enough left to put two tubs into the freezer. As the land cools down it will be a welcome supper.

Descent into hell

The holiday is over and it's back to reality. Not that France is imaginary, but a period of relaxation away from the routine is always somewhat unreal. The restrictions or constrictions of time and place are no longer there - the regular tasks are several hundred miles away, and this time my mobile phone refused to allow me to make any calls. Even though "roaming" was set up on it, as soon as I touched foreign soil it began to turn itself on and off like a yo-yo. Even when it found a French network and recognised it, as soon as a text arrived it shut down.

After a week of motoring on the blessedly empty roads of the Aquitaine, the return journey was a descent into the maelstrom. The ferry from St. Malo to Portsmouth was fine. Travelling the Channel in late October is very pleasant. The ships are not crowded, the weather can be exciting (though our sailings both out and back were like crossing a mill-pond), and the longer voyage allows you to read, watch a film, take a leisurely meal, and generally close-down the vacation in a civilised fashion.

Then it's back to the English road system and traffic.

At Guildford on the A3 we met the first traffic jam, caused by an accident up ahead. No information available, just queues of cars and lorries crawling up the hill and down the other side. That was an hour's delay.

Then there was the stop at a well-known restaurant chain for a break and light supper. The coffee was vile, the food cold, and the service laughable. I have put in a complaint to the Company and we'll see what their response is. Whatever, I shall now avoid those establishments in future.

And so to the M25, clockwise.

Delays were signposted for Junctions 10-13. We joined the motorway at Junction 10 and were immediately into the crawling queue. It would have been quicker to walk. It took almost an hour to reach Junction 11, where we speedily left and scurried our way through the Outer London suburbs of Staines and Windsor, passing over the M25 a couple of times to check on its progress. By Junction 15 it was clear, and we rejoined to make our way to the M11.

With two stops for a snooze, we arrived home at 3.00 a.m., the journey from Portsmouth taking a total of 8 hours! I could have travelled from St. Malo to the Aquitaine in that time.

At least our lanes here in the wilds of rural north-west Suffolk remain fairly empty. It's still a pleasure to drive around the villages, despite the occasional tractor or beer-delivery lorry.

Ah well, back to the real world. Perhaps I'll make myself a mug of French hot chocolate as compensation.

The simple way

The Feast of St. Francis, and I find myself in a reflective mood, pondering the multitude of possessions I have and the simplicity of lifestyle espoused by the blessed son of Assisi. Where has it all come from? Every room in this four-bedroomed house is filled with furniture, oddments, pictures and the like. The cupboards are full with items I have held on to from years past, and every time I go out I come back with something else.

This last Monday I actually managed to throw away a piece of artwork I did back in 1972. I had never displayed the canvas, and the oil paint was beginning to chip, so I decided it was time for it to go. The picture showed a large cross with what was described at the time as "the white tornado" (from a TV advert for a cleaning product) spiralling up from the top. It was meant to signify the release of the Spirit at the moment of the physical death of Jesus, but it never really worked. I did display it at the Greenbelt Festival in the mid-1970's when they had an Art Tent, but since then it has languished in one cupboard after another. Now it has gone to the tip, and I'm not too bothered.

In the parish of Ilketshall St Lawrence another old painting has received a new lease of life, for we have had the old Coat of Arms restored. It arrived back today and I have yet to see it, but judging by the photographs of the work done to it, I shall not be disappointed. It was in a parlous state, with badly flaking paint and much of the design indecipherable. It shows the Royal Arms of George II, and carries a re-painting date of 1840. Presumeably the original fell apart and a replacement was commissioned. Now it enters its third incarnation, and will be proudly displayed for all to see for another hundred years or so.

Like my home, our churches amass belongings over the years. Bits of silver, holy pictures, huge leather-bound Prayer Books and Bibles .... I'm fairly good at culling the dross from our vestrys (vestries?) .... I really ought to do the same with my own hoard.