Moon, Sand and Snow

It's been a while, blogging has been one of the causalities of too many overlong days, working beyond midnight and then starting again before six. Even the running has suffered, although I have, just about, managed to get out a couple times a week. And there have been some amazing dawns, the moon on the high Quantocks on 25th October [pictured]. And just a month later, I wasn't the only idiot up on Wills Neck in shorts, despite temperatures of -6! Is there a special club for those who wear shorts in the snow, I was asked? I was the first human out after the snow and was following the deer, foxes and squirrels through the woods. This morning, even a week after the last snow fall, I found tracks that no human had ventured, the reason for one un-trod section became clear when my legs [still wearing shorts] vanished into a three foot drift, the first of many. There was then the most amazing steep run though deep snow back down woods.

The second half of the term has been almost overwhelming, incredibly hard work, stressful, great fun, and much more. Would that I had got more done when things were quieter in September and October, but I have managed a few key tasks in the run up to Christmas, and on 8th January have my English and ICT tests, which I need to pass to get Qualified Teacher Status. But despite all of that, I have continued painting, occasionally, always a very good sign, and the headline has been that I have really enjoyed it. And I have managed, just about to keep up cubs and church, time at home and all the rest. As we put in our Christmas Card, who needs to sleep! Next term I'm at Axbridge, which will be a completely different experience, and then back to Bridgwater for the summer.

The Weekend

After a week of running to stand still, and just about managing to keep up with the hectic teaching schedule, but without any train wrecks [thankfully] dawn running is exactly what happened yesterday. Whatever the intense mystery of the pre-dawn dark [and it's still pitch black when I return home, let alone set out], to run into the clarity of the newly risen sun was fantastic. I also discovered Goathurst, Robin Hood's Hut and the Temple of Harmony; for some reason I had never noticed them in the dark. See www.quantockonline.co.uk/quantocks/villages/goathurst/goathurst1.html for photos.

And I've cut down the hedge [you can see out from the terrace] and gone to a Scout Training [which began with a an out of date video on Changes in Scouting!] and even managed to paint! Then there have been fires and wine and food and chocolate brownies and 'stuck in the mud' and all of the other staples of a family weekend.

Back to school tomorrow.

Against the tide

Amidst the mists of the valley,
the roar of the motorway
the haze of the newly risen sun,
the river was at flood tide
and flowing upstream.

Fifteen miles from the coast
the current was strong,
forcing the river against its nature;
flowing upstream.

I only see it once or twice a month [usually consectutive days], but each time it is amazing and transforms the Parrott from a muddy trickle to a powerful river.
And as with running through pitch black woods, there is a certain parallel with the rollacoaster ride of learning to teach.

Unity of the Spirit...

Even the true Welsh castles, Criccieth, Dolbardarn, Dolwyddelan, built by Llewellan the Great and Llewellan the Last, brood over their valleys and coastlines. The Edwardian fortresses, the English castles of the conquest, Conway [pictured], Harlech, Caernarfon and Beaumauris are in a different league; as fine a feat of medieval engineering and archicecture as any buildings in the country.

In contrast, the ancient churches are small, even the great church of Towyn or the cathedral at Bangor are low, sturdy buildings; there is within them a great sense of holiness and history, but they do not have the majesty or magnificence of Durham or Salisbury. Yet however humble the churches of Beddgelert [pictured] and so many other Welsh towns and villages, they are still alive and loved.

So often, after a holiday in Wales there is a thought that remains with me, echoing around my head. In 2009 is was a phrase from a sermon at St Catherine's, Criccieth, 'for Mary, saying yes to God was almost unbearable' [tough, of course, 'unbearable', that was a new thought]. This year is was the realisation that, however small, the churches of Gwynedd are still whole and alive. In contrast the great castles, powerhouses of their nations and their kings, lasted only a few centuries before being reduced to ruins; and ruins they remain. The parishes of the Church in Wales still struggle, as they have struggled down the ages, yet they remain as faithful witness to worship and service though the ages, a living contrast to the ruined fortresses.

There hasn't been much that has surprised me about teaching full time, it has been and continues to be an incredibly steep learning curve, but I'd expected most of it. Yet one thing about a school staff team that I hadn't fully articulated, even to myself, before this term was how incredibly united it could be. There is a very strong unity of purpose, a desire to help, to say yes, to do anything possible to support the children. Even though there are differing theories and different models of teaching, even though there are contrasting personalities, still it works and it is a pleasure to work within such a community.

And then there was a meeting of a number of parishes which I chaired last week where we strugged to agree even why were were meeting, let along whether we should meet again. They were and are good people, but there was tragically little unity of purpose or Spirit. Just as that can also be lacking in individual churches, and, to be fair, in some schools as well.

For all of our faith and faithfulness, the church seems to stuggle to hold together, to serve joyfully to maintain the bond of peace. Those that are 'at one' seem, tragically, to be the exceptions. But, whether struggling within themselves or united, these churches whose representatives I met last week have, just like the churches of Gwynedd, continued to worship and serve through the generations.

Another Dawn

It was an astonishing sunrise; and up on the hills it was autumn already, the braken golden in its death throws, the trees bare and the temperature just a few degrees above freezing. The coombes and the woods were still lush and verdant, not exactly high summer, but warmer and greener; a good place to get lost in. Except that I didn't get lost! At least not in Hodders Combe. For the first time, I managed to find my way though to Holcombe, where, typically, I took the wrong combe back up to the hills and so missed Woodlands Hill. But in so doing I found a pond that I had never before known existed. Big enough but sadly not deep enough to swim in, yet startling and beautiful none the less.

Once in a blue moon

As I watched the star in the south west [Jupiter I think] shining bright despite the approaching dawn I looked and longed for a moon, to give light in the darkness of the pre-dawn if nothing else. And on Thursday it was there, casting its long shadows, bright enough to expose my horrifically slow running up to Kingscliff but not bright enough to outshine Jupiter.

The moon is amazing, watching it rise above the Moelwyn, falling into the heather, and the bog, on Illkley Moor at least until Martin and I were moved on my armed police [who were looking for someone else]; and so many other times and places. Yet it is 31st December 2009 that remains with me. It was one of my last runs in Purton, I took my usual route around the edges of the village and, as usual, I left before dawn under the light and shadows of the moon and watched its spectacular setting. It was only after I had returned, running into the newly risen sun that I discover that I had been running under a blue moon. A Blue Moon is, under one definition, the thirteenth blue moon in a calendar year, which means that the next blue moon will be 2028. Once indeed... under a blue moon.

It's worth rising at such unearthly hours to see the planets and the sun, the rising and the setting. Tomorrow will be another early start, and yet another attempt to work my way west to east across Hodders Combe. I have so far tried three times and got hopelessly lost. Not that it really possible to get lost. You follow the rivers downstream and get to Holford, upstream and you hit the moor, but I haven't managed to head due east to Holcombe. If it does work it will enable the completion of a run which will make the Quantock Beast look like a fluffy mouse.

It's good to continue the dawn running; it keeps me sane. Time will tell whether I can continue to sustain everything on top of the teaching [wonderful but exhausting], but for the time being it's all good. Once in a blue moon, such opportunities do arise.

Return to Dawn

There was only the vaguest glimpse of dawn in the east when I left the house at 5.30am this morning, to the west the stars were still shining and under the trees of Kingscliff the night still lingered. When I reached the top of the woods and looked up over the hills towards Broomfield and then headed back down west the land was grey. It was only back in the fields of North Petherton that the sun emerged in all of its glory, the start of an amazing day.

It's starting teaching and the need to be in school by 8am that's forcing me to rise at silly o'clock; really crazy - 6am used to me my standard. But although I miss the newly risen sun on the trees and flowers [pictured from June], returning to predawn
dusk has it's own very special atmosphere, almost mystery.

It is a good preparation for a day spent in the classroom. Would that I could get exercise and sleep, but with only one on offer, I'll go for a run any day!

BTW - school is great, amazing teachers, children just as good. It's worth the paperwork.

3 week holidays

After a 24 hour break it was time for something longer. It was my first boss, Colin Jones, Dean of Cape Town, who recommended that everyone at the Cathedral should have one three week holiday a year. It takes about five days to fully disengage and unwind and then another few days to prepare to return to the mad house of home and work; but if you have three weeks then you actually have a decent amount of time to enjoy your holiday. And our three week holiday, once again in an old stone house in the wilds of Snowdonia, set between the mountains and the sea, was once again, wonderful. I have been going to the valley and the house since I was a few weeks old and it is as miraculous, beautiful and restorative now as it has always been.

We climbed mountains, I swam off just about every beach and in almost every river and lake that I could, while the children said 'silly Daddy' and Jane read her book. We taught the children to gamble [with matchsticks] and Jane played games of cards, again and again and again... We saw castles and towns and beaches and tortured a fair few crabs. We enjoyed great food and wine and sat for hours around the fire with family and friends and I [just] failed to get up and down Cnicht in an hour [PB 64mins 55secs]. It was a good holiday in an amazing place in with we actually did very little.

Back at home I am now trying to read two very long reports on the Primary Curriculum so that I can write a rather short essay. The joys of being a student again!

24 hour holidays

I've done it once before, in the Lakes, and this was just as good. I often enthuse about 3 week holidays and one is about to begin for us. Yet 24 hour breaks are in some ways just as good. Adam and I reached Pontrhydryfen or Pont-rhyd-y-fen [does how you write it alter how you pronounce it? I think that it does, but am not sure... any Welsh speakers out there] at about 6.15pm, Vicky gave the kids their tea and then we headed up the river [pictured] and, what a surprise, I ended up in the water and then Nick followed [also hardly surprising]; the children wouldn't go above their knees, at least not deliberately. It was as wnderful as it looks.

We got back to Dr Who, and later good food and wine and company. The next morning Nick and I headed out at 7 up into the Forest www.afanforestpark.co.uk . After about 2 miles of steady uphill, with little talking, I said, 'You're setting a fast pace' to which Nick replied, 'I'm just keeping up with you'. 'Shall we slow down? ...No.' Or at least not until we got to slopes that were not designed to be run, except by the seriously fit, and insane.

We headed off the the yard and the Ponies and then on to Big Pit www.museumwales.ac.uk/en/bigpit which was one of the most amazing and most powerful museums that I have ever been to; terrifing, awesome, moving, tragic, great for both adults and kids and so many, many stories; and the guides [all former miners] have the most wicked, dry sense of humour. But the idea that 10 year olds spent 12 hours a day, 50 weeks a year in the pitch black is one that is hard to forget, as is the pride of the miners and their vivid memories of the pits and their closure. I'd recommend it to anyone.

Fish and Chips came next before driving home. A great 24 hour break.

Quantock Beast Route

Our wonderful Running Club President has just put up a link to the Quantock Beast route - which I few of you have asked me for. It is:
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/40920958?sms_ss=facebook
I don't know whose the times are, but current PB for the route is 44.40, without the gates being opened for me. If you're going to do it at the moment, watch out for ticks.

Sunset

Having time to play around with paint and board is something that I will have less time for soon [along with time to make ice cream and head up the the heights of the Quantocks and more]. Yet this is one result of my messing around with oils; Sunset.

Hopscotch

The blog has got rather lost over the last few weeks amidst broken toes [well, just one of them], my first essay for my training as a teacher, painting, gardening, running [I did the Quantock Beast in 44.40] and the wonderful heat. The garden is coming on, the flowers and the veg; and the maze, tree house, zip wire and swings. And I realised that amidst all of the 1970's concrete that plagues the garden there was a line of paving slabs that could lend themselves to hopscotch. So with a few paints we created this... it does start at one, and in fact ends at 12.

Broome, Ticks and Strawberries

Today started in the woods with the newly risen sun and the ticks [I found and destroyed four of the things in my legs and one in the dog]. The broome has past; I was out of the Kingscliffe for just two weeks while we were in Lyme and my ankle was bending in the wrong directions and already we're onto the foxgloves whilst the broome is in seed-pod and growing all over the paths. Yet not even the broome competes with the brambles [coming into flower] or the all dominant, pan-indigenous bracken which is now above chest height. The woods are coming to life faster infinately than my running; even the heather is coming into flower. It is a wonderful place, only a few miles long and less than a mile wide yet I did a five mile run there without re-tracing more than a few yards.

The day ended with delicious strawberries, the first from our garden [BTW there were more than two, but these were the only ones left uneaten by the girls by the time I had found the camera]. The tomatoes are coming into flower, the pumpkins are germinating and the rhubarb is as ever, producing more than we can eat.

Priest

Priestly Duties: a Poem by Stewart Henderson

What should a priest be?

All things to all

male, female and genderless

What should a priest be?

Reverent and relaxed

vibrant in youth

assured through the middle years

divine sage when ageing

What should a priest be?

Accessible and incorruptible

abstemious, yet full of celebration

informed but not threateningly so

and far above the passing soufflé of fashion

What should a priest be?

An authority on singleness

Solomon-like on the labyrinth of human sexuality

excellent with young marrieds, old marrieds,

were marrieds, never marrieds, shouldn’t have marrieds,

those who live together, those who live apart,

and those who don’t live anywhere

respectfully mindful of senior citizens and war veterans

familiar with the ravages of arthritis,

osteoporrosis, post natal depression, anorexia,

whooping cough and nits.

What should a priest be?

All round family person,

Counsellor, but not officially because of recent changes in legislation,

teacher, expositor, confessor, entertainer, juggler,

good with children, and possibly sea lions,

empathetic towards pressure groups.

What should a priest be?

On nodding terms with Freud, Jung, St John of The Cross,

The Scott Report, The Rave Culture, The Internet,

The Lottery, BSE and Anthea Turner,

pre modern, fairly modern, post modern,

and ideally secondary modern

if called to the inner city.

What should a priest be?

Charismatic, if needs must, but quietly so,

evangelical, and thoroughly

meditative, mystical but not New Age

liberal and so open to other voices

traditionalist, reformer and revolutionary

and hopefully not on medication

unless for an old sporting injury.

Note to congregations: If your priest actually fulfils

all of the above, and then enters the pulpit one Sunday

morning wearing nothing but a shower cap, a fez, and declares

“I’m the King and Queen of Venus, and we shall now sing

the next hymn in Latvian, take your partners, please”. -

let it pass – like you and I they too sew

the thin thread of humanity.

Remember Jesus in the Garden

- beside himself.

What does a priest do?

Mostly stays awake at Deanery synods

tries not to annoy the Bishop too much

visits hospices, administers comfort

conducts weddings, christenings,

not necessarily in that order,

takes funerals

consecrates the elderly to the grave

buries children, and babies

feels completely helpless beside

the swaying family of a suicide,

sometimes is murdered at night, alone.

What does a priest do?

Tries to colour in God

uses words to explain miracles

which is like teaching a centipede to sing

but even more difficult.

What does a priest do?

Answers the phone

when sometimes they’d rather not,

occasionally errs and strays into tabloid titillation

prays for Her Majesty’s Government

What does a priest do?

Tends the flock through time, oil and incense

would secretly like each PCC

to commence with a mud pie making contest

sometimes falls asleep when praying

yearns like us for heart rushing deliverance

What does a priest do?

Has rows with their family

wants to inhale Heaven

stares at bluebells

attempts to convey the mad love of God

would like to ice skate with crocodiles,

and hear the roses when they pray

How should a priest live?

How should we live?

As priests, transformed by the Priest

that death prised open

so that he could be our priest

martyred, diaphanous and matchless priest

What should a priest be?

What should a priest do?

How should a priest live?

1066

Hay fever isn't much fun, especially when your eyes explode, all of which is additionally complex when you are trying to type on the kids fancy new laptop [a very generous gift] on which all of the keys are one space to the left of those on my laptop so, given my instinctive choice I epi;f yi[e ;olr yjod [AKA I would type like this].

But when I do type properly I do occasionally make sense. Over the past few weeks I have been re-reading 'The Lord of the Rings' and '1066 and all that'. One quote particularly from 1066 described Edward the Confessor as 'the last English King ... since he was succeeded by waves of Norman Kings [French], Tudors [Welsh], Stuarts [Scottish], and Hanoverians [German], not to mention the memorable Dutch King-Williamanmary.'

Immigration came up again at the first televised hustings on the Labour Leadership candidates. I know that I tend not to do for the establishment but I was impressed with Diane Abbott. She defended both a strong and big state [to look out for the marginalised] and civil liberties [attempting to re-claim the an agenda which only she asknowleged that Labour had lost though its authoritarianism]. She is the only candidate who voted against the Iraq war and she was the only candidate with a sufficient sense of history to say that no foreign power had ever won a war in Afghanistan. She also defended the UK as a nation of immigrants.

I would never claim that '1066' is accurate history but in humour there is much truth; and if our Kings and Queens have been immigrants for so many years, so too have we, from the Roman invasion onwards. Why are we suddenly so scared, why do we persist in ignoring the lessons of history?

Selworthy Sands

It is the most spectacular of places; a mile of sand, visable from only a few places, exposed only at low tide and accessible only by a roped scramble [the rope has broken and been replaced and re-tied so many times that it's a miracle that it still holds anyone]. All of which I guess explains why Selworthy Sands is so often deserted. But for any who care enough to check out the tides and slide down the cliff and back up again, it is more than worth the effort.

I led a discussion on Sunday night which went from the greatest strenghts to the greatest weaknesses of the church; how we can be as Christ to our communities and the many times when we fail to do so. Mountains had been part of my remit for the discussion, but we didn't get there until the very end, when I felt that we desperately needed the clarity and grace than mountains can bring. Throughout the scriptures, from Ararat to Carmel, Sinai to the Mountain of the Transfiguration, we have seen and heard God on the mountains, in wind and fire and in the sound of sheer silence. So on Sunday night, from all of our seeking for the way to proclaim the gospel afresh in this generation, I brought us back to the mountains and we kept silence and listened.

Selworthy Sands is, to state the blindingly obvious, not a mountain. But it can offer the same clarity, the same peace, the same grace. It is a wonderful place to be still and pray, on Wednesday for a few short hours I was very glad to be there.

It is also a wonderful place to walk and swim. Although why the beach shelves so gently, when less than a mile west, on the other side of Hurlstone Point, it falls at 45 degrees on the Bosstington Beach shingle ridge is a mystery. What both Bossington and Selworthy do however share [and this should be stressed in any post] is a ferocious current. On Bossington it goes west, on Selworthy it goes east but in both cases you have to swim fast in the opposite direction in order to stay still and avoid the rocks. Be careful, but swimming there is still worth it, in spades.

An alien in the house

I saw this today!







Only this ['delightful' bubblegum ice cream] can produce such a tongue.

Unless there is indeed an alien in the house [or in Minehead...].

Quantock Beast

I ran the Quantock Beast in 52 minutes this morning, a personal best.
It was the third time I had run the route and the first time that:

• I didn't get lost
• my ankle survived [after a good flight and bad landing in the woods three weeks ago]
• I managed to run up the whole of creul hill [that is how you spell it], despite being jumped on by one young and enthusiastic and one old and tired labradors

All of which perhaps explains why it was a personal best.

It's a fantistic route and if you are interested in doing the real thing go to www.quantockharriers.co.uk/beast.html and join us on 4th July.

Despite this PB I am starting to feel as if I am falling to pieces; ankles, knees, elbows and tonight for the second time my right eye doubled in size with an allergic reaction. Thank God for minor injury units and eye drops, perhaps I should stay inside...

Expecting Brownies

I asked the impossible of the family today, making a batch of brownies and asking everyone not to eat them. They are for some incrediby kind cousins who have offered to put us up in their house by the sea for a few days over half term. For a while they have been saying that we were welcome; 'What, all six of us?' 'Yes'. So, cautiously we asked, and a very deep breath later, heard another affirmative. We'll be taking brownies and some of the forest of rhubard that fills one end of the vegtable bed and one of Jane's freshly grown lettuces and a bottle of wine [for which we bear no responsibility, although I have visited the winefarm, Nedeburg, and highly recommend their wine]. But the brownies are special, although not as good as when made by their original creator as I am constantly reminded. The lemon cheesecake is the same, however good it will never be as good as Sarah's cheesecake, simply because it wasn't made by Sarah.

However, it is important not to overrate the the brownies. At the end of their first week at their new school as I was walking home with the children I said that I had a surprise at home. Hoped for options ranged from flat screen plasma tv to new wii games to a new laptop to almost any other new form of technology; setting up the zip wire was the only non-technological option. When I said that I had baked some brownies you could taste the disappointment. But we still all enjoyed the brownies; as we are once again. I just hope that there will still be some to take to the coast.

Purple

We got to the top of the hills just before midnight; 'STOP' I heard.
Snow was on the ground and falling fast and heavy from the sky; and Claire, fresh from Cape Town had never seen snow before. Despite the hour, despite frozen middnight, despite my assurance that we would see far more snow when we got to the high mountains, we had to stop, and it was wonderful. Yet my memories of the Berwins are far more of the heather than the snow, miles upon miles of purple moorland, rising and falling as far as the eye can see. It was the first place that I had known such colour.

However when I first painted a purple stole, I was already serving my curacy in Minehead and it was to Dunkery that I was drawn. There is no patch of heather on Exmoor, not even around Dunkery, to rival the Berwins in their full splendour, but it's good enough. Since that first stole I have also come to know Bossington Beacon; to the extent that I can now navigate my way over it and around it and up and down it in almost any weather and when my running shoes have fallen to pieces and my feet are taking the strain. What Bossington Beacon has, beautifully and powerfully, is heather and gorse together, above the sea and sand [Selworthy Sands] and shingle [Porlock Bay]. It's neither big, nor high or remote, but it is special.

We wear purple stoles in Lent and Advent, the seasons that lead to Easter and Christmas. Purple in church is not the colour of emperors but of mourning and waiting and confession. Which is perhaps an uneasy fit with the glory and joy of the heather covered moorland. Yet, somehow, as with so many other fusions of art and sprituality, it works, or at least, it enables me to paint some purple stoles.

Red

From the wind and fire of Pentecost, to the blood and fire of martyrdom. A red stole seeks to express some of the power and grace of the Holy Sprit that gives life to the church; so much so that some are even willing to give their lives for God.

A good and very generous friend wrote in his blog www.rectorymusings.blogspot.com of the red stole that I painted for him:

I love the movement and unbridled power of the design which captures both Mike's and my own experience and understanding (if that's the right word to use) of God's Spirit.

In the heart of the fire the wind moves the flames and the colours focus and swirl and re-form, red and yellow, blue and white. It is astonishing how much diversity there is within a simple fire, and how far the heat can spread. Which is not, perhaps, a bad analogy for the Holy Spirit.

Starting afresh

Well, the decision is now made.

I'm going to be a primary school teacher! And Jane is going to have to get up earlier in the morning! I have accepted the offer of a place on the Somerset Graduate Teacher Programme and a place at a school.

Even after all that has happened over the last two years, in which I have seen enough of the darker side of the church to last me a life time, it was still a surprisingly hard decision to leave full time ministry and do something different.

How is it that the church can almost simultaneously be so loving and so destructive and sometimes flip from one to the other without logic or reason? Don't worry, I'm not seriously expecting an answer to that question.
As an update: I have only received one response to this question which was 'because of frail human beings like you and me' which is entirely true. Yet it is perhaps interesting that there has only been one response. There is a reluctance to talk about bullying within the church and yet, tragically, it does exist at almost every level and without obsessing about it we do need to address the problem.

Having made the decision it feels really good. I am incredibly grateful to God for this new opportunity in an exciting school, to the kindness of family and friends and the welcome of the local churches here where I will continue to lead services and other projects.

I wrote to a friend three years ago that I couldn't paint when it was dark, and she correctly understood me to mean not just the lack of the sun in the depths of winter but also the darkness in too much of my working life. It has been one of the great joys of moving down here, that there has been enough light to paint and create and live.

Green

All of the best photos of me have been of my back. There is one that was entitled by the photographer 'the state of the nation' because that was what we were almost certainly talking about. The two distant figures walking away from the camera are an important part of the picture, but the dominant theme is the green. It was high summer, the braken was chest high and the nettles even higher; the leaves were full and even the light was green. The only exception was the river, flowing fast and very, very cold, just beneath us. Even in July it was not a place to swim, not even for me.

I paint what is around me, the light and the form, yet whenever I start to paint a green stole a part of my mind and memory returns to that valley on that day.

Within the church year green is the colour of growth and development, of change and stability. It is organic and creative.

And so I return to the valley.

White

Many have commented that these are not exactly white, and they are not, and I have never painted a 'pure' white stole. Yet a white stole is worn at Christmas and Easter, for Baptisms and Weddings. It is worn to celebrate God's great love for us, a love that is so great that he chose to become human like us. So my white stoles seek to convey all the joy and movement of humanity and creation, of earth and sea and sky. The light cannot be seen or appreciated aside from the dark.

One final thought that was recently shared with me. If the incarnation is about God sharing our humanity on earth, the Ascension is about Jesus taking that humanity back to God in Heaven.

Times and Seasons

The campaigning has continued in our household, but there are only two votes up for grabs and mine has been already been determined [correctly] to be a soft touch; and what is at stake is not the door of 10 Downing Street but whether we get a Guinea Pig. In reality we have already decided to give in, later in the summer, but before that, it is wonderful to bait the children. Indeed that is one of the great joys of the family growing up, that we can embarras the children. I do a great 'skipping elephant' and the fact that an elephant cannot skip, and neither can I, is neither here nor there.

Going back to the Guinea Pig campaign it is being waged with considerable energy, if little tact. The most recent event led to the offer of a guinea pig, crispy fried or roasted on a spit; and very loud protestations of cruelty. To which I was sorely tempted to reply, 'don't tease, there are times and seasons for everything and guinea pigs are better at Christmas'. But there are times and there are seasons; and so I kept quiet except for the laughter, which left the campaigners hitting me for my cruelty!

In Abstract

I've been playing around with paint and board and some more abstract images and this cross is the first to be completed.

More wildlife

Alongside the badgers and woodpeckers there has been another form of wildlife that is emerging with the rising light and temperatures in a particular part of the woods - a part I now avoid. Running long the top of Kingscliffe early on a Saturday morning I heard a something big crashing through the woods and looked up to see a bare bottomed man sprinting towards his car, jumping in and driving off. When I had jogged to the parking space, I found a pair of discarded pants, I ignored them. When I told Jane she just commented, 'Where did he have his car keys?'

Changing Light

Squirrels missing their footing and falling within a foot of my head have replaced badgers head-butting my shins, I've heard my first woodpecker of the year and a heron wound me up and was wound up by me as I ran and he flew north along the canal. The heron could not quite absorb the fact that all he needed to do was fly south to avoid me. [Actually there was only one squirrel and one head-butting badger, but somehow each time I tell the story it multiplies; and it was thissss big!

It is amazing running into the rising sun, even more amazing to be painting in decent light.

Exmoor

It's been a good week on Exmoor, early morning runs up and down the cliffs with the deer and the ponies; scrambling over the rocks [that are actually pirate ships] on Lee Bay [pictured] and dipping our toes in the very cold seas; ice creams and cream teas and fish and chips; crazy golf and not so crazy parks.

And then there was the election debate that, for once lived up to expectations, even if we avoided the really big arguements [government vs small state, individual vs society etc] and seems to have got the political establishment into an over excited frenzy - but as a self confessed sad political geek, I enjoyed watching it.

Just after dawn on Bossington Beach I decided not to swim [what is happening to me] but did collect a load of drift wood that I will hopefully turn into something - watch this space. I also hope to do something with all of the photos of the coast that I took.

Politics 2

I came across a farewell article by Chris Mullin in the Times. http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/guest_contributors/article7090921.ece

One sentence particularly stood out:
It is a great privilege (and one that is sometimes taken for granted) to have been born in a democracy and to serve in a political system where, although harsh things are sometimes said, we are not actually trying to kill each other. Where differences are ultimately resolved at the ballot box. Where one side wins, one side loses and the loser lives to fight another day.

If you want to hear from a fine, honourable politician [however old fashioned that sounds, it's true], read his diaries 'A view from the Foothills'.

Politics

Through the first really warm days of the year the world seems to be spiralling down. And yet for us it has been a fantastic few days. Our garden continues to surprise me and soak up time without limit and provide a wonderful setting for family birthday parties. I ran up Cothlestone Hill at dawn [pictured]; and we discovered how amazing Lyme Regis 'go there, take my car' [apologies to Bill Bryson] where I not only swam but also got buried [also pictured].

The best day described by the retiring MP Chris Mullin in his diaries is not meeting Presidents or working with Prime Ministers but building a stone house with his daughters on the Shetland Islands - I'm nowhere near his league, but I agree that it is the small things, which are also the big things, which are so wonderful.

The murder of Eugene Terreblanche in South Africa raised questions yet again about race relations. Yet the responses of President Jacob Zuma, and even those of former members of the AWB and of the ANC youth league have all seemed so relatively rational and measured that, while only a fool would say that everything was well in SA or that race relations were good and easy, it once again gave me hope. Or perhaps it is just another reflection about how, in SA, the lack of armed uprising is counted as a peaceful resolution. The bar isn't always set high and the country doesn't always clear it; although there are also times when the country can still not only reach for but also achieve the skies.

Meanwhile the Westminster soap opera [of which I am a somewhat guilty fan] has finally moved to another stumbling high [aka a general election]. The politicans are, on the whole being as tedious as ever. I was astonished when I heard that the Tories had complained that in the Channel 4 Chancellors Debate Vince Cable got more applause than George Osborne. It didn't seem to appear to to them that Cable gave a better performance and was/is the only senior MP to even begin to predict the banking crisis.

But what I have found so profoundly depressing have been the vox pops with voters saying that:
A] they won't vote
B] all politicians are useless [espenses has just been the icing on the cake]
C] the big problem is with immigration.
Why cannot we see that voting is hugely important, sacred even, a right for which so many have fought and died and which we must not dismiss. Why can we not see that, quite apart from our Christian connection with our 'neighbour' this country was and is formed by and enriched by immigration going back many, many centuries.

We had our revolutions so very much earlier than almost any other country [why, I am still trying to discern], on so many domocratic stakes we are so far ahead of the curve. Yet you get away from the liberal intelligensia and there is still this huge alienation and sense of fear, anger and distrust - it's just as stong in the country as in the cities. And I have no idea about how to respond, and neither, it seems, does anyone else.

This will be the first General Election for fifteen years in which I will not have organised a hustings. It's also the first time that a BNP candidate has stood in the constituency in which I am living. Neither Labour not the Tories will appear with the BNP candidate, and no one wants to fall foul of the Electoral Commission and risk having to pay for the event [which is what happens if you don't invite one of the candidates]. Once again, democracy suffers at the hands of extremeism.

Pray for us.

Easter

I am a Christian because of the very simple yet astonishingly deep idea that on the cross and through his resurrection Jesus destroys the power of death.'

You didn't have to sit through any of the three sermons, so there's the headline of the Easter one. Easter was wonderful. Among many, many other things, there was music, a celebrating community, friends and family and Easter egg hunts in which we re-hid eggs as fast as they were found and unwrapped mini eggs [fairly traded] and then wrapped the silver foil around grapes - The hunters were less than impressed. There was also, most importantly of all, the new life and forgiveness given to us by the risen Christ.

There was also a great opportunity for a piece of installation art, as we transformed a cross from Palm Sunday to good Friday to Easter - with pictures posted here of the cross on Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

I also finally made a prayer tree today that was commissioned three years ago. I still have one commission for a painting that is five years overdue, but when that is done, then I will be up to date. It's good to be able to creative. For some reason that I've never been able to fully understand I have never been able to paint in the dark; it's good that it's getting lighter, in so many ways.

Returning Dawn

Yesterday was one of those mornings of moonset and sunrise. When I left the house, it was still dark [ish] and the shadows from the [nearly] full moon were dominant. By the time I came out of the woods [as muddy as the dog] the newly risen sun was right up in my face. I love the dawn [and if anyone remembers me fifteen years ago you'll realise quite what an impact children have had on me!]. This morning I was still up at 6am, but at my desk whilst the rain and wind hammered the windows and I completed my third [and thankfully] final, Easter Sermon. I've just to preach them now - and the poor congregations have to listen.

Sand and Sea

You take a moment in time
capture it;
then watch and wait
and see the scene around you
transform from sea to sand
and back again.

The light changes,
shafts of sunlight fall on rocks,
famous for a moment.

The horizon fades
until it's impossible to see
where the sea ends and the sky begins.

Then you seek
to put all of that into paint;
that movement
and that stillness.

I have posted here some paintings of Old Grimsby Bay on Tresco, one of the Scilly Isles. As with almost everywhere else I have painted I have run along the beach, swum in the sea, dug huge holes in the sand and watched the rush of the tide suddenly filling them with water. And there was one amazing picnic of wine and cheese and fruit and chocolate [very good chocolate] as the sun set and the heat faded. It was one of those [all too often] moments when I, wearing only shorts and T shirt, was revelling in the glory of the sunset and Jane was just shivering in the cold despite her multiple layers!




After Alnmouth any painting or sculpture in any church or chapel in the world, will seem almost mundane. You look down through the east window to the shifting sands of the estuary of the river Aln. It's not the safest of places, quite apart from the days when you couldn't move for the Jellyfish the tides came in fast, seriously fast, although not as fast at those at Traeth Mawr. I have walked below Portmerion and not had time to take off my walking boots, or put on my wellies [depending on need] before the water caught up with me. At low tide you can cross the river, but it's all too easy to get swept out, rather like Bossington [a shingle ridge rather than an estuary] where you can swim but need to swim continually west to avoid being swept east onto the rocks Hurlstone point. [H+S advice: don't swim in any of the places I do!] Yet Alnmouth is different from so many other estuaries, and the view out to Coquet Island is one that I have painted again and again and can still see.

Cnicht

It is a mountain that has fascinated me throughout my life. It's neither very high, nor remote, nor hard to climb - I can be up and down in just over an hour, but it gives the lie to the idea that a mountain cannot be a mountain unless it is over 3000' or 1000m tall [or whatever arbitrary height you determine]. Some even call it the Welsh Matterhorn; although that seems too ambitious and superlative even for me. Yet Cnicht is without doubt spectacular. It's a great climb; the gentle grass ridge, the more exposed rocky one and the final scramble to the summit from which you can see amazing views down to Porthmadoc, the Traeth Mawr and Moel y Gest; and turning away from the sea over to the distant heights of Snowdon and up to the dark ridge of Moelwyn. Yet alongside climbing it I also love painting and photographing it and have down so many times. Here are a few of the paintings and a sketch [photos will come in a seperate post].