Day 3 – Lenchwick to Welford-on-Avon – Tub-thumping Pub
Hooray… a great pub at last. Just as well after yesterday’s ill-tempered rant at down at heel pubs with which the UK is infested. We lunched at “The Bridge” at Bidford-on-Avon. This pub is excellent. The staff seem genuinely pleased to see us. It’s clear someone had taken trouble with the decor , and a first-class menu. It was, of course, crowded as quality always attracts customers, so we lunched in style. Two friends walked with us.
Discussing Death
We discussed “living wills” … no small talk this time. We agreed we find “assisted dying “distasteful. Who is to stop us from refusing, say, chemotherapy after a certain age if we so wish?
Two friends have died in the last few months. In each case, the funeral was limited to “close family only.” Sad that! Jane and I are thereby denied the chance to roar out a few hymns, shed a tear, and say a fond farewell to our old mate.
Surely simple ceremonies serve a vital social function punctuating key occasions in our lives – births, marriages and deaths. They are important because they are the glue that keeps our communities together, and they remind us powerfully that we all need each other.
A family I know faced the tragic death of a daughter who was crushed in a riding accident. She had massive head injuries. She was on life support for a month: then, the family met to decide whether or not to turn off the life support system.
The family of nine all voted to turn off the machine, bar one. The mother tearfully begged to allow one more week. On the fourth day, the daughter opened her eyes…the next day, she was reading normally. Today she is back on a horse. No one in the family has told her the detail of the family conference!
You can hardly blame them.
The Mystery of Faith
I wonder if you know of American poet Don Marquis and the toad “Warty Bliggens”?
Warty is convinced that the world was created especially for him. We are told that the sun was made “to give him light by day”, and the moon and wheeling constellations designed “to make beautiful the night for the sake of Warty Bliggens”.
The poem ends with Warty being asked, “to what act of yours do you impute this interest on the part of the creator of the universe? Why is it that you are so greatly favoured?”
“Ask rather,” replies Warty “what the universe has done to deserve me.”
I know lots of self-centred folk just like Warty Bliggens. If people regard themselves as being at the centre of the universe, what’s the point of church? To the likes of Warty, church is an irrelevance. Sad that, for time marches on and it’s later than you might think…
A Sense of Awe
So why do I go to church?
It’s precisely because I don’t see myself as Warty Bliggens. Far from being at the centre of the universe, I am hanging on at the edge and my knuckles are white – so give me the drama of a high church service to whisk me away from tedious reality. I favour a style of service far removed from my day-to-day existence.
I like the soft-coloured light that slants through stained-glass windows, rich robes, singing that soars to the roof, and the spectacle of the solemn procession where clerics solemnly carry crosses and Bibles. I like the mystery of it all – the choir, a cleric expounding something wonderful (no jokes for it’s too serious for that, and anyway, vicar jokes are never funny) and a transcendent sense of awe.
I don’t expect something profound to happen every time I go to church because I rarely have an illuminating revelation. Nor do I think being distracted matters much for the service will happen anyway. I need somewhere calm, and I want to be taken out of myself and away from my absurd worries.
My preoccupations don’t matter. What’s important is being somewhere where people throughout the ages have said prayers of joy and thanksgiving or expressed remorse and guilt. This is where prayers are valid.
I relish the ancient ritual, the handing out of bits of paper, the singing with others, the standing up and kneeling down, the offering of peace to people you have never met before, the democracy of the queue for communion. I repeat words I did not compose, and only ever say in church.
None of us are expected to do anything, nor do our opinions matter much, if at all. The words were all agreed by clerics long since and the poetry has been repeated endlessly throughout the ages.
Calm in a Storm
The mystery of faith reminds me to forgive others, however difficult that may be, and I am commanded to love others whether I feel like it or not. I am told of the promise of life after death. I listen once again to the stories I have heard so many times before – to the radical absurdity of the Gospel where my world is turned upside down, where the rich and powerful stand little chance of entering heaven, where the winners are losers, and the losers – the hopeless and weak, people like me – are, miraculously, the favoured ones. I am reminded of the place just over the horizon where injustices, small as well as monstrous, can be reconciled.
Whatever my mood, the service calms my chaotic soul, and it calms others as well. It’s the routine of little acts, the repetition of the same words that bring a comforting harmony. The service interrupts my deadly doing. It makes politics less cruel and less relevant because I am reminded that deep in the root of my being is the knowledge that the ultimate questions that face us all, the ones that really matter, can never be resolved on Earth and it’s plain stupid to even try.
These are some of the reasons why I go to church. So sad for those who don’t.
* Names and images may have been changed for privacy reasons
If you are already a ZANE donor, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. If you are not a donor but would like to be, please follow the link below and know that every donation, however big or small, goes directly to where it is most needed. If you would like to help but can’t donate, please join the ZANE family and ‘like’ or ‘share’ our posts or write us a Google review – every positive step helps spread the word about the life changing work ZANE does.
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Day 4: Welford-on-Avon to Hampton Lucy – Oh, it’s a Hat!
I was amazed that the pub sign was a flag that contained quite clearly male genitalia: I was surprised because the village simply didn’t look that sort of a place! The last time I saw such a sign was in Pompeii, for brothels were the sort of thing the Romans went in for big time. Then one of the walkers spoiled my day by telling me primly that the sign was of a chef’s hat: a disappointing end to my story.
A great walk through Stratford, and we walked miles with a delightful couple called Liz and Malcolm- 150 years of marriage between us.
Brown and Clown
I dislike violent criticism aimed at senior politicians, often levied by otherwise rather quiet and gentle people. One of our walkers claimed former Prime Minister Gordon Brown to be “the most useless politician of modern times”. I pointed out that, in fact, under Blair, Brown was a first-class chancellor who kept us out of the Euro in the face of wild and continuous exhortations to join by leaders of every other political party, media pundits and the likes of the CBI.
I told my friend that if he didn’t understand the implications of that stroke of genius, then he needed urgent therapy! I also told him that PM Gordon Brown and his Chancellor Alistair Darling managed to save the entire world banking system at the time of the banking crash in 2009: rather a useful thing to do!
In my view, Brown is a very great man.
I read Max Hastings describes Boris as a “clown”. I don’t know either Hastings or Johnson personally other than what I have read about them. I know Hastings to be a fine writer and journalist, and I enjoy his work. I am aware also that he has had his fair share of personal disasters and career setbacks.
I wonder why he thinks he has the right to be so gratuitously offensive. Hastings’ style is patronising and disdainful, the head boy of Pop: wearing a fancy waistcoat and a sense of entitlement, scornfully dismissing inky fingered dunces like Boris of the lower fourth.
Now to Boris. I am deeply relieved Boris isn’t my son in law, but give the devil his due. He was twice mayor of Labour-dominated London. An extraordinary political feat. And when were any of us acclaimed columnists in the Telegraph?
A mere two years ago, the country was more or less ungovernable with rebelling MPs seeking to take over the levers of power in order to thwart Brexit. Whether you were a Remainer or a Brexiteer, you must surely concede that this shambles was dangerous to our democracy.
We couldn’t go on as we were. Johnson threw out 25 rebels and managed to get an (admittedly pretty rotten) deal with the EU. Then he managed to get an election called – not easy when a fixed-term Parliament Act was in place. He then went on to win the general election with a generous majority. Since then, I submit he has managed COVID as well – or as poorly – as any other government anywhere as far as I can tell.
You may disagree with my list of accomplishments and think I am being wildly over-generous; that is your prerogative. But whatever you may think of Johnson or his politics, to call him a “clown” is more than absurd.
Party Time
To celebrate the easing of Covid restrictions, we decided to throw a party for friends. What a lunatic idea because of course, since it was a personal matter, I had to do the organising myself (and not make use of the excellent ZANE and CEF administration). Jane was adamant!
“You are a fool for even trying… you are a walking chaos at this sort of thing.”
I was determined to prove how wrong she was.
“Oh no, just leave it all to me.”
I booked the venue, arranged the catering, prepared lists of chums, got the invitations printed and proudly posted them myself. Then I carefully noted who was coming – and of course who could not come – on a list.
Organised Chaos
Then, dear reader, I lost my list. It was totally gone. Zap! It was nowhere to be seen.
I informed Jane and she intoned words never before heard in our marriage. “You are total fool! I told you so. How on earth did anyone as inept as you ever manage to start up a successful business or charity? It totally defeats me!” And on it went – for some considerable time.
Then Jane announced she would handle the list side of things. So, I tried to recall who I had invited and who had replied, with both of us occasionally wondering, “Oh, not them… for goodness’ sake. She’s a drunk and he’s the biggest bore yet unhung.” (You know, the sort of remarks people make about friends when they aren’t there.)
Two weeks later, Jane told me she had lost her list. (I promise you this really did happen!) I was surprisingly kind – taking advantage is simply not in my nature.
“Oh well, dear, we will just have to rely on our joint defective memories to work out who’s coming.”
Party With a Swing
A party at our ages! After the invitations had been sent out, I was asked by one invitee if the party was to celebrate Britain leaving the EU, while another wondered if we were in mourning for having left! I said, “no” on both counts – either reason would be plain crass, and would upset at least 50 per cent of the guests!
Another wondered what the tickets cost for it didn’t say on the invitation. That was a thought! I have never considered charging a fee for one of our parties. What a novel idea. Perhaps I might ask our grandchildren to wander round with buckets… that would really make the party go with a swing!
Someone else asked why I was choosing to throw a party now – why not wait for a significant birthday? The answer to that is bleeding obvious – wait any longer and most of my contemporaries will be dead!
I am reminded of the party held by the redoubtable Daphne Park (Baroness Park of Monmouth), which took place in a Lord’s tearoom to celebrate her ninetieth birthday. She announced to her elderly guests, “The trouble with holding a party at my age is that all my lovers are dead!”
There was a long silence before a shaky hand went up at the back of the room. A quavering voice called out, “No, no! Daphne, dearest – I’m still here!”
Daphne peered long and hard at him through her lorgnette before saying sternly, “Good heavens, Henry… But I thought you were dead!”
* Names and images may have been changed for privacy reasons
If you are already a ZANE donor, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. If you are not a donor but would like to be, please follow the link below and know that every donation, however big or small, goes directly to where it is most needed. If you would like to help but can’t donate, please join the ZANE family and ‘like’ or ‘share’ our posts or write us a Google review – every positive step helps spread the word about the life changing work ZANE does.
Thank you – Nicky Passaportis ZANE Australia
Please donate to support pensioners struggling to survive in Zimbabwe
Any assistance is greatly appreciated and goes a long way to giving our pensioners a better quality of life and lift the pressure of money worries which is very debilitating emotionally.
(Donations made to ZANE in Australia, are tax-deductible)