Thursday, 21 December 2017

Romanticism wins

The much-heralded snow has now mostly melted away. Odd grey mounds linger, where snow was piled up, the whiteness replaced by dull grey sludge, with black highlights. DH drove over the remnant in front of our house a few times, in the hope of speeding up its demise.  The garden, divested off its cloak of whiteness, now just looks like it has been sat upon.

The third Sunday in Advent was catch up Sunday. The congregation arrived bearing cards.  The season of communal cards has passed,  people have reverted to personal Christmas greetings.  No-one remembers everyone, everyone remembers someone. Like most things in the Anglican church, it ain't perfect, but it works.

On Sunday evening we rang the bells for the carol service at the parish church. In a pragmatic change to tradition, the old oil lamps were not used for the first time in living memory, as they had become increasingly unpredictable. Instead, fairy lights had been woven around them, giving the illusion of Christmas trees, suspended in the air. The fairy lights created a suitable safe seasonal smoke-free solution and were such a delight, that romanticism triumphed after all. God works in a mysterious way...

Monday saw us heading off to Herefordshire in the fog, on the trail of last-minute purchases. Skeletal structures were shrouded in mystery until the sun triumphed.

We took the scenic route, crossing the Severn at Holt Fleet and meandering on through Herefordshire.

The Cathedral watched on as the waters of the Wye washed past on their journey to the sea.

Inside red and gold decorated trees, complemented the golden crown at the chancel crossing. The miles of gold lamenta strewn on every tree are not really visible in these photos. There were at least four on display, and one more was being taken away. Mind you they still have some way to go to catch up with Worcester's glorious exhibition in the cloisters...

Lunch was at No.10 - Church Lane, not Downing Street. We explored the old town centre before returning home, laden with purchases. We returned via Worcester, on the shorter route. Miles of road had been recently been resurfaced, making it much the better route, despite the delays in Worcester.

Soon after we recrossed the Severn the fog reappeared, hiding the world behind a swathe of whiteness once more. Romanticism wins again.