The Times They Are A Changin'

There's a danger in responding to an earworm, and daring to play the tune that is resounding in your head. It is like giving a visitor a key to your home, you never know quite when they are going to arrive. However, if they do appear, you cannot turn them away, for you have issued an open invitation.

Rotas are strange beasts, that are intended to bring order. The one certain things about a rota is that it will 'evolve'. No matter how tidily it starts off, other factors will come into play that necessitate change. And so it came to pass that yours truly ended up preaching on the Holy Spirit two weeks in a row. Fortunately, the congregation appears to have survived the experience.

When preparing for Sunday, I often get an earworm. Usually, this is a worship song, which can often be woven into the service. On this occasion, it was a Bob Dylan track which took up residence in my brain - which explains how I discovered yesterday that the cat didn't approve of Bob Dylan, or to be more precise, his mouth organ playing.
In case you are wondering how that fitted into a service, it linked to John 16:5-15, where Jesus explains that things were going to change. He was going to leave his disciples and that the Holy Spirit would come instead, and how things would be both different, but similar.  Dylan's writing includes quite a lot of theological imagery

In the evening there was more changing, as we rang the bells before the evening service.
For the uninitiated, every time the order of the bells differs, it is called a 'change'.
As it was the fifth Sunday, we came down into an empty church. We were aware that this would happen, so although it was a change, it was not unexpected, and we knew where to find the congregation.











They were all in the Huband Room next door for a Celtic Communion.  It was a very relaxing way to spend an evening, and we focused on the familiar passage of 'the road to Emmaus', with people sharing their thoughts on the passage.












The grey skies and below-average-for-the-season temperatures have continued, but we did see the sunshine for a short while this afternoon. That has to be change for the better!

As we drove home,
the sun was setting
and it was not raining.
The sunset was not spectacular,
but after all the rain it was very much appreciated.













Finally, even the cat was pleased to see us, which made a change. We are mere substitutes, and we and the cat know it.











The Times They Are A'Changin'

Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'.

Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won't come again
And don't speak too soon
For the wheel's still in spin
And there's no tellin' who
That it's namin'.
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin'.

Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
Don't block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There's a battle outside
And it is ragin'.
It'll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin'.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin'.
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'.

Songwriters: Bob Dylan

The Times They Are A-Changin' lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Audiam, Inc

Soggy Saturday in Suburbia

Outside the rain still falls.

The squirrels continue to indulge in a three or four-way battle for possession of the feeder.
Apparently one is pregnant and one is male, but I am a townie, so haven't got a clue...
Neither am I familiar enough with their markings to tell them apart or be certain how many visit our garden on a regular basis. Sometimes there are four in the adjacent trees, but one at least lives in the garden of a house in the next street, so that particular squirrel really is a trespasser. Tut!

Yes, we feed the squirrels, as we love watching their antics as they hang upside down, retreiving the food. The cost of 12kg bags of peanuts seems good wages for the hours of entertainment they provide.

The magpies are nesting high in the oaks at the bottom of the garden, so there have been some tense moments between them and the squirrels. I am not sure whose nest was being threatened by whom, but lots of flutterings, squawking and squirrel swearing has taken place.

Then we are cat-sitting, so add that to the mix.
I remonstrate with her if I see her stalking the birds. I have no desire to deal with a bloody decapitated carcass.

The excitement intensifies, as a dog is being taken for a walk along Shit Alley behind our boundary. You will not see that name on any map, but the dogs do not yet seem to have trained their owners to clear up after the purpose of the walk has been achieved. When we are on our guard, we are OK, but sooner or later someone gets complacent and rather than Shit Creek, it is Shit Alley. This week DH came a cropper...

Back to the dog, who may, for all I know, have trained his owner.  He discovers the cat's escape route and more than fills it with his delightful doggy face. Delightful, because it is the other side of the fence and cannot slobber all over me. He looks with great interest upon the wonderful world of our garden.  From the doorway I greet him
"Hello, how nice of you to drop in."
He's either yanked back by his embarrassed owner, or retreats in surprise at my welcome. Given the accompanying undignified, but indignant, yelp I am inclined to guess the former.
Now the dog has departed, the cat stomps off out of the garden, to continue her bird and rodent harassment unharassed elsewhere,
If you thought spring was a time of peace and harmony, you haven't visited our patch.

The buds are definitely thickening, and our view is changing by the day. The distant hills are now hidden by a profusion of foliage, of a startling array of greens.

From my vantage point overlooking the garden, I send a document to the printer.
Wireless technology is great.
It fails to print.
Wireless technology is great, when it works.
DH presses lots of buttons before deciding to replace the ink cartridges.
He then discovers that we have no 'magenta'.
Wireless technology is great when you have enough ink.
In fairness to the printer, it does inform us we are low on ink, but we ignore the warnings, calling the printer's bluff. It stops working on the day I need to print.
We decide to visit Tesco, it's an opportunity for him to browse their free-from range.
We locate the ink cartidges, mentally take out a mortgage, and vow to buy online in future BEFORE we run out. Time will tell if we can accomplish this.

I cheer myself up by taking a photo of some delightful garden decorations and texting the picture to someone I know who will detest them...

We return to find the cat in bed, awaiting her next meal. She stirs enough to glare at the magpies and starlings, but it is raining again, so she doesn't take her intentions further than the observation stage.

Other things I have learnt today - the cat doesn't like Bob Dylan...
I tell her it is the words that matter.
however, as far as I can tell she is indifferent to the words, but the mouth organ is another matter...

The cat returns once Bob Dylan has completed his lament and asks DH for more food.
Without any effort, I appear to have trained her well.

Another soggy Saturday in suburbia, but what will tomorrow bring?

It's Friday, but not as we know it!

Knowing that the weather was forecast to be damp and dreary over the weekend, I took advantage of Thursday's afternoon's sunshine to catch up with some gardening.  The hebes, which we moved into pots three years ago, did not flower last year. Investigations confirmed my theory that they are potbound, so they are gradually being planted in the ground. We have six or seven to move. So far we have managed one. Why? Because the daffodils that they share a pot with, are still in flower, their season delayed by the abnormally cool spring. It seems rude to cut short their moment of glory.

Plants purchased from the local garden centre are still huddled on the patio table.
The monster plant that appeared in the raised bed, has been identified as Red Campion, and despatched to the compost heap.
The daisy, transplanted from our old garden, has flourished. This progress was marked by the indignity of being subdivided and despatched to the four corners of the garden. It will soon recover, as it is a very hardy plant that will grow from just a small section of root.

Gradually order is being restored after the winter weather, but there is still quite a lot to do! DH is working on the lawns, so the frame that protects the pond from leaves in the autumn, has been requisitioned to allow the lawn to be treated, whilst protecting wildlife. Unfortunately, it also looks like a guinea pig/rabbit run (see top right of the picture above). The first night it was out there was a fox barking close by. Coincidence?

Friday lived down to the forecast. Meanwhile, out on the fence, squirrels battled for access to the feeder, whilst the rain continued to fall.

The KHT was otherwise occupied. On days like today I often end up at the cinema with her.
As it was a quiet day, it was the perfect opportunity for the youngest two grandchildren to pop round for a visit. G5 (Aged 3) is very fond of a set of hardbacked Mr Men books, which I kept from when the KHT was younger.

Too soon it was time for her to have her lunch, change into her uniform for nursery and depart, leaving G6 (aged 1) briefly in my care. We had a great game of matching wheel spins to clapping and tapping. Fortunately, his mother returned just as he was getting fractious. It was his lunchtime, and he knew it!

This left me with an hour or so to wrestle with this week's sermon on 'The Holy Spirit'. I am not happy with what I have prepared so far, more work is required. A bear with very little brain requires time to mull over and cogitate on these matters.

In the evening we took G3 (now aged 9) to a children's group at the parish church. On the edge of the car park is a beautiful flowering tree, probably ornamental given its diminutive stature. G3 (now aged 9) did a happy dance in honour of the tree, as is her wont. Unfortunately, as she was moving when I took this picture, it looks as if her arms are rather short....

We had a slow start to the bellringing this evening. I did wonder if we were going to have enough volunteers to be able to ring all the bells. In faith, we raised them all ready to ring, and we had a very rewarding session, with lots of new things tried.

It's been a funny old day, not at all like a normal Friday, but special in its own way. Meanwhile, I am left wondering if it will rain all day tomorrow, or if the sun will put in an appearance.  Time will tell.

In search of dragons...

Monday began with an appointment with the KHT at her college. We duly rolled up at the allotted time, only to be greeted by the fire alarm.

As we hadn't signed in and were still on the public footpath immediately adjacent to the college, we were not herded off to some evacuation point, and were left free to observe, as groups of students appeared out of various exits.
Fire marshalls sported their high vis tabards, in an attempt to highlight their presence and as protection against the biting wind.
After the exceptionally warm weather of the preceding days, the KHT was wearing shorts. She wasn't giving up on summer, even if summer appears to have largely given up on us.





The fire engine rolled up, and the officers carried out an inspection. The final verdict seemed to be that the alarm was triggered by hairspray in the toilets on the top floor.

One of her tutors guided us towards the person we had come to meet, who was stood with the family from his current and rudely interrupted meeting.

In view of the hiatus we went and checked in, where we made contact with the course leader from the college the KHT wishes to attend next year, who was also attending our meeting.
She was very pleased to see us, as the reception had tried to convince her that she had rolled up on the wrong day. However she had her emails, and she stuck to her sofa...

Having completed the necessary formalities we headed back home for a welcome coffee.

As it was St Georges day we decided to go off in search of a church dedicated to St George.  In our area most churches with George as their patron saint seem to be urban - think Worcester, Kidderminster or even the closed church in our own town. Urban churches are understandably rarely open. We prefer rural gems, where we are free to enjoy the ambiance. The nearest one appeared to be in Shipston on Stour  - a small town with interesting shops and not too far away. Perfect.

Upon arriving in the small town, we parked by the river and set off in search of sustenance. Unfortunately, our first choice of cafe had no tables free, so we reverted to our usual eaterie, Mrs Browns. The food was fine, though I had to feel for the poor waiter who dropped a tray of crocs - that woke everyone up...

We browsed the second-hand shops. Our favourite junk shop has decided that it is now an antique shop, so prices have doubled. The KHT bought a book - £2 - which was a reaasonable price, whilst we bemoaned progress.

We visited the card shops, ironmongers, and more charity shops. Then we remembered the purpose of the visit, and headed off to find the church,  situated on the other side of the main road to the rest of the town.


Standing outside the church I looked at the noticeboard.
"It's not St. George!" I said, greatly surprised.
"What do you mean it's not St. George? 
You mean we came all the way here, 
for the sole purpose of visiting a church dedicated to St. George, and it isn't?"
"Well, Google said it was!"

Sure enough, Google had placed a blob on the map of 'St George's' in Shipston, but it referred to the pub opposite, 'The George Townhouse', not an ecclesiastical landmark!











If you have a magnifying glass you might just be able to decipher the blue sign of the George, which has its rear entrance opposite the church.
















We explored the beautifully kept church and especially liked the welcome sign in the porch.
















As a consolation, we discovered a new-to-us shop, with very nice necklaces and cards.

A sales assistant directed us towards their furniture showroom in an old Baptist chapel adjacent to the shop.
It had some lovely quirky items in, but our house is now fully furnished.
Phew, that saved us some money!

Before we left Shipston we diverted to take a photo of the front of The George House, which looks as if it once was a fine coaching inn.














Well, we didn't find any dragons
(other than the one on this old mug)
but we did find 'George',
even if it wasn't the 'George' we anticipated....

Crumbs!

I am not an early bird.
I am not an early bird.
I am not an early bird.
Just in case you are in any doubt...
I am not an early bird.

On Saturday morning I discovered
that I had agreed
to be up and out by
9:30am, 
in the name of bellrope shortening
and tower tidying,
just by being guilty of being a bellringer.
"It will be fine..."I told myself,
"It will be fine..."

I crawled out of bed at 8:30am.
Plenty of time...

Completed my ablutions & dressed appropriately
Plenty of time...

Went down to breakfast for my standard daily fare.
A toasted muffin.
Nothing fancy.
I just like muffins because they stay hotter longer than toast.
Having cut the muffin, I placed it carefully in the toaster,
for this was a muffin well past its prime.
Plenty of time...

The toaster lit its pretty blue light briefly,
before ejecting the muffin in disgust.
Plenty of time...

The toaster refused to stay down.
Plenty of time...

I check the switch.
"Erm I think the toaster may have died..."
DH - <sigh>  "Of course it hasn't died!" 
and comes over to show me how to use a toaster
as husbands are wont to do,
when faced with malfunctioning technology.
The toaster doesn't work for him either.
I am vindicated.
Plenty of time...

I put the grill on in the top oven,
because I still want my toasted muffin
and this is the only other way available to me,
of toasting a muffin :(
I retrieve the reduced size muffin,
from the toaster.
It is smaller than it was,
for part of it remains within the bowels of the defunct appliance,
and place it reverently on the grill pan,
which I slide into the top oven.
Plenty of time...

I try the kettle
"The kettle doesn't work."
"It's the fuse!" DH declares triumphantly,
and resets the fuse.
Now he is vindicated.
Plenty of time...

I turn off the oven.
Remove the grill pan.
Remove most of the crumbling muffin
and place it back in the toaster.
I press down the slider on the side of the toaster.
It stays down for half a second before blowing the fuse again,
ejecting what is left of my muffin in the process.
Ooops!
There was plenty of time...

I turn the grill on again,
and place the sorry remains of my muffin in the grill pan once more.
Ten minutes later the poor mangled muffin is still lily white,
though a tad windblown,
as while I had turned the grill on,
the temperature was still set to zero...
Now I am running out of time...

Eventually, the muffin changes colour and I devour what is left.
Then I remember the letter that needs to catch the post and stuff it in an envelope.
We stop en route so that the KHT can post her letter.
We are late, but the KHT does not hurry.

We arrived a few minutes after that which was scheduled,
despite originally having had plenty of time...

I give our apologies,
and explain that there was a problem with the toaster...

By evening we have a new toaster,
remarkably similar to the one it replaces,
only when tested,
it doesn't blow a fuse...

Seeing Red not Green

On Friday we decided to go and see the famous 'weeping window' at Hereford Cathedral. Browsing online I discovered the chapel at Rotherwas on the fringe of Hereford, so we decided to experience a double dose of culture. We programmed the sat nav and set off.

Half a mile away I remembered the text from the window cleaner, which necessitated a quick return trip to base before we set off again.

In order to gain access to the chapel we needed to collect the key from Herefordshire Archive and Records Centre - aka HARC (now avoid singing a certain Christmas Carol...) The website described a pleasant wander down a green lane. It sounded idyllic, perfect for a warm spring day.

The receptionist at HARC gave us the key, before informing us that we would need to walk down the main road, as they 'Green Path' was currently part of a building site.

She was right.

Following the map the receptionist had given to us, we managed to find our way past a couple of roundabouts and up a farm track to the church. 

The rapeseed was just coming into flower. In a week or so it will look absolutely stunning. As it was it still looked pretty good.  

The contrast between the noisy building site adjacent to a main road, and the solitude of this small hamlet, just a quarter of a mile away, was immense.


I unlocked the door of the church and we entered in. The downstairs is mainly empty with just a few camping chairs set out in anticipation of an event the following weekend.

I climbed the stairs to the gallery. 


Immediately a large black bird launched itself from one of the rafters into the tower. 
We ducked.

Jesus watched our feeble attempts to encourage the bird to leave. 
We didn't want the poor thing to be trapped there, unable to escape. 

Finally, we persuaded it to depart through a side door. 
Mind you it probably returned via some opening, once the interfering visitors had departed... 
Looking at the stains, that particular beam seems to be a regular perching spot for birds of a feathered kind.

Having returned the key, we stopped off at a cafe for sustenance. The KHT was a bit put out when made to choose between a scotch egg or a three-egg omelette, as she would have preferred to have had both...

Hereford was buzzing. The road from Ross was at a standstill, so the satnav took us via a few detours to our car park of choice.

When we reached the cathedral, the close was a hive of activity, where trails of ice-cream wielding students on educational visits, intersected with suitcase towing tourists, all admiring the spectacle of the Weeping Window. 

Was I the only one who looked up and wondered if Rapunzel had had red hair? 

Having not got to London for the poppy exhibition at the tower, I was really glad that I had been able to see this exhibition, but I do wish I had been able to visit a couple of weeks ago when the poppies were covered with snow shortly after they were installed. The bright sunshine and throngs of tourists did not give the atmosphere of solemnity the installation deserved.

Inside the cathedral was also busy, as visitors explored. It felt that, for just a short time, that the building had been reclaimed by the people.





After a quick wander around Hereford, we returned for refreshments in the sunny gardens of the cathedral.

A day perfect in unexpected ways.

What Are The Chances?

The KHT has completed the hours required for the Monday element of her course, so we decided to go to Worcester to visit the Art Gallery and Museum to celebrate.

It was a mild day, with high cloud, so we were brave and went without coats. A bold, and possibly rash move, in a year when winter seems to have gone on forever!

The roads were quiet.

There was just a brief hold up to allow a delivery truck do a very complicated manoeuvre off a drive. We watched as the vehicle inched closer and closer to a ditch, willing the driver not to make an error of judgment, that could have taken the truck into a muddy abyss.
Fortunately, he didn't.

We regularly visit Worcester. However, we usually focus our attention on the Cathedral, the river, and the main shopping streets. On this occasion, we headed northwards towards Foregate Street in search of the museum. Well, the cafe had great reviews, so we just had to check it out...


The KHT was impressed with the giant sturgeon - minus its caviar, which is just visible at the back of this photograph.










We admired the very constable-ish artwork of Leader, complete with ornate gold frames - which you either love or hate.

We ate lunch at The Balcony cafe, enjoying the peaceful oasis it offers, before exploring the rest of the museum, which was mainly military.

The fact that amazed me most was that prior to the ice age, the Severn used to flow northwards into the Dee, until during a prolonged cold snap some glaciers got in the way.
The thought of all that water changing direction blows my mind!

Meanwhile, the KHT enjoyed trying on the hats. She only tried on two, so this was the closest we got to a hat trick...







After leaving the museum we found our way to the Sabrina Bridge, pausing to watch a film crew and a handler with two birds of prey leaving the racecourse. We will never know what we just missed. Life is strange like that.

We crossed the river and headed south towards Powick, past a regal looking belgian shepherd dog, with a freshly stitched ear. Life continues to be odd...



















A brightly painted barge overtook us, making its slow way somewhere. Rosie and Jim were nowhere to be seen.

We passed a lonely lifebelt floating futilely in the water. Liberated by vandals or floodwater, we knew not. I wondered how far had it traveled before it came to rest in that tangled mass of twigs.









We passed the main road at the unimaginatively named 'Worcester Bridge' and continued south. The budding greenery helped us to appreciate spring has finally arrived.





















Behind the fence adjacent to the footpath, groundstaff at Worcestershire County Cricket Ground were making up for lost time after the recent floods, marking out the nets.







The river level had dropped far enough for the weir to be visible, but we heard it before we saw it, as gallons of water tumbled and roared down the incline en route to the sea.
I am still trying to get my head around the river changing direction, and failing!





We cross the Diglis Bridge.
The KHT practices walking on walls.
"If I get the shot right it will look like you are walking on water..."
 I don't get the shot right.





Words of encouragement have appeared on the footpath. Is this art, graffiti, or both?

We have walked about 11k steps, so we reward ourselves with a coffee.

We head home retracing our route across country. As we pass through Inkberrow, we have to stop to allow a car with trailer to pull out of a driveway. We realise to our total amazement, that it is the very same house where we had to wait for the truck to complete it's tricky manoeuvre this morning.
What are the chances of that happening?