Exiles feast

Still with a heavy heart, I drove to Carrefour this morning and dithered for an hour as I shopped for other things about buying a new camera. The new improved version of the one I have was not in stock, so what I ended up buying was a slightly smaller Sony W690 with approximately the same specifications as the one I lost. The price was about 20% less than I paid for the HX5 over 18 months ago. I paid more for it than it would have cost me in Cardiff Camera Centre, but to have a lighter more pocketable version of the one I lost, now, and without hunting around all day was worth the extra. After all, today is the Feast of the Birth of the Virgin Mary, and I hope there will be something special happening at the Archiprestal Church of St Mary in Vinaròs to require having something more than a camera-phone to hand - we'll see.

A few days ago, I noticed a banner attached to some tall pine trees on the N340, near the town boundary, advertising the presence of a Romanian Orthodox Church the other side of the trees. It wasn't visible or easily accessible from the main road. Driving past the church compound this morning with my window open, I caught the sound of liturgical singing issuing from loudspeakers. Why not? It's a feast day of the Virgin Mary observed as widely in the East as it is in the Latin Church, even if it commemorates an event of which there is no biblical record. It's the ancient church's way of stating dogmatically that the mother of Jesus wasn't a supernatural being, but someone like us, born into a human family, just like her son. It's not about worshipping Mary or regarding her as an extension of the godhead, but celebrating her as one rooted in our common human history, who accepted God's grace in faith and shaped her life by it.

I learned to see it this way as a youthful Anglican student coming into contact with the Russian Orthodox Church when I was nineteen. The Bristol Orthodox pastorate was dedicated in honour of the Nativity of Mary. Some of my earliest ecumenical experiences were in dialogue with Fr Nicholas Behr, the priest there. So with these memories and reflections arising from my unconscious as I heard sacred singing on my way shopping, I resolved to go to the Romanian Church on my way home. I had to park across the main road and dash across in between traffic. 

 

The brick building isn't very big. Half of it contains the sanctuary, the rest is the nave and a narthex which opens into the grounds, where worshippers may stand during the service on crowded busy days, entering only to greet the icons of Christ and the Mother of God, and receive Holy Communion.

I could still hear singing from the road outside. This time a recording of a man singing an unaccompanied hymn in Romanian - if my memory serves me right this would be an ancient 'Akathist' hymn in honour of the Blessed Virgin - Akathist means 'not sitting', you either stand or kneel. Such hymns are long and require stamina. But that's historic custom. Today it was just background music to what we'd regard as a social event after church. The Orthodox regard this as 'The Liturgy after the Liturgy'. When the communion part of the service finishes, bread, cakes and other food and drink are blessed and shared by the congregation. It varies according to occasion. 

People eat and greet. The priest circulates, though not for small talk. He stops and prays with people. Mothers with newborn babies come and kneel at his feet for thanksgiving prayers after childbirth, and the tiny one is taken into the sanctuary of the church for a blessing. All very informally, normally, life and prayer mingle. I stood inside, on the fringe of the gathering. It wasn't long before a woman presented me with a small plastic cup containing rice soaked in chocolate milk with piece of chocolate on top. Then a man gave me small picnic beaker of wine, then biscuits were offered by small children circulating with trays. No conventional greetings were uttered. The offer of food was its own kind of welcome to a stranger. Just as it was fifty years ago when I first visited Bristol's Orthodox church.

I went into the church to greet the icons, as I learned to do all those years ago. I gave thanks for this community of exiles, living in the most natural the spiritual and social tradition at the heart of their Christianity three thousand kilometres from home. As I left, I felt blessed, moved to tears by this unpretentious communal expression of faith. It reconnected me to experiences and learnings made in my youth which have had untold influence on my life and ministry in all the time I spent living and working among people making themselves a home far away from home.

I walked into town this evening, but apart from the regular Saturday Evening Mass anticipating Sunday, there was no special observance of the Feast of Our Lady's Nativity. Out in a few of the country villages I visited recently, I saw fiestas advertised for today. I really should have planned to go out of town instead of assuming a uniform pattern of celebration. Each community has its own history of observances which stretches back centuries if not millennia, even in an age when secularisation threatens to level everything to dull monochrome uniformity of events.
 

A sad loss

I spent this morning preparing my Sunday sermon. After lunch there was a movie on TV about Mussolini, and I watched it in an effort to improve my sketchy knowledge of Italian politics before and during the second world war. Then I went out for a bike ride along the roads through the orange groves on the west side of the N340 to enjoy the cool of the evening breeze. 

As I slowly climbed a gentle incline I heard a dull thud close to me, like the sound made as you ride over a stick or something flat lying loose on the road. I didn't stop to look, as I was expending effort going uphill at that moment. And that is how I lost the Sony HX5 camera which goes everywhere with me. It was in a detachable pouch on my belt, not on the back where I usually mount it, but on the front, where the velcro fastening slowly, silently worked loose until it slipped to the ground. The sound ignored was that of the camera bouncing on to the edge of the road in its case. 

I cycled another three kilometers before noticing, then turned back and rode furiously, checking the one place I'd stopped, where the bike chain had jammed, and I'd failed to notice that the camera was no longer where I'd put it. I searched the stretch of road where I recalled the strange sound occurring, but to no avail. It's a road much used by cyclists and horticulturalists white vans, with a low speed limit, so the camera case would have been fairly visible, so I'm pretty certain someone will have picked it up. 

There's nothing on the case to identify its owner. The several hundred pictures on the memory card tell the story of a visitor to the region interested in churches, villages and landscapes. I doubt anyone would be bothered to do the detective work to narrow it down any further than that. Despite the GPS data held by the photos, none of that would lead back to the Vicarage as I haven't taken any photos close to home for a couple of months. I did read of someone in Canada losing a digital camera overboard on holiday and getting it back over a year later because the person who found it rescued photos from the memory card of the ruined camera and published them with a query 'Do you recognise this family' using the Google + social networking facility, eventually producing a response.

Thankfully I haven't lost any photos. After a normal day's camera use, I habitually copy them to my hard drive and upload the best to my Picasa web store, linked to this blog. Now the only camera I have with me is on my phone. It's OK for an emergency, but has no zoom, limited sensitivity and it's so fiddly to use, I don't know how anyone can believe camera-phones will supplant a versatile compact digital. So tonight I'm mourning my loss. It's travelled with me everywhere in the past 18 months. I've taken over three and a half thousand pictures with it, and it still looks as good as new. I hope whoever found it will enjoy it as much as I did.

 

Holiday shadow

Vinaròs is not so busy now that that holiday season is drawing to a close. Spanish schools don't start back until next week, so it's mainly the German, Dutch and French visitors who've gone. There are still some younger children on the sandy beaches, and their voices can still be heard as they play around swimming pools in our neighbourhood. At the church drop in centre this morning were several English residents just returned from spending the summer in England, exchanging the fierceness of the August heat for British rain.

The news today has been dominated by the shocking murder of four British holidaymakers on a mountain road just above the southern end of Lac d'Annecy in Haute Savoie. When I looked the map of the area, I realised it was a place we knew well, having passed several summers with the children at 'Camping Ideal' a few kilometres from there. The last time was exactly 20 years ago, just after I'd accepted to go to Geneva as chaplain. In fact Bishop John Satterthwaite interviewed me a couple of days before we set out and sent my formal letter of appointment to the campsite address. When we lived in Geneva we'd often drive to Annecy for tea, and on one occasion we cycled right around the lake. This terrible occurrence must cast a dark shadow over visitors and locals alike in this tranquil beautiful region.

 

Traiguera and Sant Mateu

To avoid overdosing on Paralympic TV broadcasts I escaped into the countryside this afternoon keeping a promise to myself to visit the hill town of Traiguera, alongside the N232 to Morella, which I've passed on several occasions without stopping. It's an interesting place to visit, yet again with a mediaeval church hemmed in by houses in narrow streets, but also significant because it is mentioned in the first century writing of Ptolemy, associated with the ancient Iberian tribe of llercavonia which inhabited this region for centuries even before his day.

Towns and villages in this region seem far apart by criteria set by experience of the overcrowded British Isles, but in many places, theirh known history goes back more than just one millennium. It reflects the size of the territory and lower population density. It also reflects the value of each settlement to those who farmed the land, traded and made their home there over several millenia. The size of the church is an indication of the status of the community in times of past prosperity. 

I couldn't find a notice giving Mass times. Clergy shortages are a fact of life in Spain as elsewhere in Europe I couldn't find a notice giving local Mass times. Clergy shortages are a fact of life in Spain as elsewhere in Europe. If it wasn't for the community good will and appreciation for its heritage, such edifices would be ruinous and a social liability today. I can't help thinking there's a message to the inheritors of the Gospel message which is embedded in the value given to our common past - but we have yet to decode it properly.

From Traiguera, I drove across country to Sant Mateu (or San Mateo, take your pick), a small town rather than a village and named after its patron saint. It's larger than Traiguera and has an an industrial estate attached to its ring road. Signposts for San Mateu are evident on the coastal road from the outskirts of Castellon to Vinaros, but is this just to do with its economy? When I arrived there I discovered that its beautiful 14th century Valencian gothic church was designated a National Monument as far back as 1931, and justifiably so. 

The west doorway is of the simplest romanesque character with carved heads on its pillars.
 

The hundred foot bell tower, stands apart from the church. The plain vaulted sanctuary and nave in pale grey limestone is worthy of a Cistercian foundation. The interior lancet windows are 20th century, as is the liturgical furnishing of the nave - just beautiful to look at. I didn't mind paying to get in and go up the tower. So few churches are open during the afternoon in this part of the world, sad to say. 

It's such an inspiration to see a building of this quality so well cared for - and, there's an organ building project, set to install a new-build instrument in a side chapel, interesting in its own right, as it contains 14th century inscriptions to commemorate dialogue between rabbis of Tortosa and clerics of Sant Mateu. The view from the bell tower was spectacular.

On the return journey, anxious to re-fuel with filling stations few and far between out in the countryside, I drove through the Sierra del Maestre, past the hill towns of Cervera del Maestre and Calig, heading for Benicarló where I was finally able to fill up on the last leg of my journey. This is Calig from outside with the Montsia mountains in the background on the other side of the plain.

Co-incidences

I had a quiet day at home yesterday, too tired to do much of significance, but enjoying the slightly cooler weather for doing not much in. This morning I went into town of the bike, and noticed as I passed that our local beach cafe has closed, and packed away its tables. A sure sign the end of the holiday season is upon us. There are still hundreds of people along the main beaches in town, but a couple of weeks ago there were thousands. I'd be interested to learn how the local economy has fared this summer compared to last year and earlier.

I had my second request for autumn Sunday locum duty availability this morning from the Area Dean of Llandaff, Jenny Wigley, former colleague of mine from team ministry times in Cathays. I learned from her that Jesse Smith, her predecessor at St Michael's in Cathays will be off sick for some time. By sheer co-incidence, after sending me the email, Jenny went out to Llandough Hospital to visit Jesse, and there she bumped into Clare, who was just leaving after having a scan and an x-ray on her troublesome ankle. Jenny then gave her a lift home, which saver Clare having to wait for a bus. It's a small world.

 

Wild horses in the Delta

Yesterday's challenging drive left me feeling quite tired this morning. After the ten o'clock service at Vinaròs, I stopped for a cup of coffee, something I don't normally do, but on this occasion I felt the need of a stimulant. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I came to the conclusion it was ten to twelve when it was in fact only ten to eleven. So, I set off in a rush, thinking I'd not left myself sufficient time for the 45 minute drive to L'Ampolla. The last ten minutes of the journey I spent rehearsing apologies for being late. When I arrived, I couldn't make out why the church was full of people singing to guitars. It took me a few moments to realise that the regular Catalan Catholic Mass preceding ours was in its closing stages. I was 55 minutes early, and needn't have driven so anxiously. Thankfully there was enough traffic en route going at the legal limit and hard to overtake, to prevent me from speeding. There's plenty of time for this journey. I don't know how I came to forget that.

After another leisurely picnic lunch at the camping Sant Jordi, I drove home via the Delta, making my way down the south bank of the Ebre river to Sant Jaume d'Enveja, to see the new bridge which links the town with Deltebre on the north bank.

Next to the approach road to the bridge, rice harvesting was under way. I noticed a lorry laden with grain crossing the bridge to deliver it to the huge co-operative storage facility outside Deltebre on the north side of the river.

From here I followed the line of the river down towards the sea to the ten metre high observation tower at the Bassa de l'Alfacada. In every direction from here the views are a spectacular mix of gold, green and blue.

Rice fields and salt marshes face each other across a canal. In the direction of the sea shore, mingling of salt and sweet water, sand and river silt has created a collection of small environments with a diversity of ecosystems, supporting different birds and marine life.

Flamingos were feeding across the river tributary from the observation tower in a pond with a few of the remaining wild horses of the Delta standing in the middle of it - to keep cool? I wondered.

On the return journey, I noticed how attractive waterlogged recently harvested rice fields are to bird life. The disturbed ground gives them an opportunity to feed on insects if not tiny aquatic creatures. I counted a dozen purple herons, many more ordinary grey ones, three cormorants, countless terns and gulls in just a brief stop to marvel at the scene. Such a rewarding hour on the way back from church.
 

Vallibona Vallivana

After yesterday's wind and rain last night was the coolest since I've been here, and the day started under an overcast sky. The beach nearest home was completely empty when I drove past mid-morning, without a single hardy survivor in sight. It's not just the change in weather, however, end of the holiday season is upon us, and schools re-start in the coming week, if they haven't already.

After doing some shopping and cleaning I drove west across country to visit the hill town of Rossell that  sits beneath the limestone massif of the Benifassà mountains. After a brief look around, I followed the road toward Vallibona along a steep sided valley through which the riverbed of the upper reaches of the  riu Cervol runs. It's a single track road which climbs up and runs along contours hundreds of metres above the valley floor. Thankfully its surface is in an excellent state of repair, which is just as well given the dizzying panoramas and steep drops presented at many points along the route. The valley appears to have few occupied properties, but extensive terraced olive groves lining the valley's steep slopes looked well cared for. I imagine this is a productive area for olive growing. Having a decent road must help with harvesting.

 

The speed limit was just 30kph, and for the most part it was impossible to drive any faster. In the hour it took me to drive the 24 km from Rossell to Vallibona only two cars passed me. The village sits on a promontory above the river, and the road descends steeply in the last kilometre to enter it. The views of it from all sides are spectacularly beautiful. The present population is less than a hundred, a tenth of what it was a century ago, and goodness knows what it was in the middle ages, when it was important enough to have its own charter. There was one signpost in the village square indicating the way to Morella, and this pointed the only way out, other than the way I came.

The road descended steeply to the level of the Cervol riverbed, and then criss-crossed it several times on very low bridges or fords before starting the long slow climb up the south side of the valley, an ascent of about 800m (by my reckoning) to a plateau beyond the ridge, covered with small stunted pine trees that resembled bushes, with grazing long horned cattle serenading the wind with their cowbells. It was just like being up at 1100m in the Swiss Jura. There were even considerate road signs warning of the possibilty of icy conditions, but there was no grass, just brown earth and low shrubs. Fascinating. The N232 main road from Morella to Vinaros was visible from the plateau, just a couple of kilometres away, providing a much easier quicker return route home. It is also a very beautiful journey. 

There's just so much to see and investigate in the mountains as well as the plain in this region. Half way down the descent to the plain is a place called Vallivana. It has a rather decrepit looking Sanctuary of the Virgin Mary, with an inn next door (closed), a new looking forestry centre opposite, and several derelict buildings. An information panel about the site and the surrounding region, and suggests it is a work in progress by describing it as 'our future patrimony'. A few kilometres further uphill I'd noticed a small roadside building with an information board announcing that it was a place of refuge for pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostella. Underlying the new modern highway is an historic route many centuries old, and so many stories to tell.