Trust me, I'm a theologian

Don't follow the crowd - they may be lost too! That was my final lesson from Assisi. Saturday morning I just missed the bus up to the old town and so hoofed it up the 2 1/2 miles in the cool spring sunshine. In old Italian towns there's always at least one more romanesque church you haven't yet seen. San Pietro was the antithesis of the big Franciscan basilicas: nearly a thousand years old, plain, quiet, a place to escape the crowds. A little market had sprung up on the Via San Pietro and I climbed up through streets and alleys to reach the main piazza. My aim was to buy a miniature copy of the Croce San Damiano, small enough to fit in my rucksack but large enough to hang on the wall in my office. I found one in a souvenir shop brimful of schoolchildren on a day out. A few other nicknacks and a bottle of wine to take back to Rome, and I was back down the hill to collect my bag and get to the station. I was there in time, bought a panino from the station bar and got to the platform to find it packed with people from the conference. 'Here's the train', someone shouted, and I followed a group into a carriage. We'd just sat down when the train started moving - about five minutes earlier than we expected. We looked at each other,then someone said, 'you know, I think this is the Florence train.' General alarm followed. Fortunately, the train stopped at a village a few miles away, but we had over an hour to wait for a train going back in the direction we wanted to be. That was fine for me as I just needed to get to Rome by nightfall. For those who were flying from Rome that afternoon there was a time of rising panic! I think it worked out for everyone - though there was a mad rush for taxis when we reached Orte, just outside Rome.

I presume they made sure the Pope got the right train!

I enjoyed reaching Ponte Sant'Angelo and the Methodist manse late afternoon and going for a walk. I paid my respects to St Peter's square (the 'big daddy' of Baroque triumphalism) and then followed the Tiber, first to the rather run-down area around the renaissance Villa Farnesina (the one with the risque frescos) and then into Trastavere, which was limbering up for what was likely to be a long night of partying. I bought a wonderful icecream from a gelateria, then crossed the river to walk back along the Via Giulia - a long thoroughfare whose high walls conceal some of the grandest renaissance palaces in Rome. A lovely evening with Ken and Marion and two of their friends. Rome is such a good place to stay - especially outside of the hot summer months. It's one drawback, I think, is the airport - an uncomfortable and disorderly place with few facilities for those not intending to buy an expensive handbag. I kept wanting to go up to people and say 'don't you know how to form a queue?'.

Back to Belfast, and to its usual mixture of wind, rain and the occasional glimpse of the sun. It's time to get the garden ready to receive the plants that are slowly coming to life in the greenhouse, but the soil is still pretty waterlogged. I'm determined not to make the same mistake as last year. I sowed early, then put plants out in the first spell of warm weather. It soon turned cold and wet, leaving courgette plants shivering and miserable. They never did recover.

Today, the Church of England commemorates Christina Rossetti, sister of the more famous (and much less well-behaved) Dante Gabriel. She's an under-rated poet in my opinion, who could write something as simple as 'In the bleak midwinter' as well as the scarily gothic 'Goblin Market'. Here's her 'A Better Resurrection', which perfectly captures the tension between faith and doubt.

A BETTER RESURRECTION
by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

HAVE no wit, no words, no tears;

My heart within me like a stone

Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears;

Look right, look left, I dwell alone;

I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief

No everlasting hills I see;

My life is in the falling leaf:

O Jesus, quicken me.

 

My life is like a faded leaf,

My harvest dwindled to a husk:

Truly my life is void and brief

And tedious in the barren dusk;

My life is like a frozen thing,

No bud nor greenness can I see:

Yet rise it shall--the sap of Spring;

O Jesus, rise in me.

 

My life is like a broken bowl,

A broken bowl that cannot hold

One drop of water for my soul

Or cordial in the searching cold;

Cast in the fire the perish'd thing;

Melt and remould it, till it be

A royal cup for Him, my King:

O Jesus, drink of me.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing ....

One of the best things about Italy is the food (another, of course, is the wine) and the catering at Domus Pacis has been excellent. But for two meals, we had to fend for ourselves in the old town of upper Assisi. The first was Wednesday dinner and I found myself with a group of people (including an American Jesuit, an Irish theologian and the formidable Fulata of the women's desk at the World Council of Churches). We found a cute little restaurant down an alley off the main piazza (old Italian cities are like that) and enjoyed an unpretentious, homely set menu for €16. So far, so good. But as we left, the chef intercepted us with 'a domani, pesche fresco'. We didn't know much Italian, but we understood that they had fresh fish tomorrow. And Thursday we had to find our own lunch, so a bunch of us headed back to del Carro for their pesche fresco.

The staff tried to explain what the fish menu involved, but they knew no English and we had little Italian. I tried to piece together the words I understood and make some sense out of them. I heard 'spaghetti vongole' and 'pesche al forno' and presumed that meant we'd have a first course of spaggetti with clams and second of fish baked in the oven. But there had been other words which I'd not understood and ignored. In fact, we had triggered a massive enterprise in the kitchen, that would take them (and us) over two hours to work through. First, we were brought large bowls of shell fish: baby clams and mussels. They were good. Some time later (and after wine and bread) the next course appeared: huge bowls of spaghetti with more clams and half a lobster each. At this point I realised that we were no longer on the €16 menu! It was magnificent, but of course there was more to come. After another long wait we were presented with small stuffed and baked fish with potatos.

By this time we were already late for our next conference session, so had to forego coffee and just take a sip of the complimentary limone liqueur. The fish menu turned out to be €30 a head - not at all bad value for what we had, but not really what we'd expected when we'd walked in. A great meal (though perhaps at the wrong time of day), an adventure in good company and a cautionary tale about assuming you know more of a language than you really do.

Learning to love St Frances

Assisi was always going to be a challenge. Yes, it's an exquisite Umbrian hill-town with ancient buildings and excellent restaurants, but it's also the centre of the world-wide Franciscan movement. Those who know me well will understand that I have difficulties with this tradition: all that anarchic free-spirit stuff tends to get irritating when you're trying to get things done.The opening night of the conference looked as if all my prejudices were going to be confirmed. We sang 'Make me  a channel of your peace' (never  good sign) and just as the service of compline finished there was a raucous sound and a band of musicians in medieval costume strode in. Up popped a Franciscan friar and annouced that we were having a party - and we were all led into the bar by bagpipes, trombone and tambourine. 'Here we go' I thought.

But then we began to spend time in the ancient part of Assisi: we had a guided a tour of the great basilica  from an American Franciscan who was in turn informative, funny and tearful as he recounted the story of St Francis and his ministry. The great basilica, now restored after the earthquake of 1997 and with the Giotto frescos back in view, was built in the two years after Francis' death, hundreds of stone masons giving their labour out of love and respect. Beneath the gothic upper basilica is the lower, darker and more mysterious romanesque church and underneath them both the tomb of St Francis, excavated in the nineteenth century. I can only say that, in spite of the inevitable tourist trappings there was a genuine sense of the holy, of having (in TS Eliot's words) knelt where prayer has been valid.

Then, this morning, we had our prayers in the basilica dedicated to St Clare, Chiara in Italian (the same as the word for 'light'). We heard of her struggle to develop a new form of monastic life, of her strength of character and her wise and eloquent counsel. In a side chapel hangs the Croce Damiano. This is the painted cross that (so Francis firmly believed) spoke to him with the voice of Christ and commanded him to restore the church. It still has a powerful presence.

Pax et Bonum from Assisi

From Belfast to Assisi via Rome.
On Sunday morning I sang with my choir in St Peter's (RC) Cathedral as part of the Titanic commemoration. In fact the newly commissioned Requiem for the Lost Souls of the Titanic, with its 4 choirs, 2 brass ensembles and mezzo-soprano soloist, came together remarkably well, though I suspect some regular worshippers were bemused. The 2-hour service ended with a packed congregation singing Nearer my God to Thee - a remarkable occurence. Inspite of my difficulty with the whole Titanic hullaballoo, I found myself drawn into it and even moved.

Then there was an early (3.00am) start to Monday, as I drove down to Dublin for the  7.10 flight to Rome. A bus took me directly from the airport to within a few minutes' walk from the Methodist centre by the Ponte S Angelo in time for lunch with Ken and Marion Howcroft. In the afternoon I visited the Anglican centre, occupying part of a vast renaissance palazzo near the pantheon, an oasis (if that  is the right word) of englishness, with its library, chapel and drawing room. Later, I went round the Castel S Angelo (admission free as it's 'culture week' in Rome). Built by the emperor Hadrian as a mausoleum, it became a fortified palace for popes, with a corridor leading to the Vatican. My main interest was that it is the setting for the final act of Tosca with the heroine hurling herself from the high terrace at the climax. The views across Rome are stunning.

Then yesterday my major achievement was to get one of the ticket machines at Termini station to work - a personal first! The train to Assisi was full, and from the conversations I overheard had a high proportion of theologians on board. We passed through the Umbrian countryside, still green at this time of year, with its ancient towns perched on hilltops and beneath them rows of those plants that have been such a blessing to humanity: olives and grape-vines.

We are staying in Domus Pacem a (Franciscan-run, of course) hotel/conference centre next to Santa Maria degli Angeli. This enormous Baroque basilica has within it the much older Porziuncola - the tiny chapel restored by St Francis as a young man and the place where he died, laid (on his instruction) naked on the bare earth. The Porziuncola is a great centre of pilgrimage but during our opening service I couldn't help wondering what the combination meant. Was the enormous, triumphalist, basilica symbolising the fact that Francis' simplicity and charismatic goodness had been captured and tamed by the institution, or was it saying that somehow the reforming movement Francis started had succeeded in infecting the whole Church?

The conference is international and ecumenical - though perhaps with a majority of Catholics. In a weak moment, and to save Edgehill some money, I agreed to share a room. My room-mate (who I have met once before) turned out to be a young Romanian Orthodox priest who's an expert on Maximus the Confessor. The room is very small and the shower is only just big enough for me to squeeze in.

This evening we were in the old town of Assisi, but more of that tomorrow.

It was alright when it left here!

I arrived back in Belfast to find the city gripped by Titanic fever. April 14th marks the centenary of the sinking of Belfast's single most famous export. Personally, I find it rather strange that a city should fix its identity on a ship that sank on its maiden voyage - it suggests serious issues of self-esteem - but nothing seems to detract from local pride. You can even get T shirts saying, 'Titanic: built by Irishmen, sunk by Englishmen'. There's huge new visitor's centre, just opened in what has been been called the city's 'Titanic Quarter'. On Saturday, at the very time that the boat went down, I should be singing in a specially composed requiem at an event in St Anne's Cathedral. I will definitely not be going on the torch-lit procession from the Cathedral to the city hall!

It took a few days to get back to Belfast. Having landed at Heathrow on Monday, Miriam kindly picked me up and took me to Tewkesbury. Next day we converged with other family members to celebrate my mother's 80th birthday at an excellent lunch in a village pub near Grantham. Unfortunately, I've brought back an unwanted souvenir in the form of a nasty skin infection - legacy of a string of flea bites to my ankles in Tonga - so have been a bit sorry for myself and need to get some anti-biotics once surgeries re-open after Easter.

After all the preaching while I was away, not having a role in leading Holy Week services was a bit of an anti-climax. However, Diane and I (once again) made the long journey to join in the Easter vigil at the Benedictine Community at Rostrevor. Nestling in a valley in the Mourne mountains, the location is beautiful, but last night there was drizzle and wind as the congregation joined the monks around the fire that had been lit outside the church. From the fire was lit the great paschal candle and from it, in turn, the candles we carried as we processed into church. 'The light of Christ' echoed round the building, and then Brother Thierry sang the Exultet ('Rejoice heavenly powers; sing, choirs of angels') to launch us into the service. It took nearly three hours: unhurried, simple, dramatic and joyful. In music we moved easily between Latin plainchant and the modern settings from Taize. As always, Father Mark preached in a way that encouraged and challenged.



 All being well, in just over a week I'll be travelling to Assissi for an ecumenical conference and will report from there. My expectation is that it won't be quite as hot as Fiji, but that the coffee will be even better!

 Easter blessings to you all!

The best-laid plans

Greetings from Santa Monica! It's a long story. I was all set (and eager after all that time in black) to leave Tonga on Friday afternoon but reckoned without a fierce tropical storm that has caused immensely damaging flooding in Fiji and grounded flights for most of the weekend. It also crashed most computers in Fiji, which didn't help. Winston and I chased round to try and find out what was going on, then gave up and went to Billfish, a restaurant/bar on the waterfront and had just about the best tuna steak I've ever tasted. Saturday morning, thanks to Winston's office, we managed to get on an Air New Zealand flight to Auckland and were booked for an onward flight to Fiji the next day, all ready for my scheduled departure from Nadi Sunday evening. But Sunday morning flights to Nadi were still cancelled. I approached the Qantas desk and was  mightifly relieved to get the last seat on a direct flight from Auckland  to LA. Arrived LA soon after 6.00 this morning.

Sister Fehoko and Fr Sione at St Andrew's High School

where I took the assembly on Friday morning.

this all underlines the fact that when we travel from the '1st world' to the '3rd', if a disaster strikes, as it has to Fiji, we always have a ticket home; those who have lost homes or crops, or their means of living don't hav e that luxury. Winston has had a succession of crises while I've been working with him and will want to spend time with his parishes in the west of Viti Levus, where the flooding is worst. In addition, one of the priests at the Cathedral in Suva, with whome I shared services a couple of weeks ago, has died suddenly at the age of 55 while we've been in Tonga.

Much of my luggage (including warm clothing and rail tickets) is still in Suva, but that is a small inconvenience by comparison.

But back to LA: on the advice of a helpful man on the information desk, I decided to have a few hours out of airport and catch a bus to Santa Monica. As some of you will know, there is no better way of remindeing yourself that not everyone in the US is rich and happy tha n by riding on a public bus.

Once at Santa Monica I treated myself to an excellent breakfast (eggs Benedict on the verandah of the Georgian Hotel, overlooking the ocean - I recommend it). Then I walked along the famous walk-way and pier, perhaps looking slightly incongruous  sporting my panama and towing my suitcase. I saw the various ways people get fit at the beach: beach volley ball, running, gymnastics, cycling, roller-skating, etc  I looked for a church to celebrate Palm Sunday but the only one I found had already finished its service; Santa Monica seems rather more interested in the body beautiful than the immortal soul.

Apparently no-ne had thought of getting fit before!

My next contact should be when I'm back on terra Britannica.

Life goes on

I began this yesterday, but was destracted by another insteresting conversation.

A morning of rain - bringing a welcome coolness, though it would have made yesterday's events harder to manage.

I only met the late king once. 33 years ago, before I went to Tonga, I was asked to go to the Tongan High Commission in London for a briefing. The High Commission was at the top of NZ house, in a room so empty it was hard to imagine that any work ever took place there. The High Commissioner welcomed me with the words, ‘you’re in luck, the crown prince is in town.’ Moments later he came into the room, wearing a double-breasted suit and a monocle. It was as if a character from PG Wodehouse had stepped off the page. I don’t mean that as an insult; there are, after all, far worse fictional characters to come to life and I wouldn’t, for example, want to meet any from Evelyn Waugh on a dark night. After some opening pleasantries, HRH announced that it was time for luncheon. ‘You will join us, old boy, won’t you; we’ll just  pop down to my club.’ So there I was in the Traveller’s Club, Pall Mall, feeling totally out of place in my tweed jacket, sitting opposite a totally at ease Tongan prince. ‘You’ll find the claret’s excellent’. It will be for other to judge his short reign. Tonga’s economic problems remain severe, but there’s been some progress towards a more democratic, participatory political life.

Children line the road waiting for the king's body to arrive on Monday.

Yesterday there were a few hours away from the rather oppressive atmosphere in Nuku’alofa. Winston and I went with Tohi, one of the older Anglican priests, on the short boat-ride to the island of Pangaimotu. Here, for many years, Earl and Anna Amberson have been running a low-key resort, mainly frequented by visiting yachts. It lost most of its wharf in a hurricane last month, so was looking rather sorry for itself. He's of mixed English, Kiribati, Danish and Tongan parentage. He was telling us that his father directed the building of many of the most prominent buildings in Suva: the Grand Pacific Hotel, Gorvernment House, etc. I went for a swim (I wasn't sure that I wanted to, but it seemed to be expected that a palangi would be keen to), the rusty bow of a hurricane-wrecked fishing boat sticking out of the water right by the beach. Anna is from Niua Topotapu, and is related to Winston, whose family come from themere. the Niuas are nearly 400 miles north of here, tiny dots in the ocean, difficult to access and therefore unspoilt. Anna has a vision of building an exclusive resort there, with glass-floored lodges built over the ocean.

Plenty of changes here in Tonga. Tongans have embraced the motor car with the zeal of converts, and as converts to the new religion of driving they give no quarter to the few remaining adherents of the old religion of walking. The earlier wave of worn-out Japanese runabouts has now given way to more sensible and rugged 4X4s and vans. You now never see a horse and cart ('what happended to the horses?'; 'We ate them!') and seldom see a bicycle - a pity as they are such good value, cause no pollution and are easy to use on a small, flat island.

Everyone has a mobile phone and many use that as their internet access to the wider world. Given that 30 years ago we had no phone and were totally reliant on airmail once or twice a week, this is remarkable. What hasn't developed yet, it seems. is the idea that it's sometimes good to turn a phone off. Yesterday, for old times sake, I visited the Post Office. Now rebuilt and partially turned into a cafe, it is as sleepy as ever, the staff seemingly incredulous that anyone might want to buy a stamp.

There are far more businesses. 30 years ago a few general stores provided very basic offering and were dependent on what had come in on the boats in the last few days. There are now many small, chinese-run supermarkets and some specialist shops: sportswear, office equipment, mobile phones (of course). Improvised 'Hair Salons' seem to operate in homes and I have even seen a couple of car wash sites.

Other things remain the same and I have to remind myself that, for example, one dog in the street is likely to run away but a pack is likely to chase you. I have had to run fast once and now avoid that area!

Coming to bury Caesar

We are at the end of two days of dramatically choreographed ceremony. Yesterday the king’s body came back to Tonga. At the airport, Queen Salote College girls sat on the tarmac, ready to form a pathway for the coffin when it arrived. Most of the road from the airport to Nuku’alofa is lined in the same way; some communities even cover the road with ngatu (tapa cloth) for the length of the village. I waited nearby with the students from St Andrew’s High School (where Sr Fehoko teaches). Poor kids! Hour after hour they waited in the full sun. Information is hard to come by; it’s almost as if the government wants to keep everyone on edge. Eventually the cortege arrives. Protocol dictates that everyone has to sit down, their eyes fixed on the ground. After the hours of waiting, it is gone in a moment.

Throughout the night, churches take it in turns to hold vigil services by the Royal Palace. Winston asked me to take photos of the rehearsal for the Anglican service. He is resplendent in a cassock with cape and purple piping – another inheritance from his father. I’m given a lift by my new friend, his brother Stephen. He drives an ancient Land Rover Discovery that once belonged to the last British High Commissioner in Tonga.  The singing is wonderful. Halfway through the practice a group arrive from the northern islands of Vava’u, fresh off the ferry after a long voyage. Nobody knows much about the funeral service – including details like the time it will happen.

Having come all this way I certainly didn’t want to miss anything, so by 9.00 am this morning I was at the Free Wesleyan Church office to find out what was happening. It was soon clear that no one knew much more than I did. I met a number of people I knew long ago. Some recognise me instantly (a surprise), with others it takes us a while to realise that we know each other. I was already hot in my clerical shirt and suit. This would have been a great day for my frock coat (in spite of the heat)! As it is, I have to make do with my Rohan travel suit; ‘technology disguised as clothing’ it says on the label, but it’s no match for some of the outfits around me.

The best policy seems to be to hang around the entrance to the pangai malai and see what happens. The girls from Queen Salote College march in, the pleats in their uniforms immaculately starched and pressed. They have another day in the sun, their two rows forming the pathway along which will come the main dignitaries and the great catafalque. In one part of the ground anyone (as long as they’re suitably dressed ) can come and find a space. Quite a few do -  though with the air of families on a day’s outing rather than people in deep mourning. Eventually I can see cars with foreign flags approach another entrance and I stroll in there. I’m seated with the ‘B list’ dignitaries – diplomats, politicians, assorted military and ecclesiastical folk, etc. Next to me is the head of the Salvation Army in Tonga.

Eventually, the procession begins: Military guard of honour and band (Handel's Largo), then the great catafalque, carried by hundreds of ex-students from Tupou College.

The new king and queen arrive (claim to fame: she sat next to me at a party on the night of my ordination and accidentally put her heel through my certificate – with hindsight I should have kept it instead of having it replaced!). With them are the Duke of Gloucester, a royal Japanese Couple, the Governor General of Australia and a few other heads of state.

Following them come the massed ranks of Tongan nobles and their families, wrapped in the largest mats you can imagine. They occupy the other half of the tent in which I'm sitting. I was rather shocked at the number of them taking mobile phone calls during the service!

The funeral itself is fairly simple and led by ‘Ahio, Church President, royal chaplain and (because he has a high chiefly title) organiser of the king’s royal kava ceremony – quite a collection of jobs. Readings, prayers, hymns (surprisingly poorly sung) and an oration my Tongan wasn’t good enough to follow. The visitors don't know the protocol of sitting in the presence of someone higher, so keep standing for hymns, etc. Tongans are torn between being polite to their ignorant visitors and standing up, or sticking to their own culture and sitting down. The vote seems pretty evenly split.

Eventually, the coffin is taken to its tomb and handed over to the ha'atufunga who have hereditary responsbility for burying the king and watching over his tomb. There's an interesting interaction between the Christian funeral service and the very traditional rites and customs that go with Tongan nobility.

Once the king and queen leave, the event breaks up rather chaotically. I spend a bit of time chatting (a former student from 30 years ago has arrived from Auckland) and then go in search of water before dehydration sets in.

Just another manic (Sunday and ) Monday

It's just after 9.00 am, Monday morning and once again I'm sitting in the excellent Cafe Escape in the centre of Nuku'alofa. The sun is glaring down outside; I've become quite addicted to pre-tropical-dawn walks and this morning set off at 5.30, first for the shore (a little over a mile away), then along the sea wall to Ma'ufanga, with its fishing wharf opposite the huge and rather lovely Catholic cathedral.  If I walk briskly I can be there and back in an hour and a half. As the stars dim and the sky lightens, the sillouettes of tiny islands emerge a little out to sea. A number of Tongans are taking early morning exercise too, while others can be glimpsed curled up and sleeping off the night before.

I'd rather forgotten quite what a Tongan Sunday was like. People in Northern Ireland speak about the Ballymena Sabbaths of the 1960s, with swings chained up at childrens' playgrounds. The elders of Ballymena could learn a thing or two about sabbath-keeping. from Tonga. After all the frantic activity of the last few days - road mending, mausoleum building, garden tidying and black/purple cloth-draping, yesterday began deathly quiet - apart of course for the church bells and hymn-singing.Many churches have 5.00am services several times a week, so the bells  are a regular wake-up call. My two preaching appointments were at 8.00 and 10.00 - quite leaisurely by comparison. The first was at St Paul's. This was actually the first church where I presided at communion as it was the base for the English-speaking congregation when I came here. It would not be out of place in an English village, apart from the way the furniture has been ravaged by wood-boring insects. Winston presided, wearing a cope that had been his father's, and I preached. Quite how you address the current Tongan mood was challenging - I opted for a note of hopefulness. The second service had a very young congregation, with scores of young children receiving communion. Part of the service was led by an older woman called Louisa,;who reminded me that long ago I used to give her a lift on my motorbike to ecumenical bible studies. Over lunch I spoke to Winston's brother, who is a member of parliament representing the pro-democracy movement here.

One result of my ministry with the Anglican church here is that I have teenage girls shouting 'hello Father Richard' across the street.

The king's body arrives back today and Mon and Tues this week have been desginated public holidays. School children will line the route from the airport. Tonight there is a vigil with different churches leading prayers right though the night. Still not sure what's happening tomorrow. I did find 'Ahio (Methodist church president) in his office on Saturday just after my last posting. He was writing his funeral sermon - but even he didn't have any details of what was planned. 
The picture is of the Free Wesleyan Church HQ. Sorry there aren't more pictures, but they are taking for ever to upload here.

Black is the New Black

It's difficult to convey what's happening in Tonga this week. Did I say that nothing happened in a hurry? That’s not exactly true. Western timetables don’t always mean very much, but Tongans have a strong sense of what is conveyed by the Greek word kairos – the right time to act. And these days before the funeral of the late king, George Tupou V have a sense of urgency you rarely see here. Workers have been repairing and re-sealing roads in the town centre through the night – and depriving me of sleep. Children have been pulled out of school en masse to clean up – first the pangai malai, the great open space that contains the royal tombs, then their school grounds, then anywhere that might be on the route that will bring the king’s body back from the airport to Nuku’alofa. Stores, offices, churches, schools and even homes have been draped in the combination of black and purple cloth that has recently become the custom here. And almost everyone is wearing black clothes, with the ta’ovala – the folded mat that symbolises formal respect – round their waist. Even Winston, for the first time that I have seen, is wearing a ta’ovala. He sent me back to my room this morning suggesting that it would be better if I led my workshop wearing clerical black! Ironically, Tupou V was rarely seen in Tonga and preferred the European military and aristocratic uniforms of a previous era.

I’ve now done a couple of lectures at Sia’atoutai Theological College, where I began my ministry over 30 years ago. I spoke in the great chapel, the oldest building in Tonga and the place where Diane and I were married and Liz baptized. Yesterday I delivered my lecture on non-violence and the cross. I thought it had gone reasonably well until the college choir followed it up with a rousing rendition of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. You win some and you lose some! There was then a wonderful lunch with the college staff: octopus baked in coconut cream, lu pulu (corned beef in taro leaves), lobster, roast suckling pig, shellfish, yam, all washed down with niu mata, the delicious juice of the green coconut.

At the end of yesterday afternoon I walked along the main road out of town, then down a dusty side street going towards the lagoon and to the home of Lopeti Taufa, Principal of Sia’atoutai when I was teaching there. Now 85 and having lost his wife (the formidable Mele) five years ago, he looked very fit and a tribute to a life combining gardening with intellectual activity. At the moment he is involved in remodelling his garden for better vegetable-growing and working on the revision of the Tongan translation of the Bible. We talked about the difficulty of translating from Greek into Tongan and he was far more forthright about Tonga’s current situation than most of those I’ve met so far. His daughter, Miki (a bridesmaid for Diane 33 years ago), was there with the two youngest of her 7 children. Tragically, her husband died soon after the youngest was born and she’s been left to care for them herself (and with some help from her extended family). I hope to meet them again on Sunday with the other daughter, Sela, currently manager of The Friendly Islands Book Shop. Lopeti was very much a father figure for us all those years ago, so it’s a gift to find him still alive and in good health.

Sad stories of the death of kings

(The title's from Richard II, to save you looking it up. The last one was Walt Witman; I like to keep you on your toes!)

8.15 am and it’s hot and sticky after a series of downpours. Winston arrives back from the office just in time for us to get aboard the Cathedral minibus and be taken by the Dean to Nausori airport. We take the scenic route: over rain-forest covered hills and down to the flood plain of the mighty Rewa river. The airport doesn’t seem to have changed much in the last 30 years. Our bags are weighed on old red  Avery scales and we are promised that we will see them again in Tonga (we do). Then we have coffee. Globalisation has its critics, but it can’t be all bad when you can go up to the girl at the coffee kiosk in a tiny island airport and ask for ‘two lattés and an espresso’. And very good they were, too. The short flight to Nadi is a rip-off in terms of cost, but you could think of it as the aviation equivalent of a steam-train excursion. The plane was a vintage twin-prop job that looked as if it had seen service in the Berlin air-lift (not a joke ). You expected to see pilots with handle-bar moustaches and hear shouts of ‘chocks away!’ With its hundreds of rivets you could mistake the plane for a rather over-ambitious meccano project. Worryingly, the safety information included the advice to ‘use seat cushion for flotation’. We took off at a shallow angle, seemingly skimming the tree-tops, then headed for the mountains in the centre of the island. I tried not to worry when we flew over a mountain pass, with high ground above us on both sides; presumably the pilot knows if there is air beneath us. I did worry that the next time I am due to take this trip it will be dark! Then we dropped down to the coastal plain and Nadi.

Welcome to Tonga! The young woman at the immigration desk conveys the message: ‘it takes as long as it takes, get used to it!’ Slowly, she types in information from each immigration card before reaching for the passport stamp and bringing it down with a gentle thud. Not hurrying is an art form here. ‘Kataki lahi’ (huge patience) is the watchword. We travel from the airport towards Nuku’alofa. A contrast to Fiji. Not the same lushness (Tongatapu is a raised coral atoll) and everything has an unfinished appearance. Already, official buildings and many businesses are draped in black and purple cloth and people of any standing are wearing black. Mourning is taken very seriously here; since the announcement of the king’s death the radio has only been broadcasting hymns and religious music. The funeral is to be next Wednesday and there is a strong possibility that I'll stay on for it if my ticket can be changed. It means missing out on the free days I was looking forward to in Suva, but it would mean I could represent the British Methodist Church. Winston will be here for the duration.

I'm staying in a little convent, The Community of the Sacred Name. At the moment there's only one nun in residence, Fehoko, with her nephew as chaperone/home help. She prepares food for me and then watches me eat it - very much the Tongan style of hospitality. I've just given a lecture at Sia'atoutai theological College and will go again tomorrow. More pictures, then. The Principal brought me here for lunch to 'Cafe Escape': air-conditioned, good coffee and wifi - it's more than you have any right to expect. I did a long walk around town as it was getting light. A lot is depressing - re-building is still taking place after the riots 6 years ago when much of the centre was burned down.

Towards the unknown region

This time yesterday I was fairly confident of my programme for the coming week in Tonga. Then came the news at breakfast time that the king had died. He was not, it's fair to say, a model monarch, but that will make no difference to the outpouring of grief and the extravagant funeral ceremonies. For a while I wasn't even sure if the trip would be on. Winston has been caught in a whirlwind of consultation and media interviews all day. He is now coming with me so that he can act in his capacity as Church leader. Another day, and all the planes would have been booked. We now have no idea what, if anything, will remain of the plans for the week. I have been asked to represent tne British Methodist Church if there is an opportunity. There is a Tongan word: 'kataki' which means, 'relax, don't panic,things will happen in their own good time'. I will need a lot of kataki in the coming days.

Another day of preaching yesterday. In the morning, Newtown, a village on the edge of Suva in a lush, fertile, valley. Fertile in more ways than one: there were about a hundred children there, amazingly staying pretty still through the service - a mixture of high church ritual, old fashioned hymns (Blessed assurance in Fijian) and modern songs backed by keyboard and drums.

The afternoon saw me addressing the assembled ranks of the Diocese's young people in the cathedral. It seemed to go surprisngly well. I think Island young people are rather more respectful of their elders - though allhave cellphones and most are on facebook.

I'm not at all sure how easy it will be to post from Tonga, but I'll do my best. Everyone here is complaining about the heat, which continues to be extremely humid, in spite of the torrential storms.

St Patrick's Day on a different green island

For two days I've been leading workshops on preaching for clergy and lay leaders at the Diocesan training college round the corner. Nothing happened as I expected, sessions shrank or expanded without warning and I spent much of the time wandering around in a cultural fog. Nevertheless, everyone (as you'd expect in the islands) was exquisitely polite and I hope I did some good along the way. When in doubt I took the 'let's form ourselves into groups and discuss that' approach. Amazingly, people went along with it.  I have even (and this might come as a shock to some of you) been asked to speak at a youth rally tomorrow afternoon. On Thursday evening we had our session in the open as night fell, flying foxes (fruit bats) beginning their excursions overhead. One minute after we finished, a torrential tropical rain-storm hit. They've been quite a feature of recent days, reducing the temperature and humidity for a short while. Rain is very much on or off here - there are none of the Irish 'soft days'.

Weekend nights are noisy - the more so as my bedroom faces the all-night liquor store across the road. As night clubs close late into the night, taxis, apparently without silencers, bring people to stock up on booze. Heated discussion in the street is not unknown! When Winston and I set off for our walk this morning there were still a few clubbers wandering the streets. By the shore, couples sat together on the sea wall or walked hand in hand: the Pacific reluctance to show affection in public has apparently eroded in the last 30 years. The market was getting into its stride just after 6; we bought perfectly ripe pineapples and a bag of pawpaw. I was fascinated by the vast array of fish  on offer, all colours, sizes and shapes were there, just landed by the small boats tied up at the wharf and already attracting the interest of the local fly population. I'll be sure to take my camera to the market before I leave.

Our last session of the day was held in the open-sided dining hall, the teaching room having proved too hot and sticky even for locals. As the last group exercise came to an end, a few young people silently transformed the space into a chapel with altar, candle-sticks, cross, lavabo and even sanctus bell. Winston presided, but asked me to read out some paragraphs on St Patrick at the start of the service. The singing was, as always, full and heartfelt with the Fijian Lord's Prayer an especial highlight. To sense a relationship with these people from very different cultural backgrounds after only a short time together was real gift.

Today is the anniversary of the death of Daisy's husband, now many decades ago. We went out for a meal in his memory to the Mango cafe where everyone made a fuss of her: great age is revered here and she is treated with respect and affection everywhere.

I shoould be going to Tonga on Monday, but the plane on that route is out of service for repair, That means a much longer route on Tuesday. I may get another chance to post before then, but in the meantime, happy St Patrick's Day!.

The Plural of Mongoose

On of the many signs of the Indian presence in Fiji is the common sight of a mongoose scurrying across a patch of grass. These descendents of Kipling's Rikki-tikki-tavi are about the size of a squirrel and have a similar shape to stoats. Mongooses (to settle the question) belong to the same family as meerkats, but for my money are rather more attractive.

Let me bring you up to date:

I'm adjusting to the tropical climate (which doesn't bode well for my return to Belfast) though I do keep a fan running at night to get to sleep. My morning walks, apart from being good exercise, are helping me learn my way around Suva. The nearby harbour has a fleet of Korean tuna boats rusting away, a large survey vessel here to look for oil, a succession of container ships (mostly from China) and the occasional cruise liner disgorging hundreds of visitors and cheering up the local taxi drivers. The water has a depressing amount of rubbish - plastic bottles, old shoes, bags, etc - and I'm certainly not going swimming anywhere near here. The central market is next to the wharfe. 33 years ago it was one of the first places Sue and Winston took me to and I can still remember the shock of the heat, the colours and the smells. Moving up the coast road you come across the huge bulk of the new Chinese Embassy, one of the biggest buildings in town. China is very much the power on the march in the Pacific. Everywhere you come across its aid projects and there is an uneasy feeling that the long-term effect will not be beneficial. British influence is seen mostly in the names of streets, which still retain an echo of empire: Disraeli Road, Victoria Park, Queen Elizabeth Drive, Gordon Street. Gardens are lush with hibiscus, orchids and the occasional rose as well as the vegetables you can grow on a small scale: taro, cassava and even banana.

Fiji has been held back these last 25 years by a succession of coups; the present military government has just announced plans for a new constitution and an election in 2014 and people seem divided between hope and cynicism. I spent part of this morning with a former colleague of Diane's and a great prophetic figure in Fiji, Aquila Yabaki. Aquila is a Methodist minister who works hard for the whole of Fiji and although over 70 he still heads up an organisation that works on human rights and constitutional issues. He is, he says, in critical engagement with the government at the moment, walking a careful path but seeing some good prospect of constructive change.

There's plenty more to tell. last night I gave a lecture at the cathedral on the theme of 'Violence and the Cross'. I think everyone was surprised at how well attended it was a mixture of ages and denominations and cultural backgrounds. One young woman spoke about her visit to the killing fields of Rwanda and the possibilities of forgiveness, so it was an evening of deep engagement.

I'm shortly off to begin a training session with Winston's clergy, so more soon.

A Tropical Sunday

In a beauty contest for Anglican cathedrals, Holy Trinity Suva would be unlikely to make the final. It's made largely of concrete with a chancel that tries a bit too hard to imitate the style of thirteenth-century Europe. The result is rather airless, with only the ceiling fans stirring the hot, humid air. But it does  have a multi-cultural and committed congregation. Indigeous Fijians, Fiji-indians, Melanesians, Tongans and assorted Europeans make up most of the mix.

I preached at both the 7.30 am and 10.00am services. At 7.30 the congregation was surprisingly  large while the 10.00 service had a large choir singing in a mixture of English and Fijian. 'Leaning on the everlasting arms' (if you don't know it, it featured in the recent remake of True Grit) in Fijian was surprisingly moving. I was almost melting as I stood at the lectern to preach. It's a good job I don 't depend on notes as the sweat running into my eyes would make reading difficult. A member of the choir took pity on me and lent me her woven fan.

Afterwards there was good conversation. Tilisi Bryce, the widow of the former bishop, was a teaching colleague of Diane's in Tonga and her mother was a great guide to Tongan language and culture. Now a university lecturer, Tilisi has all her mother's dignified bearing. Once again I found myself in a kava circle with some of the men. It tends to be where a lot of the significant discussion takes place, so it's worth the taste of the kava. At least it's no longer prepared - as it was in very distant times - by someone chewing the roots and then spitting them out to mix with water!

I'd arrived in Fiji a little before sun-down on Saturday and travelled with Winston and another minister on the three-hour road journey round the island of Viti Levu to Suva. The western part of the island has had terrible floods recently and occasionally the road all but disappeared. But the journey was a great way to pick up on the island. Around the perimeter are a string of tourist resorts and you could come for a holiday in one of them and never realise you were in a 3rd-world country. As half the population is descended from Indian labourers, there is a mixture of religions as well as cultures, so we pass Hindu temples and Mosques. Between villages there are many people walking along the road and occasionally someone on horseback. Before the light disappeared the landscape was a green mass of crops and forest, with tree-covered mountains in the distance. A large yellow moon rose through the coconut trees. 

Once in Suva we reached the compound of the Bishop's House. Diane and I were guests here a number of times over 30 years ago so it was strange coming to it again. It's a solid, old, two-storey house with pillars at the front. It put me in mind of those Somerset Maughan short stories about lone up-country planters going slowly mad in the heat! In fact, it's occupants are very sane: Archbishop Winston, his wife Sue and Sue's mother (93 and still very sharp) Daisy.

I had thought that my daily exercise regime would disappear here, but I found myself on a 2-hour (yes, that's right!) walk with Winston, starting at 5.45 this morning, just as it began to get light. Even at that early hour I missed the coolness of Belfast. We saw the sun rise over a distant island and walked in a huge arc around the citypassing fields, harbour, sports stadiums, schools and (yes, they're here too) a drive-thru McDonalds. On the way back I saw the sad skeleton of the Grand Pacific Hotel, once the 'Raffles' of the South Seas, now an empty shell but about to become part of a new hotel and conference complex.

Another suitcase, another hall

A day for packing for the flight to Suva. Somehow the suitcase seems smaller each time I do it. I've enjoyed my time here and wonder when/.if I'll be able to return.

My last afternoon I decided to leave the library before closing and head for the coast. I remembered that on my first day in NZ 12 years ago, Liz and I had gone on a walk that turned out to be much further than we expected, and we ended up in the middle of a mangrove swamp. This time I knew (a little more) where I was going. Pointe England on the Tamaki estuary is the starting point for a walk that takes you through several nature reserves, gives you stupendous views over the estuary and then the islands (bohemian Waiheke and unspoilt Rangitoto), and finally deposits you by the beach (and attendent restaurants) at St Heliers Bay. At the start of the walk, all the housing was occupied by Maori and other Polynesians; in spite of all the concern for bi-culturalism in NZ there's still a sense of the original population being disadvantaged and marginal. Later on, as I emerged from the nature reserve onto a cliff-top street, there were only white faces and large, architect-designed, sea-view villas. Ironically, the Treaty of Waitangi (which was meant to preserve Maori rights) was signed by the local tribes in a bay just below the most expensive-looking houses.

It took about 2 1/2 hours to reach St Heliers. I felt I'd deserved a good meal (fish and chips washed down with Monteith's Original beer) and watched the light fade on the water. Boats out in the bay were waiting for the leaders of the Volvo Round the World Yacht Race to arrive. Eventually I looked for a bus home but, as Liz reminded me in a text (she is a collector of transport information around the world!) there would be no direct bus back to St John's and I had to walk.

The past is all around us

Here's a tip for anyone driving north from New Plymouth to Auckland: leave route 3 at Otorohanga and take route 39 to Ngaruawahia. Trust me, it's a great way of avoiding the delays around Hamilton - and you can practice your Maori pronunciation as you do it! Like most NZ country roads it's almost deserted.

Tuesday morning I had a pre-breakfast walk to look at the 'back beach' - almost black, volcanic sand with off-shore, tree-covered islands - then visited the garden project of John and Brenda's son. A vast smallholding behind a suburban bungalow, taking in a steep valley. Chickens ('chooks', of course, in this part of the world), ducks, asparagus and a whole range of fruit trees. Then on the road, winding through the limestone gorges, mostly covered in native trees and tree-ferns, but with the occasional cattle or sheep station ('Harangi cheviots' was one unexpected sign). I stopped for lunch at a new cafe on the outskirts of Te Kuiti - self-proclaimed 'sheep-shearing capital of the world'. Last time Diane and I tried to get lunch in this town it seemed pretty much closed down - I guess we'd called outside of the shearing season. The new cafe is a good example of NZ at its best: superb coffee, imaginative sandwiches and melt-in-the-mouth carrot cake.

Back in Auckland I fund myself leading a workshop on preaching with polynesian clergy and lay-ministers. I was cross-examined by one woman who I later found to be a top human-rights lawyer. The evening ended with a chance to begin to catch up with Winston Halapua, archbishop of polynesia and the main reason for my trip. He's in Auckland for a couple of days of meetings, then back to Fiji. He seems to spend a great proportion of his time in the air. When I first knew him (in 1974!) he had an 'afro' hairstyle with a mass of black curls. Now he's venerable and there are just a few wisps of grey.

I'm staying at the college of St John the Evangelist, the first theological institution in NZ and now incorporating the Methodist as well as the Anglican churches. It's setting is quite superb. I am sitting at a lbrary window, looking over the varied greens of a patch of native bush, then beyond to a field with horses and in the distance Auckland harbour and one of its islands. The colleges incorporates some of the oldest buildings in Auckland, including the chapel, built by Bishop Selwyn in the mid C19. One of my meetings yesterday was in Mrs Selwyn's kitchen, with a vast fireplace bearing the date 1846. The college has its own graveyard - something I'm thinking of instigating on my return to Edgehill! It's actually quite a moving place. The fresh grave is of Archbishop Sir Paul Reeves, former Governor General of NZ. There's just a simple wooden cross, with his own pectoral cross wrapped around it.

It's not just my Tongan past that's catching up with me here. Yesterday I preached at the college eucharist. As people streamed into the chapel someone said, 'perhaps you'd like to meet two other visitors from the UK'. It turned out to be Trevor Lloyd who was my Anglican counterpart in Wealdstone in the 80s. A leading liturgist he is here as a consultant with the NZ Church.

Kiwi Connections

I'm writing this from the sun  lounge of John and Brenda Fawkner (more friends from Tonga days) looking down on the port of New Plymouth. I've taken a 24hr break from Auckland and hired a car for the long journey through the mountains. I've had to remind myself of the basic rules of NZ driving. Rule one: it's always further than you think. Rule 2: You can never go as quickly as you expect The journey was a slightly crazy thing to do, but John had a stroke a short while ago and I wanted to see how he was doing. Directly below me is the original freezer works, from where boatloads of NZ lamb have set off to Europe. In the distqnce are the white cliffs that lie to the north and behind us looms the perfect volcanic cone of Mt Taranaki, unseasonally covered in snow after a weekend storm. I don't think I know a house with a more interesting view.

I'm rather in love with New Zealand. Outside the main cities it is glorously uncrowded, the scenery is spectacular (try to imagine Donegal with added sunshine) and most homes have plenty of space around them. On arriving in Auckland Saturday evening I couldn't resist walking the 3 miles from the theological college to the beach at St Heliers to watch the sun set. True, NZ is a long way from anywhere else, and Radio 3 reception is especially poor, but you can't have everythying.

Yesterday I preached twice in the Anglican parish church of Otahuhu, one of many Auckland suburbs and definitely not on the tourist trail. The first service was for the pakeha (predominantly European) congregation - a small group of life's walking wounded, rather reminiscent of St Matthew's in Rev. The second service was very different: a church packed with a mixture of Tongan, Samoan and Fijian familes holding a united service. There were five languages (Tongan, Samoan, fijian, Hindi and English) witheach group contributing anthems and even (a first for me) liturgical dancing in a Polynesian style. Polynesian Anglicanism is of the Anglo-Catholic persuasion. Whereas last week I was overdressed through wearing long trousers, yesterday there was great concern to find a suitable cassock-alb, cincture and stole for me. The high-church style seems to suit the culture - plenty of ceremonial and a strong sense of hierarchy. Presiding over the 2-hour service ('we've kept it short this week as some of us have to go on to other meetings' I was told) was archdeacon 'Amanaki. It wouldn't be unfair to say that he has transferred a number of skills, including his leadership style, from his previous work as a prison officer! The service began (as it always has when I've visited this church) with 'Ofa ange ke lilingi (the opening verse of Love Divine all loves excelling in Tongan) - a guarantee to lift the spirits. Afterwards I was persuaded (against my better judgement) to join a kava circle with some of the men. I always say 'sisi'ipe' (just a little) but no one takes any notice.

Back to Auckland tomorrow for some workshops with the Polynesian clergy. I'll let you know how they go.

Photos will have to wait.

Old soldiers never die

Meeting friends in faraway places can be exhilirating, but there's a bitter-sweet feeling when you know you're very unlikely to meet again. I spent almost all of yesterday in the company of Helen and Siupeli Taliai. Siupeli (the name means 'jubilee' because he was born in 1926, the centenary of Tongan christianity) is much the older of the two and at 86 is beginning to slow down. He was in many ways the ablest Tongan minister of his generation, but thirty-two years ago he was virtually expelled from Tonga after a period of conflict with the then President of the Church. He had (and still has) an uncompromising way of confronting what he believes to be wrong. It hasn't always won him friends, but today he is an elder statesman figure for those who want to see change in the Tongan Church and State. In both Tongan and English he has a powerful command of rhetoric - his speech after my ordination is still a vivid memory.

As if wanting to squeeze every last drop of energy from life he has been furiously writing - two out of three volumes have now come out giving (in Tongan) a commentary on every hymn in the Tongan hymn book. Between them, Helen and Siupeli must know more than anyone alive about that tradition, still extant in Tonga and wherever Tongan missionaries have gone.

Most of the hymns originated with James Egan Moulton, the Victorian missionary and creative genius who founded the school of which Siupeli was later the Principal and translated the Bible into Tongan. Siupeli (whose own grandfather went into exile out of loyatly to Moulton in the 1870s) keeps alive Moulton's memory and has many of his publications. This was the Victorian export model of christianity. As well as the life of Christ, his students learnt mathematics, astronomy, history (topics like 'the life of Peter the Great', 'ancient Greece'), science (how an airship works), Tongan legends and English literature  (Tongan translations of Milton and John Bunyan).

Notice the little kava bowl in the bottom left of the picture - for the ceremonial (and to my taste revolting) Tongan drink.

Who do we think we are?

A slightly more reflective piece as I transition from a week in Canberra to three days in Melbourne. I'm very conscious that I'm a fleeting visitor here, but there are impressions that I want to set down and remember.

What a different world Australia is! It's hard to imagine how alien its landscape, flora and fauna were to the first Europeans to land here. A walk through the National Gallery in Canberra shows that it took artists a couple of generation to transition from the European palette of bright greens to the bluer greens and the harsher light of Australia. In Queanbeyan I was woken up each morning by the sound of Australian magpies - they look similar to Europeans ones but are from a different family and have an entirely different (and much more pleasant ) call. Something like the sound of the lower register of the flute stop on a slightly out of tune pipe organ, or perhaps even Andean panpipes. Here the parrots screech and kookaburras have (to use the Monty Python phrase) a sarcastic laugh.

Melbourne seems more European, in some ways, though that is rather superficial. There are more imported and fewer native trees. There are also many older buildings, all some kind of compromise between the European heritage and the Australian climate. Most attractive is what I call 'dainty domestic'. In this part of Melbourne, near the university, are streets of Victorian terraces with decorative ironwork and built-in sunshades. Another common style might be called 'colonial commercial' - no-nonsense shops and offices with a four-square appearance and little ornamentation. In the university area itself there's a tendency towards what I can only describe as  the 'grimly gothic', a rather ponderous set of buildings, rooted in the earth rather than soaring towards heaven. All the gloom and none of the fun of the best gothic revival. This evening I went to evensong in the Anglican Cathedral, a rather incongruous building opposite a large, old railway station and the ultra-modern art gallery. Designed by Butterfield (Keble College, Oxford) it has his characteristic banding pattern on the masonry and (less fortunately) his characteristic muffled acoustic.

But this is a vibrant and culturally mixed country. Leigh and Corina illustrate this themselves and as well as reminding me of the power of friendship also set me thinking on the importance of family. Corina brings an Asian commitment to the extended family. She, Leigh and her siblings fought for her parents to settle in Australia and between them raised funds for their new home (next deoor!). When their daughter, Evelyn, was married a few years ago they took 23 members of the family - including the newly-married couple - to stay in their 2-bedroom holiday home for a week so that they could bond together into a new family unit. The same process was repeated when their son married. While I can't imagine that happening in my own family (anyone want to contradict me?) I was definitely impressed by what to Corina was simply a natural way of family life.

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day . Teach a man to fish and you may go hungry!

Readers of Bill Bryson's book on Australia will know that there are about 250 ways to die horribly through various mishaps, poisons and aggressive wild life. Yesterday I managed to avoid several of these potential premature deaths.

We were down at Leigh and Corina's place on the coast - Brulee, a 2-hour drive through the mountains and forests. Leigh's version of R and R turned out to be pretty tiring. We were up at 5.30 am ready for a spot of dawn fishing from some nearby rocks.A red sky, quickly turning pale, with clouds and a rainbow in the distance. we lined up with about 6 others on the edge of the rocks and I followed Leigh's direction, casting into the ocean and hoping for something to happen. And for quite a while it didn't; while men (and this does seem to be a man thing) either side of us were hauling them in we got the impression fish were nibbling the bait off our hooks and laughing at us. Then, just as we were about to pack up, I had a bite, there was a short tussle as Leigh shouted orders to me for reeling it in, and a decent sized pacific salmon came to land. As we were leaving, I looked down from our rock into the water and saw a sting-ray several feet across swimming by, with a small mottled shark (Leigh: 'that kind very rarely give a serious bite'!) for companionship. Only as we were back in the car did Leigh reveal that not only is rock fishing Australia's no 1 sport, it is also it's most dangerous.  Apparently, 'You can always tell the best fishing spots by the memorial plaques for people who've been washed away'!

Back at the holiday home, the fish (and another we acquired) were duly photographed and put in the smoker to cook. Leigh had more planned. Body boarding in the surf turned out to be one of the many things I'm not terribly good at (and, at my age, why should I be?)  - there's clearly a knack to picking when to hurl yourself into the wave and to balancing your weight on the board. I felt I'd done enough for the day just be surviving, but Leigh took me for a lesson in surf-casting after lunch before we hit the road and arrived back in Quenbeyan in time for dinner with Bonni and Peter.

Still crazy after all these years

The most extraordinary set of friends was a legacy of three years in Tonga, now a full three decades ago. Those of us who formed a tight-knit group of church and aid workers have kept in touch ever since, found opportunities to meet and marvelled at the enrichment that time gave us. Sunday brought five of us together. I was preaching at Quenbeyan Uniting Church. An interesting service: two infant thanksgivings (anointing with oil + giving of candle], a rather chatty communion and numerous hymns about the Australian landscape. I shared the service with the local minister. I was the one not wearing shorts and open-necked shirt! As well as my hosts, Leigh and Corina, the congregation also included Peter and Bonni Maywald. Peter had been manager of the Friendly Islands Bookshop (making sure we could read the Booker prize nominations each year) as well as business manager of the Free Wesleyan church of Tonga (minister of finance for Greece would be a good contemporary comparison). He's about 6 years older than me - thirty years ago that made him seem seriously senior. Bonni, among many other things, helped produce the fruit salad when Diane and I were married. She has a half-completed PhD on women in early Tongan christianity. Peter's just retired afer leading the administration of Norfolk Island for several years (many of the residents are apparently descendents of the Bounty mutineers) while Bonni works in disaster management. Not having seen them since December 1981, there was plenty to catch up on. Sharing communion with them all was very special indeed. Over the lunch the five of us must have sounded like a regimental re-union and I felt sorry for the minister and his wife who had to sit there while we recalled long-forgotten events, names and Tongan expressions. As you can see from the photo, there's a common look about ex-missionaries of a certain age! There was plenty of joyful news in the conversation, but also sadness as I heard that our friend and former colleague, Sally Chipman, had died last August only a few weeks after her retirement from ministry in the United Methodist Church, USA.

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers (and sisters)"

On top of the world down under

Vast as it is, Australia has no mountain ranges to rival the New Zealand Alps. and the highest point is under 2,300 metres. The upside is that it is a do-able excursion for ordinary hikers. Strangely, it's named after a Polish patriot who never visited australia. Mount Kosciuszko (note that for a future quiz night!) is about 2 1/2  hours drive from Canberra, in the Snowy Mountains National Park. This was our expedition for Friday. Corina was leaving nothing to chance. We had rations for about 3 days in our packs and she carried a first aid kit. We had jackets in case of the (unlikely as it turned out) surprise blizzard. The route to the mountain took us through forests, and valleys where immense gum trees had succumbed to the recent years of drought, their bleached skeletons reaching out from the dense green undergrowth. A chair lift gained us some height as we soared above green slopes that in winter become ski runs and from the top it was 6.5 km each way to the summit and back, achievable, but tiring. The landscape included granite tors intersperced with alpine meadows. A few flowers were still hanging on and muntain streams were full of tiny fish. The path was mostly over a steel walkway bolted to the rock and took us past the only glaciated formation in Australia (apparently that's important) and Australia's highest public toilet (genuinely important).  I was assured that the pose below was the traditional way to celebrate a successful ascent!

 We got back to the top of the chair lift a few minutes before it closed for the day
 and Leigh had the unenviable task of keeping awake as he drove home out of the mountain range.