Well life at Blogstead na Mara continues in its usual calm way.  Donegal  is, so far as I know, the only place in which it is possible to change time zones without leaving the country.  The only thing which keeps the jet lag at bay is the introduction of a little Melatonin into the Guinness.

We did church at Dunfanaghy – not so very different from Ballintuim last Sunday.  They both have that intensity of life which is characteristic of minority communities.  Knowing and being known is much more important than it is in a large community where people can slip in and out around the edges.

And for some reason the evening degenerated into some fairly noisy hymn singing – particularly hymns of childhood with stupid words.  I’m pretty tolerant – ‘Shall we gather at the River’ and ‘Will yeranker hold in the storms of life’ raise hardly a flicker of concern.  I have yet to have the opportunity of singing one which one of my curates claimed to have met, ‘Jesus kicks the ball through the goalposts of life.’

Just don’t ask me to sing, ‘O perfect Love’.  I used to get very tetchy – asking bride and groom if ‘patient hope and quiet brave endurance .. and childlike trust which fears nor death nor pain’ was all right.  I wonder if they still think so.

Loss of confidence seeps almost unnoticed into churches.  And it’s hard to reverse – particularly when the tide is running against you in other ways.

My visit to the Aer Lingus/Knock issues yesterday reminds me of the days when the Irish Catholic Church had real confidence.

Monsignor James Horan was the administrator of the Marian Shrine at Knock – if you’ll forgive the pun – in a particularly God-forsaken part of Co Mayo.  He decided to make it his objective to achieve a visit from Pope John Paul – which duly came about in 1979.  At that point the Shrine became a Basilica.  Not content with that, he next decided to establish an International Airport at Knock.   By the exercise of all sorts of political wiles and a fair amount of bare-faced cheek, he achieved that in 1986 and Horan International Airport was duly opened.  The New Ireland has diminished it to Ireland West Airport – Knock.

Mention of the Pope’s visit also reminds one of the remarkable Eamonn Casey, Bishop of Galway, who gathered thousands of young people to meet the Pope at Galway Racecourse.  Casey had been one of the founders of Shelter during his time in London and he was a dynamic and charismatic individual by any standards.  Sadly, some of his dynamism was misplaced and he was brought down by the revelation that he had fathered a child – a case of ‘Dougal – whatever you do, don’t mention Bishop Brennan’s son’

And the point of balance for the loss of confidence in a strange way proved to be that very same visit of the Pope – an extraordinary demonstration of the strength of Catholic Ireland and rapid decline from that moment onwards.

The Irish Times reports today that Ireland has built 249000 homes between 2001 and 2006.  248000 of them seem to be on the road up to Blogstead Na Mara.  12% of all houses in Donegal are holiday homes.

Well – one gradually tunes in to the rhythms of the new Ireland.  Over at the Knock Marian Shrine, the crowds are unprecedented.  As the commentator on RTE said, the more the churches empty the more strength there seems to be in folk religion.  Interesting isn’t it?

And the threatened Aer Lingus strike is really interesting as well.  The West of Ireland political establishment is outraged at Aer Lingus’ plans to end its Shannon-Heathrow service.  Shannon is course established the world’s first duty-free shop and was also where Irish Coffee was invented.  But it also spawned a whole world of politics as successive Irish governments used Shannon to boost economic development in the West – and prevented airlines flying direct from the US to Dublin.  It was a bit like De Valera winning elections on promises to drain the Shannon.  But what is really driving the strike?  Well  Aer Lingus plans to make Belfast a major new hub and to employ pilots on different terms and conditions from those in Dublin.  Belfast instead of Shannon?  Amazing.

And finally, across the valley from Blogstead Na Mara, the three new houses at 650000 euro remain unsold – I think.  And the view which is supposed to sell them has been slightly impaired by the sudden clearance of a rather attractive wood which lay just below them .. cleared by a developer for the building of the next set of holiday cottages ..  and so it goes on.

I hate it.  And the two sets of golf clubs when I don’t even play golf.  And then I realised – having put one bicycle on the roof of the car – that it wouldn’t fit under the William Temple Arch here at the entrance to the close at Blogstead.  Poppy has a new carrying basket to show off in the lounge of the P & O Express from Troon – but she’s quite restless in anticipation although she loves Donegal.  We’ve discussed the reading list – Biggles, Arthur Ransome, William Trevor …  So it’s Donegal here we come.  May do a bit of Hiberno-blogging but maybe not.

In Portadown, there was no doubt what the Twelfth was about – the sashes, bowler hats and banners of the Orange Order. Up in Ballintuim this morning, it was slightly different. No sign of the Daughters of Laura who used to come to the Seagoe Orange Service – more a quiet preparation for the Glorious Twelfth happening on the Thirteenth. This is another congregation which takes responsibility for its own life and does so with considerable success. As a concentrated assembly of real characters, one could hardly do better – I reflected this morning in church that one could create a work of several volumes just by chronicling the life stories of some of the congregation. I took on faith in the sermon – but I have a feeling that faith won.

Sorry – you asked where Ballintuim is? Go to Blairgowrie and up the road to Bridge of Calley. Then fork left and go up the glen for about four miles and you’ll find it on the right. 10.30 am every Sunday in season but, apart from Christmas and the AGM, not at all hors saison.

Off to Rothiemurchus in the rain this morning for Patricia’s ordination to the priesthood.  It was another important staging post in the life of this very special congregation which practises the ministry of all the baptised – living, ministering, reaching out and growing without the support of stipendiary clergy.

It was a very moving moment – partly, I am sure, because the commitment and the love of many people had been contributed to the journey.

And I had to smile, as I always do, at the wonderful Anglican moderation of this key passage:

In baptism every disciple is called to make Jesus known as
Saviour and Lord and to share his work in renewing the world.  Some by ordination are given particular tasks.

It’s ‘particular’ that gets me.

And on the way home, I passed two very wet cyclists on recumbents heading for Drumtochty Summit.  A sign, I think.

So Thabo Mbeki has sacked his deputy health minister – the person credited with ending a decade of aids-denialism at the heart of the South African government.  I’ve been to South Africa twice in the last five years – wanting to see the miracle of reconciliation which saved it from an apparently-unavoidable bloodbath.  I saw that miracle.  It is truly wondrous.  But I also saw a country engaged in a race against time – struggling to grow a prosperity which would outdistance the ravages of poverty.  And many times I heard what some people there believe to be true – maybe it is true and maybe it is not – that the government can live with the idea that HIV/Aids will reduce the size of the urban black population.  I do not believe that a government could be that cynical – but it might be complicit …

Meanwhile – Lord Lucan is getting another outing – maybe living with a cat and a pet possum in New Zealand.  But, given the famed openness of Canon 4, he may be alive and well among the bishops of the Scottish Episcopal Church.  Who would give him a second glance?

I’m not good at picking up hitch-hikers. But I make an exception for the large numbers of young people from Eastern Europe – mainly Czech Republic – who are here for the fruitpicking. I’ve picked up four couples in the last fortnight – all students – all obviously highly educated and well spoken. The tally is as follows. One content – ‘more you work the more you earn’ One visibly distressed by the working conditions and heading into Perth to find a job – ‘could earn same money in Prague’. One averagely unhappy and going to As-da to shop. One going to book a flight home and never coming back – could earn as much in Prague – not just the money but the way they were spoken to.

All sorts of issues here to disturb the Blogstead idyll. Without cheap labour, how will the crop be harvested? Unless the strawberries are cheap, they will unaffordable for the Blogstead table. And there is no doubt that economic progress in Eastern Europe has eroded the economic differences. But my over-riding feeling is that of a parent. My own children have been treated well in all sorts of foreign places. I do not like to see other people’s children far from home and distressed in this way.

Meanwhile the reaper and binder is at work in the field outside my study window. There may yet be biodiesel in Frankfurt to make the drivers of large Mercedes feel virtuous.

If you happen to have Landranger 59 and Bamm Bamm’s mountain bike

Leave Guardbridge on the National Cycle Route – up the hill to Strathkinness and along the High Road until it plunges down to Kemback, along the River Eden and on to Pitscottie.  Another three climbing miles to Crossgates.  Rewarded by a six mile descent into St Andrews –  follow the cycle path on the line of the former railway to Leuchars and beside the golf course.  Hilly but perfect.  19 miles.  Quicker than a round of golf.

Ever since De Trip on Saturday, I’ve been pondering the Ted and Dougal exchange – when Dougal went to the reunion and ‘D’you know what, Ted?  They’d all become firemen!’  Comprehensive Google searches have failed to bring it up.  Did I imagine it?

Meanwhile up in Kinloch Rannoch on Sunday, I felt a bit like Mrs Doyle.  Brought my sermon but couldn’t find it.  It wouldn’t matter a lot but then I thought it might be in the middle of the copies of the Diocesan Review I’d put at the back of the church.  So I went out to the car to check.  And found some German tourists thinking about coming in.  So I hustled them inside and they said, ‘We don’t think we can stay.  We’re Roman Catholics’  ‘Ah go on, go on, go on.’  And they did.