Camino 3 days on the trail Day 1: Wednesday 16th July 2025

Ibis hotel, Le Puy en Valay

4.45 awake. Wrote some notes and ordered Ada a Ladybird memory game on Amazon, which will arrive in Hanham tomorrow. Of course, that seems both normal and mad at the same time; the world continues to shrink.

Breakfast on my own, no one else up so early.

Last minute decision. Yes or no for packing sandals in walking rucksack Yes. Regretting in some ways that I decided not to pack a razor to go for the Crusoe look. After a few days the extra growth is not an attractive feature.

Walk up to the Cathedral for Mass and blessing. Sweat is already making my t-shirt sopping wet; it’s relatively cool, but the climb to the Cathedral is sharp uphill. No one else seems to sweat as much as John S. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I shed my rucksack along with others to the side of the Cathedral and take my seat. There must be 150 fellow Camino pilgrims. Beautiful Catholic Latin singing responses…the higher notes fading away slower than the bass notes in the large space. Many who are there, evidently Catholic, know all the responses. Mostly French, just a few international visitors.

Suitably blessed, I meet Paul and we haul our rucksacks on and head off, stopping almost immediately with a stupendous view from within the Cathedral down and down a cobbled street into Le Puy.

We’ve started; Paul’s dream to do a month on the Camino is underway.

Patterns quickly emerge that carry on over the following days. With those walking at approximately the same pace – and have booked the same Gites – we enter a leapfrogging rhythm as we take breaks and watch people pass, our French being put to the test.

The route to Montbonnet is relentlessly beautiful. Not only the wide views of the Le Puy valley appear as we walk uphill, but the ancient architecture of an increasingly rural France appeals to me. A little like walking in the Welsh hills, but the stone buildings are a variation on the same theme; large, irregular, rounded stones fitted together with mortar. Shutters, of course, adorn every window.

Reaching Le Premiere Etap, our first gite, we walked down a set of steep stone steps onto a large area of decking on which are hundreds of colourful tea pots, plants, different seating areas, a washing line, and a large garden beneath. The owner is rushing around speaking excitedly in French.

I found some games and we sit down outside for a game of Scrabble, quickly joined by another and it turns into a French and English words Scrabble. A crowd gathered, watching.

Our room is basic but fine. Philip the elder and Philip Junior (nicknamed a day later) share the room. Communal loos and shower.

Supper at 7.

I felt a little unmoored by my poor French. Paul seems to be deep in conversation & going well. I needn’t have worried, but at the time it felt awkward.

Camino trip - La France

Monday 14^th July, 2025 

Day 1 of Journey to and from France 

Woke at 3.53, seven minutes before alarm due to sound. Shower, last minute repacking, and away in taxi. Streets abandoned, few seagulls on early morning patrol. 

4.15 Bristol Temple Meads 

Arrive in taxi from Paul and Maria’s having stayed overnight in Westbury on Trym. Watched Sinner overcome his adversary and friend, Alcaraz, then England women cruise past Wales to secure a place in the next round of European Cup. 

Station doors locked. Sit on bench listening to two lying on pavement singing Valerie – quite well. Raspy Jazz voices but after the third disjointed rendition… 

Code in, Tickets out. Loo stop. Then on Paddington train. Not the one I booked but earlier, 4.50, so I have more time to transfer to London Pancras and Eurostar. Am hoping if they check tickets they’ll be kind. 

After a week of 30+ degrees C, the air conditioning on Coach C is perhaps turned up a little too high; my exposed legs and hands are too cold. Hoping for coffee and something to eat. 

Ticket collector took one look at my ticket and said OK. I’m mightily relieved. 

Coffee and chocolate croissant purchased. And perhaps air con has become less fierce. Or I’ve adjusted.  

Swindon. Carriage probably quarter filled. On table seat. Another fella diagonally opposite. Like me wired up, charger on, laptop open. Wonder if he’s writing a journal as well. It’s unlikely we’ll swap notes, interact, or talk. Suits me. 

Theoretically, I could use time to add to the novel, but the scene I’m writing requires greater concentration than I can muster at 5.30. And less wobble. The wobble could lull me into a deep sleep but I’m trying to stay awake - and the slight chill isn’t conducive to sleep. 

Looking out of the window across the fields, it’s reminiscent of 1976, the famously hot summer with standpipes, gras fires, and parched, straw coloured grass. Maybe not as severe this summer, despite maximum temperatures very similar. Summer of ’75 was also very hot but eclipsed by ’76. 

How am I feeling about this trip? Mentally, I’m taking it one step at a time. That’s not intended to be a very weak joke. The truth is that doing so perhaps masks or reduces the nerves I have about the various connections, including catching the earlier train to Paddington. The effect of this is to discard all thoughts about the Camino trail, speaking French, immersing myself in the heat again, worrying about sweating and whether I can physically do the walk and so on, all to a distant future. I am neither excited nor too daunted. Perhaps it’s just too early, but I suspect the under-control-stress of travelling on my own is to blame. 

Made it to St Pancras International. Second flat white and this time a pain au chocolat. 

Sitting next to a café table inhabited by four old-style East-End Londoners, judging by accents. Difficult not to believe they’re all golf club members, family men, and criminals who’ve made their dosh and spending in their retirement on international travel, swapping stories of trips to Viet Nam… 

Have to wait until 8 before I can progress to boarding so I have half an hour to relax and take in my surroundings. Opposite me sit two girls. Could be 16 or 26 difficult to say. Rucksacks. But reason for recording this is that the one on the left is wearing faded blue flared jeans that wouldn’t have looked out of place in 1970s. Respect. 

Paul has appeared as if beamed down from another planet. He travelled by bus, I by train. 

Morally, I am in deficit. I’ve lied three times thus far. Once by being on the wrong train and twice telling two beggars that I had no money. Neither looked as if money was the highest priority, nevertheless I lied in order to push on with the journey. The first was a young man in his twenties, wearing jeans with more holes than threads in places, and the second was a well-dressed Indian-looking individual who claimed he needed a place in a nearby hostel. I gave the one in Bristol one of my bottles of water, which he asked for. Neither was aggressive, the second was excessively polite. I deal with these situations on a green light basis, listening to the Spirit perhaps. I’d like to think so. But those two ‘little fibs’ were unnecessary. 

Good to have 10 mins or so with Paul.  

Cleared tickets and Passport check. Now in departure lounge with maybe a thousand others waiting for boarding instructions a la airports. 

I could write about the hassles of each step through Paris, suffice to say London is one step ahead of Paris in that it has long since ditched the Oyster card in favour of using one touch credit/debit cards. Paris should follow suit. Nearly missed train from Paris Gard de Lyon due to problems with ticket machines. Ne’er mind, a miss is as good as a mile and I’m now in Lyon back in the sultry heat. Feels like a thunderstorm is needed. 

In Starbucks. Cold orange juice. Rest of very expensive baguette and chocolate muffin as company.  

Next link in the chain is a train at 16.54 to Saint Etienne. Last time, in 1982, with NW, we nearly slept through St Etienne and would have ended up in Italy the other side of the Chamonix tunnel. Hopefully not so dramatic this time. 

Think I’ve retreated into weary traveller mode looking forward to air-conditioned hotel, shower, and not much else. Theoretically, I could continue with novel but not until my temp has equilibrated. 

15 minute delay which meant I missed final leg from St Etienne to Le Puy. En route met lovely young family. Arnold, computer engineer Dad, and his wife, Psychiatrist, with two children: Astrid, their lively 3 year old daughter and another daughter not 1. We talked about sport, sadly diminished for Arnold with a knee problem. I shared my miraculous recovery story which led to a brief discussion around ‘religion’. 

Now at St Etienne….close, humid, hot. Paul will arrive in an hour, grab a sandwich and we’,ll do the final leg to Le Puy together. 

Men’s loos closed. Tempted to use Ladies. Think it’s lockable one person event. Or may tough it out and go on the train. Sat outside in the shade but very suspicious characters looking for money or trouble. Cooled down and retreated to café in the station, small flat white (au lait this time). Too hot. 

Paul duly arrived, picked up a quiche. Pouring outside. Hitting very hot pavements. Humid haze but refreshing. Retreated to platform and alighted final train to Le Puy. 

Superb views of sun setting over the Rhine/Rhone?? And into Le Puy over the huge Maddona overlooking the town. So old to arrive. Immediately feel as if the Camino trip has begun. The controlled stress of the journey and connections slips away leaving a sense of joy, relaxation, and adventure. 

After checking in in our respective hotels, met at the cobbled wonder that is le Brasserie, bar, cum restaurant tucked away behind the main thoroughfare. Our cognac and Armagnac interrupted by loud bangs – neither of us had clocked it was 14 Juliette, Revolution, storming of the Bastille Day. Staggeringly good firework display watched freely from a square which was used to guillotine those suspected of who knows what. We all clapped at the end of the display, returned to our drinks, and added two Irish Coffees to round off Day 1. 

Could/it have gone better? Hardly. And even the parts that were tricky e.g. the ticket machines not working, missing connection, the heat at times, none prevented Bristol A From 3am turning into Le Puy B 1am. 22 hours of a memorable trip within a trip. 

Seeing Voices

One day, perhaps soon
Our blinkers, our cataracts
Will be slid away
And we shall see
The glorious normality

The air trembling
With speech unknown
Audible echoes of
Thoughts unheard
Shudders of spirit

Whispers
Taking the shape
Of Niagara, or Angel Falls
A deluge and thunder
Of Shhhh

Or the weeping
Of the Son of Man
Falling like torrents
Tongues of
Inexpressible sorrow

And as the sky dims,
Dark with purples
And a multitude of the
Heavenly host dissolves
Speech into song

The whole of creation
Quivering
With all its words restrung
Into symphonies
We kneel, undone

Jesus the Baptist - Baptism in the Spirit

John the Baptist baptised his followers with water, but he foresaw that the Messiah, Jesus, would baptise with the Spirit.

‘I baptise you with water…but He who is coming will baptise you with the Holy Spirit and fire’ Mt3v11

Still to this day, when the word ‘baptism’ is used, it conjures up images of babies or infants being Christened or of believers being submerged in water either in the sea, a river, or a tank in a church or elsewhere.

How strange! It’s as if John the Baptist’s prophetic announcement has gone unheard! Why is it that when we hear the word ‘baptism’, we don’t automatically think of the baptism in the Spirit, but rather to water baptism?

The New Testament records Jesus’s last instructions to his disciples.

‘Go…and make disciples of all nations, baptising them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit’ Mt28v19

‘John truly baptised with water, but you shall be baptised with the Holy Spirit…(and) receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you and you shall be witnesses to me…to the ends of the earth’ Acts1v4-8

It is easy to continue to practice outward forms or ceremonies like water baptism but miss the point. If we’ve been baptised in water (and maybe have a certificate to prove it!) but haven’t been baptised by Jesus in the Holy Spirit, something is not right.

The testimony of many Christians is that in becoming genuine believers, whoever taught them or preached to them rarely if ever spoke of the third person of the trinity – the Holy Spirit – and as a consequence had never realised that Christianity rests not on the outward ritual of water baptism but a baptism in the Holy Spirit.

Whilst it is true that the Greek word ‘bapteizo’ can mean a sprinkling – like standing in the rain or under a shower, its normal meaning is to be plunged into and under the water. John the Baptist often used the River Jordan. Many believers who are baptised in water are plunged under the water in a ‘baptistry’ or a tank, or outside in a swimming pool, a river, or the sea. What John the Baptist foresaw was that Jesus would baptise with the Holy Spirit. He would take us and plunge us into the third person of the Trinity and to saturate us with the Holy Spirit.

Throughout the book of Acts, there are various descriptions of believers being baptised in the Spirit.

‘Suddenly there was a sound from heaven, like a rushing wind. It filled the whole house where they were sitting, then divided tongues of fire sat on each of them, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages’ 2v1-4

‘When the apostles heard that the Samaritans had received the word of God…they…prayed for them so that they might receive the Holy Spirit because He had not fallen on them…they had only been baptised in the name of the Lord Jesus’ 8v15

(This is often the case in England and elsewhere when someone has become a genuine believer and been baptised in water, but not in the Holy Spirit)

‘While Peter was still speaking (to Gentiles)…the Holy Spirit fell upon those who heard the word...those who had come with Peter were astonished because gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out on the Gentiles for they heard them speaking in other languages…then Peter…commanded them to be baptised (in water)’ 10v44-48

This also happens these days. Unbelievers, hearing the gospel receive the Spirit and are later baptised in water.

When Peter reported how the gift of the Spirit had been given to Gentiles to the church in Jerusalem, he said ‘Then I remembered the word of the Lord, ‘John indeed baptised with water, but you shall be baptised with the Holy Spirit’’ 11v16

And, when Peter preached to the crowd on the Day of Pentecost, he brought baptism in water and baptism in the Spirit together.

‘Then Peter said to them (the crowd that had gathered) ‘Repent, and let every one of you be baptised in the name of Jesus…and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit’’ Acts 2v38

It’s important to note that each of these incidents recorded in Scripture, in Acts, is different. Divided flames were sitting on the believers on the day of Pentecost, but not in Samaria, for example. Some teach that the primary evidence of the baptism of the Spirit is ‘speaking in tongues’, ie, other languages. It is not surprising; all of the incidents recorded in Acts of the baptism in the Spirit involve speaking in tongues. The argument against that comes from 1Cor 12v30, the rhetorical question that asks, ‘do all speak in tongues?’ The answer being No.

Am I thirsty?

The real question with spiritual matters is not to become neutralised by debating fine doctrinal points, but to ask am I thirsty? Do we long for Jesus to baptise us in the Spirit? Or are we content to plough on within the confines of our rationality, our mental appreciation of doctrines of salvation? Neither of these is bad at all, but in comparison, they are like studying a car manual rather than turning the ignition on, firing up the engine, and driving.

All churches should be packed with the type of people that John the Baptist foresaw, a community of individuals who have been baptised in the Spirit, are walking in the Spirit, and the Spirit is leading.

Jesus also envisaged the same.

‘If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. He who believes in Me as the scripture says, out of his heart shall flow rivers of living water’ By this he was speaking of the Holy Spirit…the Holy Spirit had not yet been given because Jesus had not yet been glorified’ John 7 v 37-39

To finish, it should strike as odd that when we speak of baptism, our thoughts imagine we’re speaking of water, not the Holy Spirit.

The New Testament is clear. If someone has repented (changed their thinking about Jesus and the resurrection), they should be baptised in water and receive the Holy Spirit. In other words, a water baptism and a Holy Spirit baptism. (see above, Acts 2v38)

Which order these three events are experienced seems to matter less to God than it does to us. In Acts, the examples given above illustrate the point well enough…especially when the Holy Spirit fell on the Gentiles. They were baptised in the Spirit, then baptised in water, and repented and believed somewhere in the mix.

Podcasts, BBC Sounds, Red Hand Files…out walking or jogging No1.The Robcast with Bonnie Tyler and her book ‘The Spark of My Womb’

The podcasts in no particular order:

The Robcast with Rob Bell – interviews or monologues on the human condition
Inspired with Simon Guillebaud – interviews with Christians with stories to tell
How to Fail with Elizabeth Day – interviews with celebrities, 3 failures and their responses
The Life Scientific with Jim Al-Khalili - interviews with leading scientists
(DiD) Desert Island Discs (BBC Sounds/R4)
(FOOC) From Our Own Correspondent with Kate Adie
More or Less (BBC Sounds, R4) with Tim Harford examining statistics in the news
Curious Cases (BBC Sounds, R4) with Hannah Fry and Dara O’Briain – Science questions
Dead Ringers (BBC Sounds, R4) – comedy
The Rest is Politics with Rory Stewart and Alastair Campbell
Frank Skinner’s Poetry Podcast – a poet each week
Unlocking the Bible – David Pawson
In Our Time (BBC Sounds, R4) with Melvyn Bragg

Red Hand Files – Nick Cave with a weekly letter/email answering questions from fans

Sunday 6th July

Walk 4.65K : Strawberry Line from Winscombe N to gate into fields, across road to Banwell, and into Thatcher’s Cider orchards, to Barton Lane and back through fields, dodging cows.

Podcast: The Robcast, Rob Bell’s lively interview with Bonnie Lewis, author of The Spark of My Womb under the name B. Coil.

For those not familiar with Rob Bell, he was a pastor of Mars Hill Church, Michigan, a mega-church, until 2012 when he left to pursue a non-evangelical-friendly path of spirituality. Why, then, you might well ask, are you, Mr Stevens, listening to The Robcast?

It’s true that if I had a 1:1 with Mr Bell, I would want to explore his reasons for abandoning his evangelical beliefs. And what he now believes about Jesus Christ.

And it’s also true that over the past few years, when I have listened to The Robcast, I think it would be accurate to say he hasn’t interviewed an evangelical Christian. Perhaps he should?

So, where’s the doorway into listening to The Robcast? In the same way that I might have tuned into Michael Parkinson, or, to be more up to date, Elizabeth Day (see above), or any interviewer who has that knack of attracting interesting individuals who can articulate their experience of life.

His interview with Bonnie Tyler was a cracker

His interview with Bonnie Tyler was a cracker. Most of it orbited around her new book The Spark of My Womb. If I’ve gleaned anything from the interview, the book is a fictional pastiche that is semi-autobiographical and serves as a vehicle for Bonnie to tell her readers what it’s been like to be Bonnie Tyler, and a woman. Be prepared for a very non-evangelical perspective…we’re probably talking New Age ++

Not only is Bell a skilled interviewer, but the reason I listen to his monologues and interviews is that he is attempting to communicate what it’s like to be a human being in the context of today’s world, and his world in the United States – and does it well, with characteristic cheerfulness, enthusiasm, and occasional tears.

Of course, I don’t agree with every statement, but that’s not the point. In previous articles, I’ve lumped Bell, McClaren, and Richard Rohr in the same boat. I disagree with many of their viewpoints, but they are better than many at talking about the human condition.

The crunch question: will I read The Spark of My Womb? It’s hardly a blokey title.

If I do, I shall report back.

In the meantime, maybe listen to a few Robcasts and see what you think.

The Problem with Awe

ACW More Than Writers Blogpost 7th July 2025

The Problem with Awe

It’s a strange expression, if you slow to a stop and think through the words, ‘took my breath away’ it seems to have two meanings; something utterly shocking or beautiful that causes you to gasp – to breathe in, or to suddenly exhale.

 Does anyone travel from birth to death without having a few such moments? I’ve had a few.

 One was maybe six or seven years ago: a piece of music on Radio 4 was so beautiful I had to stop the car, it wasn’t safe to continue driving through a blur of tears.

 Or a beautiful woman I had the privilege of meeting and knowing. My socks were blown clean away.

 And two paintings. One, as far as I know, is still in the Bristol Museum, and the other (a relatively inexpensive print) hangs in my house. Both made me stand and stare.

 Then there’s mist in the hollows on an autumnal morning, a sunset across the ocean, the crash of a wave on shingle beach, or the particular blue of a cold January sky…I could go on.

 All good, but then there’s a sinister side of awe. In writing.

 When, as a writer, you encounter writing that is nigh on perfect and seems to occupy some impenetrable place reserved for an unapproachable elite. As a consumer, you are transfixed and carried along in a beam of satisfaction and joy of reading; your imagination, long since sent soaring with emotion and movement.

 But as a writer? As a writer, one can either be inspired or discouraged.

 One recent example. I enjoy reading Nick Cave’s The Red Hand Files, a weekly letter replying to a few questions posed to him by adoring fans. But the quality of Nick Cave’s replies, his ability to interweave ideas, meditations, poetic imagery, humour, and plain good advice and common sense, is…depending on the mood I’m in…either dispiriting or uplifting.

 Another author I may have mentioned before that has that seemingly casual inability to write a single sentence that is not worth rereading…no, not Shakespeare, Dostoyevski, or Steinbeck…but Ian Rankin. No fillers, no unnecessary descriptive interludes, no fat, it’s pared to the bone and yet entirely nourishing. How does he do it?

 Here’s a sentence that I particularly liked, from this week’s Red Hand Files, where Nick Cave is relaying to a fan something of the agony he goes through in writing the first two lines of a song, starting with ‘the unpredictable arrival of those first two lines’:

 ‘Within those few words lies the ‘beautiful idea’ and the inception of that idea is fundamentally unstable, unreliable, and deeply mysterious’

 None of us can ever write entirely in the style or ‘like’ another. But let us learn. Let us be open. Let us be influenced, inspired, and aspire to write well, to improve, and yet be content, and continue to convert those ‘beautiful ideas’ into poetry and prose, novels and blog posts.

 St Paul said ‘I have learned to be content. I know how to be based, and I know how to abound…I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’

 So far, I’ve read this blog post through once or twice, tweaked this verb, that sentence, and cut and pasted a paragraph…I’m almost content to leave it and push on to August. Almost.

Heavy with mist

In the garden
In the cool of the day
The Lord God came
Looking for those who
Struggled to hide

Untruths from the heat
Of the day, exposed
In the twilight, man:
Born in the morning
Undesigned for the night

That long imminent night
Of flaming swords
Of banishment. An exile
Kneading its strange magic:
A longing to return

In King’s Wood
In the cool of after-dawn
Boots on the hillside, up
To the flaking plaster
Triangulation point

I climbed and gazed East
Into the face of the sun
Or would have
But the air was heavy
Blurred with humidity

Birdsong, muffled in
A wall of water hanging
Just above the ground
Clinging to the sky
Saturating the world

Obscuring the sunrise
Until the heavy mist
Burned clear
And I,
With eyes open, saw

What was always there
The grass beneath my feet
A lone mushroom
A startled rabbit
A languid cow

And disinterested sheep
Mowing the hillside
Sung to by skylarks
And ancient warblers.
For a moment

I was no longer here
But home
In the farm tracks
And dry-stone walls
Of Eden

The Final Eleven O’Clock: Coffee Beans & A Phonecall Monday 30th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?

2. What am I doing?

3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. Kitchen

2. Grinding coffee beans and finishing conv. with daughter No 1. Mutual feedback on matters retreating to housewarming

3. Thinking. Multilevel, multi subject matters…mentally multitasking: spin off matters from daut No3’s text, real-time issues raised by No1…also the excellent content of some posts on a writing blogsite I write for once a month (More than Writers) and my replies. Also mundane thoughts regarding grinding coffee beans. One bean escaped the spoon three times and needed to be hunted down and dropped beneath the spinning blades.

Feelings. Even on this final post, I’m finding it difficult to figure out what I’m feeling as opposed to what I’m thinking and doing. In conversation with No1 I did speak about my sense of social awkwardness in some moments over the past party-oriented 48 hours: a couple of friends who spent quite a bit of time ranting about subjects – including conspiracy theories - no one had asked them to comment on…and wondering how many times I have done the same thing…and wondering what that is all about? A surplus of energy? A need to speak about pet subjects? Anger? The need to be an expert? Insecurity? Or a conduit of news and views others need to hear? Where’s there a psychologist when you need one?

But how/what I was I feeling at 11 o’clock? Relatively pacific. Aware of tidal patterns and surface ripples as an analogy of friendships – each has its own rhythm.

So, I apologise for ending The Eleven O’Clock with a deliberately obscure comment about tides and ripples, but some things are best left unsaid.

What better than to close with the Wisdom of Solomon:

There’s

A right time for birth and another for death,
A right time to plant and another to reap,
A right time to kill and another to heal,
A right time to destroy and another to construct,
A right time to cry and another to laugh,
A right time to lament and another to cheer,
A right time to make love and another to abstain,
A right time to embrace and another to part,
A right time to search and another to count your losses,
A right time to hold on and another to let go,
A right time to rip out and another to mend,
A right time to shut up (!) and another to speak up,
A right time to love and another to hate,
A right time to wage war and another to make peace.

The Eleven O’Clock: Full English and Flat Whites? Sunday 29th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?

2. What am I doing?

3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. The Pantry, coffee shop, Winscombe

2. Eating a cooked breakfast – not a Full English but the next size down. Convivial chat with five other late-to-rise friends after last night’s housewarming

3. Thinking: thoughts still assembling after a broken night’s sleep on a karrimat and in a sleeping bag on my back lawn watching the stars. Idyllic? No, not quite. To bed at 1am. Awake with a bad back and raging hayfever at 3am. Exercises, pee, hayfever dose, and approx. two further hours of sleep, then up at 6 with two others, cups of tea, and more chat. So…no settled thoughts, more a stream of ever-changing thoughts in conversations.

Feeling: surprisingly awake, and v. happy & relieved that the housewarming went well with friends & family. That the sun shone was a blessing.

The Eleven O’Clock: Hoovering and a Murder of Crows Saturday 28th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?

2. What am I doing?

3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. Behind a vacuum cleaner

2. Pushing, pulling a vacuum around the upstairs and downstairs & listening a bit earlier to Curious Cases R4 making the case that Corvids (Crows, Rooks, Ravens, and Jackdaws) are more intelligent than children.

3. Thinking – my mind is split between working my way through umpteen chores to get the house ready for a gathering later - and crows. Also, a faint thought routine on repeat re: Jackdaws

Feeling – I’m doing ‘subordination of feelings to planning mode’, but it’s not entirely successful. I catch myself worrying mildly over pre-party stuff – will X arrive, will X, who won’t know anyone apart from me, be OK, will P and Q talk over the past amicably (!), how many bodies will require a bed for the night, will there be enough food? What if there’s far too much food? You get the picture. Fretting over all the things over which I have no or limited control…and, yes, I know, control is largely an illusion anyway, and it’s often the apparent randomness of everything where unexpected joy stems from. A verse from Proverbs comes to mind ‘lean not on your understanding but in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths’. This and similar verses have somehow become more crackly with life than ever – you know that anticipation in the air just before a thunderstorm.

Ps – note on Jackdaws. Forgive me if I’ve mentioned this before. From childhood, Jackdaws and swifts have been my favourite birds. Swifts just take it from swallows in the same way as Spitfires are just ahead of Hurricanes. And Jackdaws have had a place reserved for them for decades. And, bless my soul, if having rarely seen Jackdaws in all those intervening years, if the birds that congregate on my chimney and peck around on the roof tiles to my right, are not they! If you’re looking for proof of divinity, I doubt if this would tip you over the edge, but for me, it’s a sign of the love of God for this amateur believer.

The Eleven O’Clock: Spotify Playlist Friday 27th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?

2. What am I doing?

3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. Desk, landing

2. Making a playlist on Spotify

3. Thinking: The idea of a playlist originated from a chance discovery of a short series of interviews with well-known TV and radio presenters selecting their favourite classical pieces, some of which were borrowed for the playlist. I suppose my thinking was split between my unfamiliarity with Spotify and feeling immersed, particularly, in some moving choral and other pieces, many of which I hadn’t heard before.

Feeling: as already stated a feeling of being immersed and my inner world being stretched, expanded, stilled, and stirred. Long chords; a blend of bass, tenor, alto, and soprano voices, puncturing any layabout defences. Resistance, as they say, is futile. Not because it’s impossible; futility is doing or not doing something that leads nowhere - the off button is not far away - but music that pours out of one soul is designed to crash past all our No Entry signs; it will not obey and must not. It is we who must yield, trust, and be taken to wherever we have to go.

Try Barber: Agnus Dei, Winchester Cathedral Choir if you dare

The Eleven O’Clock: Tea, toast, and Dublin, 1798 Thursday 26th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?

2. What am I doing?

3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. Physically at my desk, writing and enjoying a brief break, armed with a colourful mug of Tetley tea and munching two pieces of buttered toast. Mentally, it’s dawn and I’m alone on a horse en route to Dublin in May 1798 in the form of an Irish girl with a lot on her mind.

2. Thinking. As the character, mostly thinking, dispelling anxious thoughts by forming a detailed plan of action. As the writer, weighing up what it must be like for this fictitious character to be caught in a combination of competing loyalties, and facing a very uncertain future. And wondering whether all this writing is some unconscious form of autobiography; whether the characters we form can ever be truly ‘not me? Perhaps, through our imaginations, we do invent original creations that are not us, in order to dis-cover who we truly are?

Feelings. There are times when you become immersed in a character’s mental, emotional, or spiritual state. As yet, this character isn’t pondering spiritual matters, but is thinking deeply about the various moral dilemmas she faces – one step removed from the spiritual? Her romantic feelings towards the protagonist are embryonic and subject to her other dilemmas. Whatever feelings she may have lie hidden, held just below the surface. Maybe by 11.30, I’ll be there.

I’m also aware of just how tasty the rescued bread has turned out to be when toasted.

Licking my lips.

Back to 1798.

The Eleven O’Clock ix Prosecco, Trump, and Tehran Wednesday 25th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1.        Where am I?

2.        What am I doing?

3.        What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1.        At my desk, on the landing, at home

2.        Multitasking – fielding texts from daut 1 and genning up on Iran’s theological/political stance and pondering the wisdom of Trump’s ‘cease fire’.

3.        Thinking

As indicated above, I’m swinging between a conversation with daughter 1 and a deeper quest to understand the theological rather than political stance of Iran that forms the foundation of the Iranian Revolution. To begin with, daughter 1. It began with a text from me asking my Prosecco expert how many bottles are required for 30 adults x 1 drink upon arrival at a party and ended up discussing how many bottles Daut 1 can safely carry riding pillion on a Yamaha 750 as she journeys down from KT6.

Whilst many will rejoice at the cessation of hostilities between Israel and Iran, I am less ebullient. This could be more than a blunder by our strange friend Mr Trump, and may represent a moral vacuum lying at the heart of the Western World, similarly to its blind and deaf policy towards the Nazi Party before the outbreak of WWII.

WWII claimed the lives of 80 million souls and 6 million Jews. Had we acted decisively in the 1930s to oust Hitler, many would still have died, but far fewer, I would argue.

I fear my children and grandchildren will look back on this moment in history in the same light. Iran has been pruned, but it will grow back, fiercer, stronger, more virulent, and waiting for an opportunity to gather strength from nations it has beguiled to continue its aim – the destruction of Israel as a prerequisite for the return of the 12th Iman, Mahdi, a Messianic figure to herald a world-wide Caliphate in which world there is no place for a Jewish State, in fact Israel’s existence is the final obstacle to the return of the Mahdi, and therefore must be destroyed.

I am not in favour of war. It is abhorrent. But sometimes it is necessary to excise an evil presence as with the Nazis in Germany and its ally, Japan, in the East. Delay cost the world an enormous loss of life.

So…at 11 o’clock this morning, I was pondering the lack of wisdom of Trump’s ceasefire.

Feeling: quite calm, a dispassionate approach to a serious issue that may yet engulf nations further afield than Iran/Israel’s immediate neighbours. And less anxiety at the prospect of the housewarming, now that the quantity of Champagne/Prosecco available for guests has been resolved.

The Eleven O’Clock viii Bread disaster?Tuesday 24th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1.        Where am I?

2.        What am I doing?

3.        What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1.        Kitchen

2.        Attempting to rescue a bread dough – I forgot to add yeast

3.        Thinking? I’m thinking, is there no end to my incompetence? In a rather blasé, over-confident manner, I blended my two types of bread flour, added olive oil and my secret ingredient to the warm water, but forgot to add yeast. Have had a go at adding yeast/warm water afterwards. I doubt it will work. It’s a fail-safe recipe until human frailty takes over.

Feelings? Apart from a slight sense of disappointment and curiosity about the ‘rescue’ (time will tell), my thoughts and feelings have been caught up in preparing an Amazon order full of party paraphernalia, so thinking and motivation are more apparent than emotion. Although social anxiety is waiting in the wings, and occasionally makes an untimely entrance on stage to remind me of all the things that could go wrong.

Somewhat surprisingly, the dough is rising! So, one presses on…with bread-making, party planning, and all the rest of the TTD (things to do) list. Some of its items are written down, whereas others, unwritten, including the latest developments in the Jerusalem/Tehran/Washington conflict, are not. These thoughts take time to settle within, to create thoughts, and thoughts to create prayers. We often say what goes up must come down; it’s equally true to say what goes in must come out. I wonder if you have found that to be true with the Middle East, the impact of everything since the Hamas attack until now has gone into your heart. I wonder in what form it has come out?

The Eleven O’Clock vii Dinosaurs in a Graveyard Monday 23rd June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?
2. What am I doing?
3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. Congresbury – St Andrew’s graveyard

2. Traipsing round St Andrews church, orchard, gardens, and graveyard with two grandchildren. E is pointing out the letter E on gravestones and asking deep questions, and JJ is content distracting himself with important tasks such as lifting up flower holders and looking through the holes

3. Apart from debating within myself, what are the appropriate boundaries to put in to show respect for graves, and yet encourage grandchildren explore, I am having to try and explain ultimate questions of life and death as well as play ball and crack open apples to see if the pips are white or brown. Everything is oriented around the grandchildren.

4. Feelings? Bit worried at one point that I will run out of ideas to entertain E & JJ and they will inevitably get tired, bored, hungry, and irritable. Saved by noticing a text from mum saying food and drink in the bag. Sense of relief as I dug out breadsticks, apples, and – apparently – a very hungry dinosaur. Life is simple, really. When you are two or three.

The Eleven O’Clock vi Cheddar Baptist Sunday 22nd June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?
2. What am I doing?
3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. Third of four rows from the back of Cheddar Baptist on the left-hand side

2. Listening to a sermon with one ear and trying to decode what the preacher was trying to convey, in general and personally

3. In terms of the sermon, his aim seemed to be to distil a common theme from three very different bible passages: how to maintain our differences, as believers in Christ, without withdrawing from society, even if it means not conforming to the values and beliefs of society. True freedom. So I’m trying to decode his more poetic way of communication in contrast to the more expositional teaching I’m used to.

Feeling. It’s nearly 3 months since I moved to Winscombe. Every so often, I get waves of ‘the new boy’ syndrome. This morning was like that. After the service, I was involved in a number of conversations, but at 11, social confidence was running on empty.

p.s. U.S. bombed Iran’s nuclear facilities overnight. It was coming. Maybe the potential for that conflict to spill over into other nations is on all of our minds, even if it’s held at the periphery of conscious thought.

The Eleven O’Clock v Dublin 1798 Saturday 21st June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?
2. What am I doing?
3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. On the landing, at my desk, windows open

2. Apart from typing this, I’m eating two pieces of toast – jam and marmalade, downed with a cuppa Tetley

3. I’m thinking about writing. To do that, I have to do some time-traveling, back to Dublin in 1798 in the smouldering pre-uprising heat of the Irish rebellion. And within that context, to move person A and person B around. Writing, I have found, is more like watching a film unfold in real time than planning too far ahead. By the end of today, or maybe early next week, I may have discovered how the novel ends, but for NOW, by now I mean the Tuesday after Easter 1798, person A has to brew some coffee on a riverbank and greet his work colleagues as if nothing is out of place. It’s all smoke and mirrors. Beyond Dublin, there are other thoughts, some continuous, but all are relegated to wherever the back of one’s mind lurks.

By the end of today, or maybe early next week, I may have discovered how the novel ends

Feelings? Not entirely settled. If the writing goes well, I will be absorbed in that other world with its feelings, its hopes, dreams, horrors, fears and so on. Until then, the things that may retreat to the back of my mind are not there yet. Mild anxiety in various forms over organising a social event next Saturday. Also a surprising burst of Strava joy that informed me that I had run far faster than I had thought earlier this morning to avoid the heat later in the day.

The Eleven O’Clock iv Not Filling a Kettle Friday 20th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1.        Where am I?
2.        What am I doing?
3.        What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

Post Four:

1.        Home.
2.        The literal answer: deciding it’s too late to fill the kettle, get wallet, phone, Amazon Return package sellotaped, sandals on, ready to walk to the PO and then to local barbers for 11.30 cut.
3.        Partly thinking how mundane today’s post will be and whether it’s OK to divert from a strict adherence to 11 o’clock on the dot? Replacing ‘deciding not to fill a kettle’ with describing my ‘fields and footpaths’ walk earlier in the morning. All that did serve to remind me that I don’t spend all my time in my rational mind, thinking, but, like Mary the mother of Jesus, and like all of us, I suspect, I also ponder things in my heart.

Feelings. If we are body, soul, and spirit, then ‘feeling’ can be through our physical senses – and I was feeling hot; it’s a muggy morning. Or we can ‘feel’ with our emotions – and I was on a fairly even keel. quite tranquil. Or we can ‘feel’ or sense spiritually – and I think, spiritually, I was taking a nap, having had an earlier workout listening to another Inspired podcast with Simon Guillebaud, this time interviewing Shane Taylor, an ex-violent man, often in prison, who was transformed after, in his words, Jesus walked into his life.

Tragedy in Eden

Thursday.

The glory of the Lord appeared today
In the form of forked lightning
And thunder
Coconuts fell all morning
Rebounding from the ground
All our creatures hid in places
I have never found

As evening fell, flashes of light
Lit everything up
In purples and white light
Wisdom spoke warning us
Of taking canoes out
On the river
But courage spoke also

It was Havilah that we paddled
To see the gold
Illuminated from inside and out
Soon, bathed in a yellow hue
Absorbing and filling us with strength
Eve scooped up the river water
And drank its light

Friday Morning

Eve returned early from
A morning stroll, eyes wide open
Rain fell, drenching her hair
The clouds, closer than normal
Looked disturbed
In her hand, a red peach
Dripping with juice and rain
I took the second bite

Friday Evening

Everything was familiar and yet
Distorted, the soil dustier
Eve’s forehead creased, and mine
A strange fear knotted
And knit us closer
It wasn’t love, knowing we could
Never re-attach the peach

The glory of the Lord appeared
Not as before, but
With tears and strange words
He walked away
Pulling our wooden canoe
For safe storage ‘Until…’
But we couldn’t hear the words

The Eleven O’Clock iii Thursday 19th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?
2. What am I doing?
3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

Post Three:

1. Home, in the kitchen.

2. Kneading dough – half wholemeal/half white bread flour + secret ingredient. Washing up & making cup of tea, white no sugar

3. Various overlapping thoughts playing in my mind, bit like a jazz band, each taking turns for solos. New lounge carpet fitted yesterday, so am thinking about next steps. Also listening to the story of Emma Scrivener, an ex-anorexic sufferer, on Inspired podcast with Simon Guillebaud. Earlier this morning walked/ran from Winscombe hill to Crook Peak and back listening to the podcast, so thoughts are rippling out during the day. During that walk/run had an unusual burst of re-imagination about Eden, amused how deep our preconceptions are – there’s no red apple in Genesis. Nor, as far as I know, is there any art that depicts Eden in anything less than a sunny day? I feel a poem brewing.

But how do I feel? Quite light. As if I have freedom of movement, like a fish in the sea. Thursdays have, since last September, been a tutor-oriented day. Morning and afternoon prep for 3 hours of 1:1 Chemistry. But now A-Level and GCSE exams are almost finished, I’m like a puppy off the leash, even if ‘freedom’ means the freedom to attack neglected chores. And eating fresh bread with butter and jam.