FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 9th – 16th JUNE 2024
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I would be heading down, by bus, to Selly Park Convent in Birmingham to celebrate the Golden Jubilee Mass for a sister who used to be part of the retreat team in Minsteracres when I was novice master there in the early 1990’s. The reason for going by bus was that I didn’t fancy the long drive, and the train was far too expensive, whereas the bus was very reasonable. It was a long time since I had made such a journey by bus, but part of me was looking forward to it, as I imagined it would be very relaxing compared to the stress of driving the car. I, therefore, boarded a National Express coach last Friday morning, well equipped with my Kindle, containing both fictional and spiritual reading material; a little book of crossword puzzles; a magazine with lots of articles about the upcoming European Football Championships in Germany; a prawn mayonnaise sandwich, and a bottle of water. I was all set. At one stage I dozed off, and when I awoke, I realized that we weren’t on the motorway anymore, but were driving along country roads, and I found this a bit puzzling. I then heard the driver contacting his central office to say that, as there was a 7-mile tailback on the M6, he had taken some back roads into Carlisle and Penrith, and could they advise if the M6 was any clearer after Penrith. I then heard the reply come back that the roads were clearer, but that there would be further congestion at certain junctions along the way. The driver, having informed his superiors that he was totally fed up with the M6, then, good humouredly, asked his passengers what possessed us to travel on a Friday anyway. To cut a long story short, instead of arriving at Digbeth coach station in Birmingham at 4pm, as scheduled, we arrived at 5.30pm, which gave me just enough time to get to the convent, splash water on my face, and head out with the jubilarian and six of her other guests, to a local tavern, where we enjoyed a lovely meal and a good catch-up chat, during which I discovered that one of the other guests, who had travelled from Guernsey, had endured a much more harrowing experience than I did, and that she was still living with a lot of uncertainty as to how, when, and from where, she was travelling back.
The jubilee celebrations went beautifully, and were extremely well organised from beginning to end. I had opted to return on a bus travelling through the night from Saturday into Sunday. The bus was scheduled to leave at 11pm. I made my way to the coach station just before 8pm, and went looking for a local pub that might be showing the Champions League final, calculating that this would finish around 10pm, when I could then stroll back to the coach station in good time for the bus. I could only find one pub nearby, and not a very salubrious one at that. The security man on the door wasn’t sure if they were showing the match. When I went inside there was horse racing on the TV, and so I asked a group of men if they knew if they would be showing the match. Almost typically, a gruff Glasgow accent roared back at me saying “Yir no a Celtic supporter ur ye? Well, you’re no welcome here”. I held my hands up and said I wasn’t looking to upset anybody, to which he then laughed, shook my hand, and bemoaned the fact thar Rangers had only won the League Cup, which to him was a disaster. He then said that the match would be on, and so I found myself a nice little corner to stand at by the bar with a clear view of the TV, ordered a pint of local pale ale to nurse through the duration, and set myself to enjoy the game. There was an elderly man in a flat cap, with a broad Brummy accent, sitting on a stool beside me, and we chatted a bit through the first half, after which he left, and offered up his bar stool to me. I was afraid at one stage the match was going to extra time and I wouldn’t see the end of the game, but thankfully it didn’t. When the final whistle sounded, I made my way back to the coach station, and the journey home went as planned, although I must confess, I was totally bunched throughout the next two days. Back in Bishopbriggs, I found all the community well, and not having missed me at all.
As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I would be heading down, by bus, to Selly Park Convent in Birmingham to celebrate the Golden Jubilee Mass for a sister who used to be part of the retreat team in Minsteracres when I was novice master there in the early 1990’s. The reason for going by bus was that I didn’t fancy the long drive, and the train was far too expensive, whereas the bus was very reasonable. It was a long time since I had made such a journey by bus, but part of me was looking forward to it, as I imagined it would be very relaxing compared to the stress of driving the car. I, therefore, boarded a National Express coach last Friday morning, well equipped with my Kindle, containing both fictional and spiritual reading material; a little book of crossword puzzles; a magazine with lots of articles about the upcoming European Football Championships in Germany; a prawn mayonnaise sandwich, and a bottle of water. I was all set. At one stage I dozed off, and when I awoke, I realized that we weren’t on the motorway anymore, but were driving along country roads, and I found this a bit puzzling. I then heard the driver contacting his central office to say that, as there was a 7-mile tailback on the M6, he had taken some back roads into Carlisle and Penrith, and could they advise if the M6 was any clearer after Penrith. I then heard the reply come back that the roads were clearer, but that there would be further congestion at certain junctions along the way. The driver, having informed his superiors that he was totally fed up with the M6, then, good humouredly, asked his passengers what possessed us to travel on a Friday anyway. To cut a long story short, instead of arriving at Digbeth coach station in Birmingham at 4pm, as scheduled, we arrived at 5.30pm, which gave me just enough time to get to the convent, splash water on my face, and head out with the jubilarian and six of her other guests, to a local tavern, where we enjoyed a lovely meal and a good catch-up chat, during which I discovered that one of the other guests, who had travelled from Guernsey, had endured a much more harrowing experience than I did, and that she was still living with a lot of uncertainty as to how, when, and from where, she was travelling back.
The jubilee celebrations went beautifully, and were extremely well organised from beginning to end. I had opted to return on a bus travelling through the night from Saturday into Sunday. The bus was scheduled to leave at 11pm. I made my way to the coach station just before 8pm, and went looking for a local pub that might be showing the Champions League final, calculating that this would finish around 10pm, when I could then stroll back to the coach station in good time for the bus. I could only find one pub nearby, and not a very salubrious one at that. The security man on the door wasn’t sure if they were showing the match. When I went inside there was horse racing on the TV, and so I asked a group of men if they knew if they would be showing the match. Almost typically, a gruff Glasgow accent roared back at me saying “Yir no a Celtic supporter ur ye? Well, you’re no welcome here”. I held my hands up and said I wasn’t looking to upset anybody, to which he then laughed, shook my hand, and bemoaned the fact thar Rangers had only won the League Cup, which to him was a disaster. He then said that the match would be on, and so I found myself a nice little corner to stand at by the bar with a clear view of the TV, ordered a pint of local pale ale to nurse through the duration, and set myself to enjoy the game. There was an elderly man in a flat cap, with a broad Brummy accent, sitting on a stool beside me, and we chatted a bit through the first half, after which he left, and offered up his bar stool to me. I was afraid at one stage the match was going to extra time and I wouldn’t see the end of the game, but thankfully it didn’t. When the final whistle sounded, I made my way back to the coach station, and the journey home went as planned, although I must confess, I was totally bunched throughout the next two days. Back in Bishopbriggs, I found all the community well, and not having missed me at all.
As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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