Country cousins

We are up with the alarm on my phone at a quarter to seven and as the curtains are drawn, a beautiful dawn is revealed, with the pink and gold sky to the east highlighting low mist on the fields. We breakfast on giant boiled eggs and soldiers again this morning, as my cousin, Irene and her husband, David are visiting today and the kippers, which remain in the fridge, would have stunk the place out. We will enjoy them tomorrow morning instead. After coffee, a shower and dressing, yesterday's damp washing is pegged back on the line and I notice that the returning sunlight on the lawn, has triggered growth in the grass, which now stands almost six inches high in places. If the weather holds, I may get the mower over it tomorrow. Irene and David are arriving at Saint John's for ten fifteen, in order to attend ten thirty mass with me, so Norman and I set out for our walk round the village by nine thirty, with the sun up, it feels quite warm, although there was a ground frost last night, so Normy ventures forth without his coat this morning. The birds seem to think it is already spring and are singing happily in the trees, the snowdrops are in full bloom and daffodil shoots are showing yellow buds, it is less than two weeks to Saint David's day, March 1st, when they should also be in bloom. Norman is given fresh water before I drive to Saint John's and find my visitors waiting in a new car, a Hyundai Santa Fe, that David tells me he traded his old Jaguar in against last week. It looks big and chunky and will transport us all to Austria on holiday in May. We arrive in my pew with five minutes to spare, I have pre warned my cousins that this is a sung Mass, but forgot to mention that some of it is in Latin. They are un fazed, as they, like me, are old enough to remember when the whole thing was conducted in That language. Father David is still helping Roy with the service, but his memory is failing and he loses his place once or twice. The sermon he delivers is about reflecting on the meaning of faith during Lent, with a letter from the Bishop, surprisingly this letter doesn't mention the Pope's resignation, but Father Roy brings it up, disapprovingly, during the notices after communion. He is very conservative, but if Benedict says that God has told him it is time to go, I can't conceive of any valid alternative argument. After Mass we walk through town to the old fashioned tea shop down Minster Moorgate, arriving at ten to twelve, only to be told that they aren't open until Noon. The cafe is less than a stone throw from the Minster, where morning service has just concluded, so we pop in and have a wander around for fifteen minutes. One of Leslie's fellow guides, Bill, is on door duty, so I tell him about his accident and he asks me to pass on my best wishes when I visit tomorrow. We also say hello to Jeremy Fletcher, the Anglican vicar, but he is pressing the flesh with his flock and hasn't much time to chat. I like Jeremy, he has a great sense of humour and is very kind, he is also very liberal and he and Father Roy, who is an ex Anglican, don't always see eye to eye. The last time they clashed was over Beverley's Festival of Christmas, where a market is held on the second Sunday in December every year and all the stall holders don Dickensian costumes. Jeremy supports it but Roy claims that Christmas is already too commercial and that it isn't his job to make it even more so. They both have a point and the tension between preserving worthwhile values and supporting innovation and change needs honest debate. We leave the Minster around a quarter past twelve and take tea and scones in the tea rooms, which are an oak panelled haven of peace, with real leather chairs and a lovely conservatory, with stone flagged floors. Unfortunately for me, they serve the scones warmed through in the microwave, which I hate, but hold my tongue and wait for ten minutes to let mine cool before eating it. After our snack we retrace our steps through town and call in to Beverley's most famous pub, Nellie's, named after the eponymous landlady, who died many years ago. The pub is actually called The White Hart, but all the locals refer to it as Nellie's. The pub is a warren of little rooms, which have never been decorated, and we find one with a roaring fire and order our drinks, a bottle of porter for David, a glass of Yorkshire stout for Irene and a Lenten tomato juice and Worcester sauce for me. Another party of two couples join us by the fire, and a happy conversation soon strikes up, the conviviality of the place would make it very easy to lose an afternoon to drinking and the craic. My cousin has not yet been to my bungalow in Tickton, so after our drinks, I drive them back in my Chrysler, leaving their 4x4 outside Saint John's. Normy is delighted to see them, he must remember that whenever we have been to visit them at their holiday flat in Scarborough, David has found him a slice of beef. The quickest way to a dachshund's heart is through his stomach! He has to make do with Bakers dry dog food for lunch, but I slip him a rib bone in the garden to chew, while I bring in the washing, which is dry. It is two o'clock and the garden is in sunshine, the sun has finally risen clear above the garage roof to the south! David and Irene are reading my Observer in the front room, and I serve them with Italian coffee and the last slices of fruit cake, that I bought on the market yesterday. After chatting for a while they decide that we should have tea at Harper's fish and chip cafe down Lairgate, but first Irene wants to see the alpacas at the farm down Carr Lane, so we put Norman on his lead and have a stroll in the sunshine. David is also of the opinion that the sprouting bulbs, that have been planted on either side of the road by the farm, look like onions. No doubt I will see one of the girls from the farm over the next few days, so shall ask, in order to satisfy my curiosity. We arrive at Harper's for four and find we are the only customers, so our meals arrive within five minutes and are faultless. This is the third time I have been since the place changed hands before Christmas and so far, they have yet to disappoint me. After our meal we chat and drink tea for a while and then we walk back to our cars and say goodbye, they driving back to York and I to Tickton. Normy is wagging and waiting for his dinner when I arrive home, but it is another dog tin for him tonight, although he doesn't seem to mind. I am feeling tired, so meditate for an hour and feel refreshed again and then spend the rest of the evening leisurely reading the paper and doing the puzzles, interrupted only by Leslie's daughter, Margaret, who rings around eight thirty to update me. Apparently Leslie slept throughout their visit this evening, as another patient has kept him awake for the last two nights, I confirmed that I would visit him tomorrow evening, after taking Louis for his swimming lesson. To bed at ten thirty.