Mass in the Minster

After a much better night, we wake to a fine morning and breakfast on rye toast with cream cheese and smoked salmon, for me and some Baker's and a few scraps of fish for Normy, I shower and dress before walking him down Carr Lane. It is a glorious sunny morning and all around the village there are scarecrows in gardens, driveways and greens. This weekend is Tickton scarecrow festival, my favourite is one of the artist, David Hockney, brush in hand, before a fair attempt at a water colour of "Bigger Trees". Hockney is understandably very popular in East Yorkshire. I have forgotten my iPhone, otherwise I would have photographed it. Norman is reluctant to walk this morning, in his old age he needs encouragement to exercise and his reluctance often evaporates once we progress beyond the familiar confines of Green Lane. But not this morning, even on Carr Lane he seems reluctant to walk, so we turn round just short of the farm and set off home. There is no rhythm to his gait and he seems to be placing his feet individually, but makes better progress when I pop him back on the lead. In the garden, I massage his back, as I used to massage my little dachshund bitch, Noddy, by rolling him over my knee, the way Cuban ladies roll cigars on their thighs. He seems to like it and I stretch his paws to lengthen his spine, before letting him down on the grass, where he seems to walk a little easier. I take a quarter of one of my anti inflammatory tablets, wrap it in salami and feed it to him. His back will need close watching, as that is how my previous sausage dogs began their ends. David and Irene are arriving at twelve thirty, so I have just time to sort out a couple of boxes of winter running gear from my wardrobe in the bedroom. I would like to think that I might yet use them for their intended purpose. I feed Norman some Baker's and leave him with fresh water, before driving to North Bar to meet my cousin, arriving a few minutes early and calling in at Sarah's house to drop off Louis' jacket that he left in my car last night. Louis has slipped and banged his head and Sarah is cuddling him better, as I leave. I ring David, but my call goes unanswered, so I suspect he is en route and driving, so pop to Tesco's to buy some fresh bread and salad. When I return to the car, I have missed David ringing back, so ring again and he tells me he is on his way from Tickton, he had assumed we would meet there. Obviously we have our wires crossed, but he and Irene arrive moments later and then walk to the tea rooms by the Minster, for tea and scones before the service at two. The cafe is immaculate, the service prompt, but the food and drink, stale, weak and quite expensive. Irene has chocolate cake and coffee and we scones and tea, but she fares no better. I shan't use the place again, as there are plenty of other cafes and tea rooms in the town. We enter the Minster at a quarter to two and take our seats at the back of the congregation. Almost every seat is taken and those that remain free are soon taken up, the place hasn't been this full since it hosted the BBC's antiques roadshow. It is also much colder inside and I am forced to put on a sweater that I have been wearing over my shoulders. The Pilgrimage Mass of the year of Faith, starts at two with the hymn, "Hail Redeemer King Divine, and then leads into a sung Mass, which is partly in English and partly in Latin. The magnificent sixteenth century, Swiss made organ resonating around the high gothic ceilings, and the voices of the choristers echoing their way down the chamber, to those of us at the rear, and forcing us to pause before joining in the singing, in order to synchronise with them. It is the first time I have been in here since Leslie's funeral a couple of months ago and I have said a special prayer for him. After the service, I show Irene and David the stained glass window, that it was revealed that Leslie had paid for, only after he died. We emerge on to Highgate to find that the weather has clouded over and decide to pay a visit to Nellies, AKA, The White Horse pub opposite, Saint Mary's Parish church, another Gothic masterpiece, but on a smaller scale to the Minster. The pub is full of character and very busy, we take our drinks to one of the many small rooms and join a group of locals, who are enjoying a drink after a walk round the Westwood. One of the men looks like my cousin, Andrew Oldroyd, but on a larger scale, which I tell him, my comments cause gales of laughter from his wife and friends, who tell me "that is the nicest way anyone has told him he is a fat sod!" He takes this in great good humour, but when it is my turn to buy drinks, I buy him a pint to ensure there are no hard feelings. At five o'clock we make our way to Harper's for Haddock and Chips tea, which are as good as ever and then it is time to say goodbye to my cousin and her husband. We will see each other again a week on Wednesday, when they will collect me before we drive to the Ferry to Rotterdam, in Hull. Back home, Norman seems much better and runs out into the garden before his dinner and then fairly sprints back indoors for his tin of dog food. The sun has come out again, so I clip him on his lead after he has eaten and try to walk him down the lane again and suddenly he becomes old and infirm again. He is obviously playing the "old soldier", on me. Although I shouldn't, I give in to him and let him back into the house. Later I read Le Carre until nine thirty and then reply to emails from my brother Graham and his wife, Liliane, provisionally arranging to visit them at the end of August. To bed at ten.