Buried treasure
STILL in the “getting to know you” stage of life in Eryri (the name of my parish — Bro Eryri — and also of the area as a whole, formerly known as Snowdonia), I realise once again how much ministry is like gardening. There is the same dependence on seasons, with certain times of year obviously (and frantically) busy. There is the same need to work out what will thrive in the local climate and conditions. And there is something else worth bearing in mind: don’t throw out those old roots dug up by accident. You may well be surprised at what they produce.
I learned this the hard way, years ago, while tackling an overgrown vicarage garden. After hacking down chest-high brambles, I powered through a former flowerbed with spade and fork until the soil was nicely crumbly and ready for planting. A mass of messy old roots went straight onto the bonfire heap.
A while later, a friend commented that I had disposed of a potentially fine display of red-hot pokers. Reader, I found them, and replanted them, and I hope that they flourish to this day. Moving much faster than the “pace of trust” (a wonderful phrase, gleaned from a Church Times article) may lead to errors in church life which are harder to fix.
Sheep that safely graze
I HAVE now inherited a large rectory garden that was well tended until a six-year interregnum. During that time, some sheep decided to adopt the whole space as their domain. Apparently, sheep are highly territorial, and, once they have bonded with an area, the bond is passed from generation to generation: handy for grazing on open moorland, but problematic for me, unless my horticultural hopes are limited to a few sheep-repellent shrubs.
Any residual tolerance of my woolly residents vanished one morning while I was immersed in a Zoom meeting. Every now and then, I sensed movement outside the study window, and, when I emerged for coffee, I found at least eight ewes and their overgrown lambs sprawled across the grass.
Having devoured a pot of pansies (a farewell gift from my previous parish), they were biting off — and spitting out — the leaves of a small lemon tree intended as a patio centrepiece. Deploying my rusty sheep-wrangling skills, I managed to herd them down the drive and through the gate, which will have to stay shut until ovine memories of this particular Eden have faded.
Lost in translation
A KEY part of the local “climate and conditions” (see above) is the Welsh language. This part of North Wales is proud to include communities with some of the highest percentage of first-language speakers in the country.
Having always enjoyed languages, I started learning Welsh as a hobby — long before ordination, or even living in Wales, was more than the vaguest of possibilities. Now, it is an essential tool of daily life. Although I would hesitate to describe myself as fluent, I do find myself dreaming in what has become my second language.
But acquiring a language is a long journey, and I am grateful to everyone who has put up with my faltering efforts along the way. I recall with particular fondness an elderly farmer who, one winter morning, asked how my drive to his remote country church had been.
What I meant to tell him was that the roads were a bit icy (rhewllyd). What I actually said was “Roedd y ffyrdd yn ychydig yn rhywiol” (the roads were a bit raunchy). Generously, he did not point out my error — but his eyes twinkled.
Climate change
MY GROWN-UP children occasionally complain that I live “far away”, but one of them has now transplanted their family to the other side of the world. This comes after years of teaching in UK schools and — along with so many other colleagues — finding that the job demands have grown beyond endurance.
In the race to raise standards and improve performance, successive governments seem to have left teacher well-being at the bottom of the priority list. Combined with the cost of living, and also childcare, that has made working overseas an increasingly tempting proposition. Thanks to Brexit, “overseas” is now more likely to mean “very far away” rather than “somewhere in Europe”.
The upside of this move is the chance to visit them and experience a very different context. Much as I love the white-capped peaks of home, I also loved a blast of Malaysian tropical heat in early January and — apart from the cost of getting there — was struck by how relatively affordable life was, compared with the UK.
I was happy to see that the family were enjoying their new situation; but I hope that the concerns and burdens of their generation are acknowledged by those who can make a difference, and not simply dismissed as “snowflakery”.
Pax Romana
THE pace of clerical life can begin to feel like a hamster wheel on turbo, especially when starting in a new post. Building a social-media profile, for example, offers scope to boost the local church profile, but also brings the well-documented temptations of disappearing down rabbit-holes of “research” and getting lost in endless loops of comment. Keeping up with the posting, liking, commenting, and following may generate a sense of useful busyness, but also risks a loss of perspective (not to say reality).
When things start to feel too frenetic, I turn in thought (and, when time allows, in my car) down the winding lane leading to the most hidden of my churches. In sight of the mountains, but tucked away in a landscape of ancient trackways, hidden wells, and an Iron Age hill fort, it is approached through a spectacular grove of yew trees, some dating back more than 2000 years.
Arriving for an Advent carol service, I paused to lay a hand on one of the trunks, wondering whether Roman legionaries ever marched this way from Segontium near by, back when the story of salvation was still unheard in this northern outpost of empire.
Canon Naomi Starkey is Ministry Area Leader of Bro Eryri, a Ministry Area of six congregations bordering Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon).
