Saint Georges Day.

Gothic revival fireplace in my local pub.

The Lady Chapel before Mass.

St Georges day Mass. The chasuble contains, by tradition, the baptismal cloth of Richard, Duke of Aragon, later heavily embroidered by his mother and her chambermaids. It was presented to me by a group of parishoners some time ago, for which I am eternally grateful. It comes out of it's careful storage a couple of times a year.

The terrace at the pub where I had lunch.

The Chapel at Whitewell.

The view from the top of Jeffrey Hill.

Sheep on Jeffrey Hill. There was some wild mint growing so I suppose that they are self-flavouring in a way.

School. Generations of irritating children, myself included, have painted these railings pink the night before leaving the final year, hence their rather battered appearance.

Your scribe reading the Daily Telegraph. The Guardian, my paper of choice, is curiously unavailable in Blackburn Diocese!

The Ribble.

Being my birthday, yesterday was a day off from the usual pattern and the sun shone brightly so I went to the Ribble Valley, where I went to school and, like most boarding school boys, where I like to go back to. That I have found myself living within an hours drive of my old school, when they exist for people who live overseas, generally, is peculiar in itself. After a wander around Clitheroe it was the Inn at Whitewell for lunch and then a walk up Jeffrey hill before heading home for Mass and the pub. Back to usual today happily, the round of life and death, essays and presentations!

It has come to my attention that some find my liturgical views outdated or peculiar and I apologise if they 'wind up' anyone, but be assured that they are born of love, that I am no liturgical stormtrooper and that I am ever flexible. Sometimes it is nice to write about a world where everything is as one would like it, not as it is. I am no liturgy snob, as anyone who knows me will attest.