I have often said that God is too great, too big, too complicated, for humans to understand. But I heard something this week that completely changes my view of this—I now think that maybe God is too simple for us to understand. Allow me to explain:
People have lots of different facets to their personalities. This results in different behaviours, depending on the situation—so they might be Mrs Friendly when they are in one group, Mrs Tense and Rude when they’re at the doctor’s, Mrs Shy when they apply for a job, and so on. I noticed this in myself when I was teaching. As a teacher, I never shouted—I barely ever raised my voice—a frown was enough to tell the class I was unhappy and I found a quiet ‘dangerous’ voice to be much more effective with 13-year-olds than shouting (because then they knew I had ‘lost it’). However, in the same period, I would hear myself yelling at my own children when they were being particularly slow/late/stupid. Because at home and school I was different people—and my own children’s behaviour affected me in a way that no pupil, however special, ever could. (If you ask my children, they will probably tell you they would have preferred to be spoken to like a cool teacher rather than a furious mother, but that’s not how life works.) My point is, we have different emotions, and they produce different behaviours.
When we think about God, we think about him in terms that we understand—so we attribute different emotions and behaviours to him too. However, perhaps this is misleading. Because if God is unchangeable, then perhaps everything he does is in one single sphere. He is always everything, combined. So we really should not differentiate between God’s love and his anger, or his joy and his justice, or his compassion and his punishment. Unlike us, perhaps God does not have different sides to his nature. He is not too complex, but rather so uniform, so simple, that he is beyond our understanding.
It was described to me as if God is light—a single stream of light—but we cannot understand that, so we only see God as if from the other side of a prism, when each light-colour has been separated. We can understand and talk about those single ‘colours’ but we find the concept of the whole light, being one thing all the time, too difficult.
There are perhaps echoes of this in Deuteronomy 6:4, ‘ יְהוָהאֱלֹהֵינוּיְהוָה׀אֶחָֽד’ ‘YHWH, your God, YHWH is one.’ I am now wondering whether this is what the verse means? That God is not a complicated mish-mash of different moods and emotions and characters. He is simple, uniform—one.
Interesting idea, huh? Think about it.
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Hello, and how are you? Have you done anything different lately? In general, I prefer ‘routine’ to ‘unscheduled’, though we did break our routine a little this week and attend a different church. The church in the village didn’t have its usual service, and we have occasionally passed a big church called ‘Hillsong’ in a nearby town—so we decided to have an adventure and attend! (As you get older, even little changes are an adventure.)
We looked online, decided to attend the 9:30 service, checked where to park and set off. Unfortunately it coincided with the Tonbridge Half-Marathon, and most of the roads we wanted to drive along were shut, so we watched the time tick away, decided that we did not want to arrive late at a new church, and made a plan to turn round if the chaos continued. Luckily we found a way into the town, abandoned the car in a nearby car park and hurried to the church.
Hillsong does not look like a church. It looks like a warehouse, or an architect’s office, with big doors. I was desperate for the loo by this point, so hoped there would be some washrooms near the entrance.
Hillsong has a large entrance hall, and there were lots of people milling around, and we avoided eye-contact and headed to the nearby washrooms. I was worried it might be a tiny room with no privacy next to a coat cupboard (which is fairly standard for church washrooms) but no, this was a whole line of public facilities, all very clean and convenient. Excellent.
We then continued into the building. There was a queuing system—like at a cinema—but I noticed it was a ‘child check-in’ kiosk, so we avoided that and walked to the main room. Except it wasn’t the main room—it was full of toys. So was the next room, and the final one was for parents to make coffee while they watched their children. We were clearly in the kids area. It’s a long time since we had kids.
Realised that the meeting room must be upstairs, so passed all the people in the lobby (again) and were met at the top of the stairs by a couple of people with baskets full of Nespresso capsules. I accepted a capsule with a smile—a cup of coffee would be rather lovely. Then I realised that it was not, after all, a Nespresso capsule, it was a super-hygienic tiny cup of ‘wine’ and a wafer sealed in plastic, ready for communion. (Not sure if it’s okay to feel disappointed to be taking communion rather than having a good cup of coffee, so we will move swiftly on.)
The meeting room was huge, it resembled a cinema with a stage at the front, and a massive screen and large speakers. We sat in the dimmed auditorium, on comfy seats (made up for the Nespresso disappointment) and waited. It was nearly 9:30, but most seats were empty.
The service started on time, with a band playing very loud music, and singers singing and dancing on the stage, and the words projected onto the screen. I didn’t know the songs, so told myself I didn’t have to sing (I hate singing. I like to listen.) As the music played, people gradually arrived, and the seats filled up. I’m guessing there were about 200 people by the end of the first song. Everyone was standing, some people lifted their hands, most people swayed. However, unlike some Pentecostal churches I have attended, we did not sing everything 5 times—there was a clear programme, and the leaders were taking us through the programme without deviation. The songs were all praise songs, mostly discussing a personal adoration of God, and the tunes were ‘modern’ but not unpleasant. It was too loud for me though. I put my fingers in my ears, and enjoyed them much more, as without the vibrating eardrums, you could actually hear the melody. Felt old.
A few different people led. At one point there were prayers, and people’s prayer-requests scrolled across the screen, followed by answers to previous prayers. I’m not sure whether these were personal to this church, or were submitted from Hillsong as a whole. (Hillsong is a large, global organisation, with churches in many cities.) There was no money collection, but a QR code appeared on screen, and people raised their phones to access the website (and I assume paid an offering, if they wanted to). All very modern.
A man led communion. He stood on stage, and said (I think) all of the things that are usually said at communion, with all the quotes from the Bible that are usually quoted—but very fast—so I had to watch very carefully. Suddenly realised I needed my Nespresso-communion-capsule, grabbed it from the floor. Oops, he’s eaten the wafer and I can’t get mine out from the plastic! Now he’s drunk the ‘wine’ and I’m having trouble with the cellophane…got there eventually. Felt old, again.
Not coffee.
After a final song, we were invited to sit. We had stood for half an hour.
The screen then projected the main speaker. It was very like being at the cinema, but not unpleasant. The talk was captivating, and the speaker was personable—so I sort of forgot he was a projection, and settled to listen. There hadn’t been a Bible reading until now, but he quoted lots of verses from a Psalm, and other random verses (verses taken out of context are not my favourite thing) and wound them into pithy sayings as he preached. His message was simple—God created you, you are special, don’t ever forget that. Not a bad thing to hear. He spoke for 30 minutes, which was too long for me. He linked his message to Black History Month, saying that all ethnic groups were part of Britain, and had something important to add to the nation. I thought he spoke well.
Then there was more singing, (just one song) and a long prayer, and people left. There was a man at the door, and he shook everyone’s hand and wished them well. It was a nice touch.
So, would I go again? Well yes, I would. Not every week, but maybe occasionally, when I was feeling like I wanted something different, a new way to worship God. It would be easy to be lazy though—to attend as a spectator and never really think. I did smile at one point, when the speaker declared that this church was a mix of genders and ages and ethnic groups. I don’t think anyone was over 60 years old (I was probably the oldest person in the room!) I wonder if they would have made that claim if no one under 40 had attended—do older people not count? But having said that, this is a church that offers something very accessible to young people, and most churches are failing there. And the message, whilst simple, was not unlike what Jesus preached—not loads of theology, just a basic reminder to let God be part of life.
I am aware that Hillsong as an industry has had problems, but I do not think that has to detract from the good of localised churches. They are meeting a need. Much of it was excellent. It was very centrally-controlled. Like McDonald’s. It was also (like McDonald’s) offering a product that people like. Just not Nespresso capsules…
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Goose continues to enjoy life. (Unrelated, just a great photo!)
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I went to the Society for Old Testament Study conference in Cambridge. It was excellent!
You may remember that in January I attended a conference in Sheffield, which was also good but this one was better. Perhaps it’s because I knew what to expect, or maybe because my general knowledge (and understanding of ancient Hebrew) has improved, and I found the papers much easier to understand.
I stayed in St. Catharine’s college—which is very pretty when you enter: an historic building for the porter’s lodge where I collected my key, a pretty square of grass surrounded by brick buildings within the walls, an old chapel. Then I walked past the green, to the new wing where the conference was held, and it all seemed rather less romantic—more functional than pretty. My room was in the new building, and it smelt of feet unless I had the window open, when it smelt of onions because I was near the kitchen. But it was warm, and comfortable enough, and it had its own bathroom (just—not sure I would have fitted in the shower if I’d been any bigger!) Best of all, a number of fire doors and insulated walls meant it was pretty sound-proof, so I slept well.
The conference was fully catered, and we ate together on long tables in the dining room. Some of the best chats were during meals, when I sat next to someone interesting and scholarly (almost everyone was interesting and learned) and I listened to their conversation. I didn’t say too much, because I didn’t have anything to offer, but their conversations were great fun! Was Esther written originally as a comedy? Is there enough evidence to support the idea of the Exodus ever happening as an historical event? What is the cognitive perspective of Ecclesiastes? All fascinating. It was tempting to record them, but I felt that might be crossing a line.
The meals were a bit ‘school dinners’ (Sheffield Uni had better ones). I did suffer a moment of guilt. We were issued with an electronic meal pass, and told that this allowed us one main, two sides, a drink and a dessert—anything else must be paid for. They told us that originally, all catered students were able to collect their food unsupervised, but apparently ‘some students’ would collect several main courses, and even go back to the servery two or three times to refill their trays, therefore it was now restricted. I had a horrible feeling that ‘some students’ might have included my sons at their own universities. I didn’t comment, and joined the other scholars who were shaking their heads in disapproval.
One afternoon we were invited to the Divinity College, where we were given wine, listened to a speech (a very clever one, of course) and then toured the library. I love libraries. One day I shall live in one.
The conference was fairly intensive, with papers read all morning and evening. Honestly, this is literally what happens—someone clever writes an academic paper for a journal/book, and then they read it, with questions answered afterwards. It’s hard to listen at first, but after a while you train your ears to concentrate, and what is read is usually fascinating. The questions afterwards are very clever, and show the depth of knowledge in the room.
On one day though, there were no afternoon papers, and most people went on a tour of Ely cathedral. I opted out (I knew my brain would be tired) and instead I rested, then met family in the city for a drink. Cambridge is such a pretty city. Though at this time of year, with students returning, you need to be careful where you walk. There is a lot of vomit in Cambridge.
Dipping into the academic world is very tempting. It doesn’t feel like ‘real life,’ but is slightly removed, only brains and conversation matter. I would love to stay part of that world a little longer, though I’m not sure if all the time in the world would be enough for me to catch up with some of those brains.
I returned home to grumpy chickens, a bored goose and a house FULL of spiders. I realise this is the time of year when spiders mate, but honestly! My house must be the spider equivalent of ‘Club 18 – 30’!
Thanks for reading. Enjoy your week and take care. Love, Anne x
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In my last blog, I continued my discussion about God’s name, and whether we should call him by the name given in Exodus, or by a title, such as ‘LORD.’ However, if we DO decide to use the name given in Exodus (whether privately or in public) how should we pronounce it?
Usually, we see the tetragram YHWH used in place of God’s name. I understand this to be because some people consider the name too holy to say, and therefore they remove the vowels. The name given in Exodus is : אֶֽהְיֶה which is Hebrew for ‘I am/will be’ and usually the masculine singular form of the verb is used: ‘יהוה’ which we substitute for the English letters: YHWH. We then add vowels to make it pronounceable, and end up with ‘Yahweh.’
I was interested to learn how this should be said though, especially given the v/w confusion — I’m not sure why ‘W’ is used, as I have learnt that ‘ו’ sounds like ‘v’. I will ask my tutor when term starts. Why do we not write it as ‘Yahveh’? I did some research, and discovered that likely BOTH are wrong—or at least, not what Moses would have said.
Languages, all languages, change over time. If Chaucer stepped into a time-machine and arrived in Tesco, I doubt they would understand what he was saying. If Shakespeare arrived in Waitrose, they would probably understand him, but assume he was foreign. Now, Hebrew has also changed over time. During the time of Moses (whenever you decide to date him) the Hebrew being spoken/written was different. The verb that is used for God’s name would have probably been written with a waw, a ‘v’ in the middle, as we write it today. Before 900 BC, there were no vowels, so the ending we have today would not make a ‘eh’ sound, but more of a ‘hah’ sound. Therefore, the problem we have (as explained by Mark Futato, The Divine Name ) is that the middle of ‘YahWeh’ is before Moses, but the ending of YahwEH is way later, long after Moses. Therefore, whatever name God gave to Moses, and whatever name the people then used in the Old Testament, it was almost definitely NOT ‘Yaweh’.
Does this matter? We don’t think so in the case of Jesus, (as Andrew Case, Pronouncing and translating the Divine Name points out). We say ‘Jesus’ but his parents would have named him ‘Yeshua’ and if you go to Italy, or China, or France, they pronounce it differently again. As I commented in my last blog, maybe the name is less important than we think. Maybe it is who God is that matters, and his name is for our benefit, so we know who we are talking to—and therefore the pronunciation, or whether we use a name or a title, does not matter at all. Thanks for reading. Have a great day, and take care. Love, Anne x
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I have further thoughts on whether we should refer to God as YHWH, or a pseudonym, such as LORD or ‘The Name’ or ‘Jehovah’. Here are some interesting considerations.
For example, what should Bible translators write when translating parts of the New Testament that include direct speech and are quotations of the Old Testament? In New Testament times, they would have quoted the Hebrew version—which uses YHWH as the name of God. However, whilst they would have thought the Hebrew word, they would not have spoken it. Since the time of Amos, speaking God’s name had almost superstitious repercussions, so when speaking, even when reading aloud, they would always substitute ‘Adonai’ or ‘Elohim’ in place of YHWH.[1] Of course, the New Testament was written in Greek, so they simply used the Greek word for ‘Lord.’ What therefore, should modern translators write? You understand my question? Should they write what the people would have actually said, or should they write the words of the Hebrew passage being quoted? If you look at Bibles from different ages, they have not all agreed on this, and there are differences. I guess it doesn’t affect the meaning of the passages, but I find it interesting.
This leads to a consideration of why New Testament writers didn’t find a Greek equivalent for YHWH, and instead used ‘Lord’ (κυρίου). Should we follow this example, and no longer use the name of God? Everyone is a product of their times, even if we choose to reject our culture, we are affected by it. Did the early church continue the embargo on saying God’s name? I don’t have any evidence either way, but certainly was what written implies they continued to substitute a pseudonym.
Whilst this is interesting for Christians, for modern Jews it is more inflammatory. Apparently, the 1985 version of The New Jerusalem Bible used the name YHWH, but in 2019, the chief Rabbi of Rome spoke to Pope Benedict XVI and asked for this to be changed, as saying God’s name is offensive to Jews.[2] This then, is another consideration. As Jews find the spoken form of YHWH ‘offensive’ should we, due to respect, also not say God’s name? We do not, as a rule, adapt our religion for other faiths—and certainly I wouldn’t suggest that we stopped talking about Jesus because some find our belief offensive—but is this a little different? Is it seen as overtly confrontational? I do not, myself, follow the teachings of Islam, but nor would I write or draw something about their faith which would be insulting. Not on purpose. But to what extent should we accommodate other beliefs? Where do we draw the line, what is ‘respectful’ and what is acquiescing to something which we do not believe?
I suppose it depends on whether we feel we should use God’s name. Did God give the name YHWH because it is personal and represents a personal relationship? Or is it merely a label, given for ease of reference, because God is so much bigger than anything we can comprehend and a ‘name’ is a human invention. In Exodus 3:14, it seems clear: ‘This is my name forever, and thus I am to be remembered throughout all generations.’ (זֶה־שְּׁמִ֣י לְעֹלָ֔ם וְזֶ֥ה זִכְרִ֖י לְדֹ֥ר דֹּֽר ) I would interpret this as meaning that God’s name, YHWH, should be remembered forever. However, the form of the name, ‘I will be’ (אֶֽהְיֶ֑ה) might be significant—perhaps God was saying that his ‘name’ (as in, how he is to be known/understood) is in what he has done (that is, having been the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob) and therefore this, these past actions, are his ‘name’ and this is what should be remembered forever.
If we pay heed to how the people in the ancient Near East thought, then something only existed if it had a name and a function.[3] Therefore ‘naming’ gods was important, as was knowing what they did. Is this the problem that God is addressing? Does he understand that Moses, as part of his ancient thinking, needed God to have a name and a function. This is certainly what God gives him in the Exodus passage.
Perhaps this giving of names is less important to our modern minds. Many people admit to believing in ‘something’ but they are happy to keep it vague. I have friends who admit to believing in ‘something’ but nothing more specific than that. There can be ‘some kind of God,’ something beyond our human world, but they don’t need a name. Personally, I’m not sure whether I need a name or not, but I do need evidence of action, I do need to remember what God has done for me, I do need to know that he is a reality. Maybe this is what Exodus 3:14 is saying.
I will continue to grapple with this. If you read anything relevant, let me know. In my next post, I will consider how God’s name should be pronounced–because that’s not clear either!
Thanks for reading. Have a great day, and take care. Love, Anne x
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[1] Andrew Case, Pronouncing and Translating the Divine Name (Amazon: Self-published, 2020).
[2] Dom Henry Wansbrough, The Revised New Jerusalem Bible (New York: Penguin Random House, 2019) see Forward.
[3] John H. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2018)
There is a story in my family, about Fanny Cornell. She was my grandfather’s great great grandmother (I may have the number of ‘greats’ wrong) and she was a carrier in Harston. Harston is a small village near Cambridge, and the story goes that Fanny had a horse and cart, and she would regularly transport goods from Harston to sell in Cambridge. I picture market gardeners, lace-makers, weavers — all giving small bundles to Fanny, to be sold at the market. Apparently she couldn’t read or write, and she kept the money folded into separate parts of her handkerchief, and despite the complicated sums and various amounts, she always gave the correct money to the producers in Harston.
However, the most memorable part of the story is that after selling the wares in Cambridge, Fanny would visit The Eagle pub, where she would drink until completely legless. The landlord would then lift her back onto her cart, and the horse knew the way back to Harston. In case of robbers, Fanny kept a large pepper pot on the cart, ready to throw into the face of anyone who tried to delay her. (I’m not quite sure how the ‘brave woman with the pepper-pot’ tallies with the ‘completely drunk being carried home’ description, but family folklore is best if not fact-checked too closely.)
When I mentioned the story to Emm, he was very excited and told me he often drinks in The Eagle as it’s near where he works. We decided to visit and take Ruth before she goes back to Canada. Our aunt thought that we might find the portrait of Fanny in the folk museum in Cambridge, so we went there first.
The folk museum is in a building previously used as a pub, and the various rooms display historical Cambridge. There was also an Agatha Christie display, which was interesting because I read all her books when I was young, but I never discovered what her link to Cambridge was. Husband found the museum challenging, because it was reminded him of the Victoria and Albert in London — more like an attic of stuff people don’t want to throw away than an organised archive. But I loved it. The man at the entrance was very interested in our story of Fanny, and contacted the curator for us. I expected an elderly woman with tangled grey hair, but instead an attractive young Canadian girl found us, and said she would look in their store room. She returned, not with a portrait of Fanny, but with a booklet about Harston which had a picture of a portrait. When we read the book, it seems that some of the ‘facts’ about Fanny might actually be merged descriptions of a few different individuals — though I guess there is no reason to assume that the booklet is any more reliable than our family story. (I have learnt a lot about ‘citing from reliable sources’ at college, and neither source is more reliable than the other.) I will believe our family legend until proven wrong.
Next was a trip to The Eagle. The pub has a few stories of its own: There is a window that is never closed since an ancient fire when people were trapped inside, and if it’s ever closed everyone in the pub feels suffocated. There is also table 4, which is occupied by a ghostly man. He happily shares the table when people sit there, but he frequently spills their drinks. Make of the stories what you will, but I think they’re fun.
The window at the top is always left open.
The pub was used by the RAF during the war, and has various insignia stuck to the walls, and the signatures of airmen on the ceiling. It’s also where the discovery of DNA was announced to the world, and there’s a plaque to commemorate the woman, Rosalind Franklin, whose work led to the discovery (even though the men who announced it tried to steal her work and exclude her from the credit). It was also full of modern-day drinkers, and tourists, and it was easy to imagine the bustle of ancient days.
We did, of course, see more of Cambridge while we were there– the sandstone colleges, the ancient houses on modern streets, the university entrances that remind me of Victorian prisons with their high towers and forbidding gates, the tourists, the teashops, the roads full of cyclists. It was raining, and cold, but Cambridge is beautiful.
I hope you hear some good stories this week. Thanks for reading. Take care. Love, Anne x
Gates that remind me of a prison entrance.Bikes and beautiful buildings.The round church.The oldest bookshop.Each college has its own chapel. More of a cathedral than a chapel.
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My sister came from Canada for a family wedding, so we have enjoyed some days out. When she was here last year, we followed a trail around London, looking for garish painted statues. It was unexpectedly fun, so when we saw there is a ‘Tusk Gorilla Trail’ around Covent Garden, we downloaded the map and set off. ‘Setting off’ involves more planning these days, due to train strikes (sooo much I could write here) but the day we chose was lucky for both trains and weather. (English summer weather could be a whole blog.)
We walked from Victoria Station, and avoided the millions of people who had come to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. I like walking through London with my sister—she’s a photographer (amongst other things) and she makes me notice things I wouldn’t see otherwise. The trails are mainly fun because they take you to streets you wouldn’t normally visit, so although finding ugly gorillas (they were very ugly) is not especially compelling, the side-benefits are definitely worth it. As we followed the map, we met a few other people (all with children) doing the same thing. We shared hunting tips (some were hidden in squares or shops, so not easy to find) and tried not to notice that we were about 40 years too old. Next time perhaps we should kidnap a child to take with us.
*****
Our next trip was to Wakefield Place. This time we took Husband with us. We knew there was a seed bank there—not the baby-making kind. They keep samples of millions of seeds (2 billion, to be exact) in a huge vault under the ground. Visitors can wander around the centre, which has information boards and glass screens to protect the scientists from the tourists.
Apparently, most seeds can be dried out, which preserves their life and keeps successive generations safe. However, some seeds die if they’re dried, so they need specialised storage facilities to preserve them. It is these ‘recalcitrant’ seeds that the seed bank are researching. When you visit, if you are lucky, as well as seeing the information boards, you might see a rare scientist, complete with white lab coat and gloves, studying things (I assume seeds) under microscopes. It’s not unlike visiting a zoo, though only the brashest of visitors would photograph them.
Underground (where visitors are not allowed) they keep the temperature at -20˚C (with a wind chill—produced by fans—of -27˚C). My sister, who teaches in Calgary, was unimpressed by this, as she does outside playground duty in temperatures of -20˚C most winters. But perhaps the fans are what make it dangerous down there.
After the seed bank, we explored the rest of Wakehurst place. It’s very nice, with lots of different sections to the gardens. I loved the wild areas, especially the ‘Boulder Walk’ which had trees growing over rocks, with their roots displayed. It felt almost indecent, like looking up someone’s skirt. There were some art installations (I am the wrong audience for them) and a very nice teashop. Unlike some properties, I didn’t feel everything was over-priced and designed to fleece the unsuspecting tourist (an annual pass is £35). We shared a pot of tea for £3.50, and sat outside, watching toddlers roll on the grass. If I’d thought about it, we could have come here first and kidnapped a couple to take on our gorilla trail. Maybe next year.
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We are planning an outing to the beautiful city of Cambridge. I’ll tell you about it in my next blog.
Thanks for reading, have a lovely week. Take care. Love, Anne x
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Went for a run, then a swim. People began to emerge at about 9, we left the house at 10:30.
Drove to Douro Valley, stopped in a little town (Pinhao) and parked somewhat haphazardly on a cobbled street. We found a nice little cafe: Princesa do Douro. Freshly made sandwiches, decent coffee, clean facilities and friendly service. We bought a Pastel de Nata which is a traditional tart, filled with something similar to egg custard. It was very tasty, wish we had bought more. Nice place to stop.
Tiles are a thing in Portugal.
After lunch we tried to wander around the town, but it was too hot and Husband was too antsy, so instead we went to the boat place. This was more complicated than it sounds, as there are several different boat companies and we had booked online. Found the name on a building and went inside. We sat in the company office while they looked for our reservation, enjoyed the air-conditioning, looked at their photos, downloaded their app—then discovered that we were in the wrong company office, so left very quickly! Hunted for the correct company. Found it eventually and waited in line at the little jetty. Worried that people from the arriving coaches might take our places, but all was fine. We boarded the little wooden boat, and sat under a shady awning, looking at the view.
We had a one-hour cruise down the river, looking up at the vineyards on the hillside. Very pretty. The boat had shade, but it was still hot (didn’t need my cardigan). There wasn’t a tour-guide, so we just looked. It was pleasant, but I was happy it wasn’t longer than an hour. Some people were on boats that had come from Porto, and I fear this would be very expensive, uncomfortable and hot. But perhaps I’m wrong.
Drove back. Lots of winding roads, which I don’t feel G particularly enjoyed. It felt like a long journey home. The Douro valley is pretty, and it’s ‘a thing’ so you sort of feel obliged to do it when you’re here, but to be honest, a quick drive would have been enough for me. It was fun to see the tiered vineyards, and to spot the giant signs, like Hollywood signs, marking the different port manufacturers.
I got my mark for my proposal (68). Husband ate a nectarine and then got straight into the pool (these statements are not linked). J and F shared a tiny dessert (we had more, they must have wanted 1 ½ teaspoons each).
Wednesday
We ran to a little chapel, set on rocks at the water’s edge. According to Google, it is open for visitors, but the doors were locked when we were there. As the sea is the Atlantic, which has big waves at the best of times, I can’t imagine how it survives storms.
As we drew close, there were lots of school children arriving, so we slowed down (I am exaggerating) and dodged them as we ran along the boardwalk. Sections of the beach were cordoned off with ropes, and there were little tents where they put their bags. School on the beach must be a thing in Porto. I didn’t see any toilets, but perhaps they have an arrangement with a nearby restaurant.
There were also little tents hired by elderly people. They sat on deckchairs, watching the sea. Much nicer than the ‘meat market’ arrangement that I have seen on Italian beaches, where loungers are laid out with a couple of feet between them and no shade.
The beach here is nice, though probably not great if you like sea swimming, as there are lots of rocks. The sand is fairly soft though, so lots of people use the beach for sunbathing or walking. It has a nice family feel to it. After running, I walked back along the beach, paddling in the sea. There was a lot of sea weed, and a few shells, and some huge black sea-slugs–the size of my shoe–which looked like giant fruitgums. The weather was warm, though most days there was a strong wind coming from the sea, so it never felt hot. Definitely a fun place to have a holiday.
Thanks for reading. Hope you have a good week. Take care. Love, Anne x
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I am writing this in Portugal, in a rustic house near the coast of Porto. I can see a corner of the ocean as I write, a strip of blue glinting over the hedge between the trees and the house next door, and I can hear it, a steady sweep of waves over rocks providing a constant background to the dog barking, and the birds in the trees and the occasional car. In a nearby tree, a pigeon coos, and seagulls wheel over the garden in their screeching search for food, joined by the crow of a cockerel in a nearby garden.
We arrived yesterday afternoon. We should have arrived in the morning, as our plane landed soon after nine, but the owner had an electrician here (apparently) so it was not possible for us to arrive earlier—not even to drop our bags. After a 3:45 taxi, this was somewhat annoying, though everyone was polite (ish) when Husband told them the news. I noticed that he waited until we had landed before sharing.
It actually wasn’t too bad. We collected the hire cars—less hassle than usual, once we realised the system of getting seats in the shuttle bus before putting our luggage in the back, otherwise our luggage would leave without us (they need to rethink their logistics I feel). We drove (or to be exact, Husband and G drove, while J navigated despite his headache) to a fishing village near the villa. It was an exciting journey, with J doing his best to test G’s driving with lots of cobbled streets, and U-turns in narrow roads, and unexpected roundabout exits. (He claims it was due to closed roads and road works, and we believe him.)
We parked in a surprisingly convenient car park right next to the beach, which was guarded by an old woman under an umbrella who was collecting money for a saint. (Not quite sure which saint, or why the saint needed the money, but the old woman was diligent and shouted something foreign at us when we walked past without donating.) The car park was free. We knew this, because we very quickly ascertained that F speaks Portuguese that people here actually understand (unlike my Portuguese with is excellent but sometimes seems to confuse people) and we sent him off to read signs/ask random people whether there was a fee.
We left the cars and all our possessions except for the suitcase containing secret banking information that would cause the economy to crash if it got into the wrong hands, and walked along the prom.
The beach was wonderful—sand and rocks, fishing boats sheltering behind a sea wall while the waves crashed over it, green nets strewn over the sand, and a chimney way down the beach. No idea what the chimney was for—smoking fish? Alfresco dining?
It started to rain, which made things less pleasant. A friendly fish restaurant allowed us to shelter under their awning while they set up ready for a 12 o’clock opening. When they opened, we went inside. It all looked very nice, and possibly expensive, but it seemed we were eating there.
We had a round table between a display of very ugly fish arranged on ice, and a glass cabinet full of exciting-looking desserts. We were given English menus, and chose a variety of meals—sharing dishes between two was a thing, and they were priced differently. They brought bread and cheese while we ordered, and we gobbled it up pretty fast. The meals arrived in metal dishes, which the waiter served onto plates next to the table. Husband wondered if there were seconds (there were) and coped fairly well with having only a modest amount of food on his plate. Made it harder to plan mouthfuls I guess. I ate fried veg served with tomato rice—very tasty. Most people had fish in some form—J and F shared claws and legs and body parts of various sea creatures, which looked like a hassle to eat (one of them resorted to fingers before the end). We shared dessert and had coffee. F, being almost Portuguese, ordered a drink that sounded like Pingu, and he described as being a small white coffee, and it seemed to please the waiters (who probably get fed-up with inept tourists torturing their language).
We drove to the supermarket and parked. (This was not as easy as it sounds, we had a nice detour round the back of the shop.) I had a well-organised list, with difficult words translated into Portuguese, which I divided between the family. They all gave their list back to me, and told me they were going off to explore, so it was all just as chaotic as normal, with random things appearing in the trolley. I remembered to check the dishwasher tablets really were dishwasher tablets (because we washed crockery in de-scaler last year) and tried to look competent when weighing fruit and adding price stickers. M was very distracted by the stickers. We didn’t buy frozen stuff. We didn’t buy water (because the villa details said they had excellent drinking water).
Arrived at the villa. Very pretty, full of rustic furniture with beautiful grounds. The owner told us the water was safe to drink, but in a way that clearly conveyed that she would not drink it herself! Husband went out to buy some water. We allocated rooms—no one was sure about the very pretty room with a balcony because it was lacking doors—though I think we were all tempted. J and F bravely took the murder suite/separate annex. M had no air-con, so kept the door to the hall open. R co-opted the spare upstairs bathroom as her private shower room.
We walked down to the pizza place on the beach. The view was stunning. I was going to photograph the restaurant afterwards, but it looked too much like a public toilet from the outside, so I will wait and take one inside. They were very friendly, and the meals were delicious, though needed more salt. The blokes mainly drank big beers (served in those tall glasses that have a waist so look bigger than they really are) and the rest of us drank sangria (which involved more choices—in Portuguese—than I was expecting). It was delicious, and I could have drunk the whole jug. Very nice evening.
Today, I woke at 6:30, and waited until 7:30 before waking sleepy Husband and dragging him out for a run. We ran along the boardwalk, past several fat men and fully made-up women exercising next to the sea. Very lovely.
After a quick shower, we played tennis, and I learned that Husband is now almost as rubbish as I am. We changed the game to simply trying to get the ball over the net as many times as possible. It was fun, and I rediscovered muscles I never knew I had. Gradually the rest of the family emerged from their rooms. R took up her post lying next to the pool in the sunshine. M swam round the pool for a very long time. G went for a lonesome walk. We waited (for a very long time) while J showered, and then went for a walk with him and F.
The main coast road is fairly busy, and they have painted the pavement red, which means bikes feel free to whiz along them, and pedestrians don’t really have anywhere safe to walk—which seems like a silly idea. Parallel with the road, across the dunes, is the boardwalk (which is probably where pedestrians are supposed to walk). We walked to look at Galo Petisqueira restaurant, then joined the boardwalk. The beach is very pretty, with big waves and lumps of rock (but probably not a great place to swim).
Stopped at the little shop (open on Sundays, which was a surprise). Husband wanted some fresh bread (fresher than the stuff we bought yesterday) and some more water. No one here seems to speak English—it’s not a place for foreign tourists. Luckily, we have F, our secret weapon, who speaks very good Portuguese. He managed to negotiate that there were bigger water bottles in the store room. He also helped out when the woman was confused by Husband’s mime that he wanted 15 bread rolls. (Hard to know what she thought he meant—5 or 10?)
Ate lunch in the dining room. All agreed that we like this villa. Tried to plan whether we should do any excursions—and did not all agree. M want to do expensive cruise down the Douro valley, R fancies a wine tour, F wants to spend time in the city, I want to drink sangria at a beach cafe, Husband wants to build a dam o a river on the beach. (No one understands Husband’s choice, apart from the boys, who also want to. Genes are a funny thing.)
Males played ‘Small World,’ I read, R sunbathed. Then we tried another game of tennis, this time with M and F. I think we need to change the name of the game to ‘Sorry!’ We were fairly equally matched, but this is not a good thing. Dinner was at the pizza place again. We asked to sit outside, and they thought it would be fine to use a table for six and add a seat on the end. It was cramped. But the view was fabulous. People seemed to enjoy their meals better this time—and F chose very well, so we all intend to copy him next time. Three of us shared sangria, and R was the only one able to pour it without spilling it everywhere. This is now the second time I have shared my drink inadvertently with J (but it’s hard to feel guilty given the history).
I will tell you more tomorrow, we had such a lovely time.
Thanks for reading. Have a fun week, and take care. Love, Anne
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Ever since Kia died in January, I have missed her. This house feels very empty without a dog, but I needed to wait a while, so that I was emotionally ready for a new dog rather than trying to replace Kia. Because I can never replace Kia.
Kia was German Shepherd Dog (GSD) and I don’t think I would want a different breed after owning one. I began to search the Kennel Club website, and I joined a few Facebook groups, and generally started to ‘ask around.’ I won’t be ready for a puppy until the winter, so I don’t want one immediately. This proved difficult, as most breeders breed in the summer. If necessary, I will wait until next year.
I am also fussy about the shape of GSD, as I don’t like the ‘sloping back’ that many show dogs tend to have. Someone told me that there are two strains of GSD: a ‘show’ strain and a ‘working’ strain, and as I wanted a straight-backed dog, I should look at the ‘working’ strain. I assumed this is what Kia was, as her back was straight. I was wrong.
We drove to meet a breeder of working GSD, and her dogs were completely unexpected! A ‘working’ GSD is almost like another breed, they are very different. The breeder taught me a little history:
GSDs were originally herding dogs in Germany, and a chap called Max von Stephanitz started to breed them for work. He chose dogs with good temperaments, high intelligence, and strength—because he needed them to be able to run for a long time.
These are very different to ‘show line’ GSD, which are the ones we tend to see. Kia was a ‘show line’ and therefore a big dog, with a fairly long coat, and distinct markings (a black ‘saddle’ and chestnut fur). The working dogs are smaller, and stockier, and they have short fur. Working GSD basically come in two colours—black or sable. They have lots of energy (think GSD on steroids!) and are confident—which means they are less likely to snap (because a nervous dog will snap when frightened). The police tend to use working GSD, because they need confident dogs to chase criminals, and a secure dog that is comfortable in schools surrounded by children.
The breeder I found mainly breeds dogs for the police and army—but they like males, and I want a female. I have seen videos of her dogs attacking people, and searching for hidden objects, and climbing over walls—but I wanted to check they weren’t aggressive. When we arrived, I was surprised by how small the dog we met was (about the height of a Labrador), and by how stocky it was (I am used to a lean GSD, this one was all muscle!) However, all the dogs were super-friendly and affectionate, and happily came for attention.
The breeder showed me a little routine with her dog – telling it to walk to heel (it was glued to her side) and then to sit while she walked away, then to run, then to lie down and wait. It was incredibly obedient (not like Kia) until the breeder came to remove the ball from its mouth. No way was that dog going to let her take its toy! They discussed it. (This was very like Kia!) I was rather pleased to see that even a highly trained GSD still has opinions, it will obey when it wants to.
I listened carefully to the breeder’s advice, because her dogs are very energetic. She said to read all the advice on Google—and then do the opposite! Apparently, a GSD should not be encouraged to play with lots of puppies, should not be exposed to lots of stimuli all at once, should not be petted by every child that wants a cuddle. Instead, they should be taught to be completely owner-focussed. Yes, they should meet other dogs—but their attention should be on their owner, not the dogs. They must learn to quietly walk past all distractions, watching only their owner. Then, when they are big scary animals, they won’t go bouncing up to scared people and terrify smaller animals—they will ignore them, and stay close to their owner. The breeder made her dogs completely dependent on her—even hand-feeding them, so they relied on her for everything, and it was in their interests to please her. They didn’t have eyes for anything else.
(There is a lesson here: Maybe if I was fully reliant on my God, all the ‘rubbish’ of life, all the trouble with people and politics, would matter less. I would still notice, but my focus would be on what is important.)
Luckily, the puppy I want does not yet exist, so I have plenty of time to learn how to train it properly. I need an obedient dog, who will help with my poultry (and not eat them!) I am considering training it as a support dog, so when I have one of my funny migraines and can’t see, I will have some support. More research needed. I will let you know what I learn.
Hope you have all the support you need this week. Thanks for reading. Take care. Love, Anne x
Anne E Thompson 