First Sunday Again

Time to grab a few bits and pieces: altar Missal (set for the 20th Sunday after Pentecost) for Father; Fortescue-O'Connell-Reid, plus cassock and surplice, for me; some sacred music CD's (Bruckner, Biber, Schmelzer and Geoffroy) to play in the car in between listening to ABC News Radio; and a change of clothes, etc., as I'll be staying the night in Hobart to-morrow. Yes, time to get up early and drive to Hobart for to M.C. the State's one and only Missa cantata at 11:30 am on this, the first Sunday of the month. (Come to think of it, that means to-day is a first Saturday - no wonder there were more than usual at Confession...) I think I'll leave at about half seven, and stop as usual at Campbell Town for coffee and breakfast. What with the 700 km I drove earlier this week (I had two nights away near Nubeena, and visited the convict ruins at Port Arthur), I'll have done a thousand kilometres within seven days. No rest for the wicked; and I think it says in the Imitation that they who rove about seldom or never become holy.

Going South

Off to Hobart this afternoon... at least it will be cool in the car. Mass for the 1st Sunday of Lent to-morrow.

Flooding and a Near Miss

Of your charity, please pray for those suffering in the ongoing severe flooding in Queensland and New South Wales:

Look upon us, O God, and see the floods that devastate the earth; grant, we pray, hope to our troubled hearts and new life to the damaged land. Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

— Roman Missal, Prayers for Various Occasions, 37/3, In Time of Floods

******

On a personal note, I had a near miss while driving – I misjudged the closeness of a large truck when turning onto the highway, and matters could have ended there had not a turning lane provided a quick escape for me. Trucks, like trams and trains, cannot decelerate quickly.  Sitting at home I now feel rather shocked by this close shave as I relive the moment. I certainly wish to apologize to and thank profusely the poor truck driver! Thanks be to God, Our Lord, and my Guardian Angel for blessed deliverance.

Birthday and Funeral

The nineteenth of November is my birthday; this year, I will keep it by driving to Hobart for the funeral and burial of my old friend Ben.  Having heard that he truly had that which we pray for, a "good death", I am glad to go and mourn in hope, praying that his soul may rest in peace.

Of your charity, please spare a prayer for Ben, an Ave or a Salve or a Requiem; please pray too for Jane his widow, and for their family.  Ben I met late in his life, a long, a good life: as it is, I have known him and Jane for the better part of twenty years, and what a privilege it has been.

The parting of friends is a painful thing.  I think oft of Tolkien's portrayal of this, and of "Bilbo's Last Song", surely J.R.R.'s parting song ere he left this world to pass over to the Father.

Donald Swann's setting of Bilbo's Last Song.

My family and I celebrated my birthday a day early, on Sunday.  Every year passes more quickly; my father lived to 84, my friend Ben to 88; as for myself, today I reach the number of (to misquote the Apostle) forty stripes minus two.  It is strange but sobering to reflect that more than half my life is already over, and with little or nothing to shew for it.

St Philip Neri used to lament his hitherto slack life (!) after recovering from illness, and would say, Now I purpose to set my life in order, now I purpose to make a new start, now, a sinner, to strive for holiness – may I be granted grace to do the same, so numbering my days as to gain true wisdom.

Tempus fugit! All things pass, and all too quickly: let us redeem the time, for we know not how short the time is that may remain.  Remember, O Christian, the Four Last Things: death, judgement, hell, and heaven.  Remember thy last end, and thou shalt never sin. 

4457.8

4457.8 km was the reading on the dial when I pulled into the garage at home at last – having got up at 5.40 am (ouch! and after a restless night), driven off the ferry into the pre-dawn darkness, eaten breakfast and then driven back to Launceston through frost-white fields (such is Tasmania in winter), going to Mass before finally reached my driveway.

I think I have driven enough for the moment.

These travel journal entries over, I will return to matters euchological, theological and liturgical in due course...

Ultraslow Internet on board Ship

Having had a fine dinner on board the overnight ferry back to Tasmania - don't make the mistake of feeding from the trough in the cafeteria, pay for the a la carte menu in the restaurant - I thought to blog a bit before settling down to read for the night...

Bairnsdale was worth visiting for the sight of St Mary's church, with its murals over the apse and ceiling, painted by an expatriate Italian artist during the Great Depression.  (I will upload my photos in due course.)

The fine marble altars have been preserved, but - poverty in the midst of riches! what Philistines we've become - half the pews have been removed (no one to fill them any more, funny, that), and a brutishly ugly chopping-block altar, with matching furniture, has been erected atop a carpeted dais between the splendours of the old sanctuary and what remains of the nave seating.  When will the Church repent for all the iconoclasm and ugliness forced upon us in the name of the Council?

At Sale (originally named Flooding Creek), I stopt in at the Cathedral, which, while not renovated in the best way, at least preserves a Catholic ambience.  Holy Mary, Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, is Patroness of the Diocese: may she, Queen of Gippsland, intercede for all Christian people there, and their good bishop, Christopher Prowse (who taught me once, when he was still a priest in Melbourne).

Lunch was at Yarragon, a pleasant little township where my maternal grandparents married and where my maternal great-grandparents lived.  (Nearby is Gentle Annie hill, with a steep road running up it: Great-grandfather was a poor driver, and my Mum vividly recalls being a passenger in his car when he completely stuffed up the needed gear-shift, and, giving up, let the car slide backwards all the way to the bottom of the hill!)

Finally, about a quarter to four, I parked in marvellous Melbourne again. I had just enough time to meet up with my old mate Scott for a coffee, and to buy a few books at the Central Catholic Bookshop, before I had to head down to Station Pier for to drive my car onto the ferry, bidding the Mainland farewell.

Early to-morrow we dock in Devonport, and I expect to be back along the highway to home in time for Mass.

It's been a good trip.

Sweet Heart of Jesus

Unhappily, I wasn't able to make it to Mass to-day, being out in remote parts of Australia – passing from the extreme south coast of New South Wales around to easternmost Gippsland in Victoria.  I did see some curious things, however.

Eden has, not a whaling museum, but a killer whale museum – because the pod of killer whales that lived in the bay there, from the second half of the nineteenth century until 1930, were uniquely beloved of the locals, who were whalers, in that the orcas would obligingly herd other whales, their prey, close into shore, coöperating with the harpooners in their whaleboats to slay the beasts: first they would feast, and then leave the remainder for the men to harvest the valuable blubber and so forth.  The largest whale harpooned off Eden was a blue whale some 97 feet (30 metres) long, thanks to those friendly killers.

All good things must come to an end: in 1930, as the Great Depression struck, Old Tom, last of the orcas to assist the whalers, himself died, he who had been so remarkably helpful as to warn the whalers when good prey approached, and who in his doglike eagerness even caught the ropes of the whaling boats to drag them at speed to the combat; thereafter (perhaps because the hunting had petered out, a victim of the joint efforts of man and killer whale) the hitherto resident pods moved off in search of food elsewhere.  

The locals lost their shore-based whaling industry, which had supported them since after the gold rush, but in gratitude they built a museum as a memorial to their flippered, sharp-toothed allies, and put the bones of Old Tom (suitably flensed) on permanent display, along with some remaining bones of slaughtered whales that they both had hunted.  (I was also able to touch a vertebra of that 97 foot behemoth caught in 1910.)

Old Tom, the whalers' faithful fellow-predator

Eden is also graced with a new Catholic church; what a pity the whaling industry inspired this most bizarre altar:

Our Lady Star of the Sea, Eden: please explain!

The old church is now a museum of local Catholic history; as Bl Mary MacKillop once visited, it is also a memorial to her and her sisters, some of whom are still based in Eden.

Lo! displayed on the old choirloft are the old altar, dressed for Mass, with a dummy priest in Roman vestments and lace alb – to think that was exactly the Mass I assisted at on Wednesday in St Mary's Cathedral, Sydney, with the priest in similar attire.  I doubt the locals would credit that what to them is a pious memory of fifty years ago is still very much alive and kicking!  (And there still remain teaching orders of nuns properly attired, even in Australia, such as the Ganmain Dominicans...)

I recommend this altar be put into the new church, and the rest of it too!

Having reached my destination for to-day, Lakes Entrance, I went over to the local church, St Brendan's, to find if perchance there would be a Mass this evening.  No, apparently there was a morning Mass instead, and no Mass to-morrow morning either.  Well, to be honest I was glad, because the sanctuary at St Brendan's is so revoltingly kitsch and foul I found the only prayer I could make was of apology to the Lord: it repulsed me forcibly.

Unbeatable for kitsch foulness: St Brendan's, Lakes Entrance

Yes, the cabin of the fishing boat – St Brendan's coracle updated – is the tabernacle, and its sail is the overhead projector screen!  The altar is faux stone, with a flat part concealed behind for putting the sacred vessels on; there is even a built-in bookrest.  Note that, behind the table with the holy oils on permanent display, the lectern is also fake rock, with a "streambed" of pebbles running down and across and under the altar, over to... the Paschal candlestick and font (also in fake stone) out of sight to the left.

Who will fix this mess?  Yuck.

Sydney to Eden

One foot in Eden still, I stand

and look across the other land... 

— Edwin Muir

I miscalculated: to-day was my longest drive of all, nearly 500 km, when I'd thought it to be only 400.  I didn't reach Bega till nightfall, and then in Eden I had a devil of a job to find my accommodation, since Google Maps, God bless it, got the location wrong, and the establishment's signage was unilluminated owing to an electrical fault.

This Thursday began very early, arising at 6 am no less in order to drive through a surprisingly quiet and beautiful early morning Sydney to 6.45 am Mass at the Cathedral.  It was impressive how many workers evidently begin each day in so devout a manner, God reward them.

St Mary's Cathedral in the early morning sunlight

And the ibises (a signature bird of Sydney), noisily nesting in the palms

After returning for breakfast, marvelling at what a lovely day it was, I left my friends' place and paid a visit to St Brendan's, the church nearby, to say Prime and Terce before travelling.

St Brendan's, Annandale

It is amusing how to the north and south of Sydney, the road must cut through the solid rock of forested wilderness to reach the next port of call, and likewise to the east must climb right over the Blue Mountains...

Wollongong I reached a bit before midday: then on, and on, and on, till Eden at last.

Lunch in Wollongong, by the way, was Vietnamese: a good bowl of pho (soup).  On a whim I dumped in all the chillies so thoughtfully provided (waste not, want less), and it grew fearsomely hot!  Also, I'd ordered the "special" beef pho – "special" turned out to mean, containing meatballs and... tripe.

While looking unsuccessfully around Wollongong for the Catholic Cathedral, I did drive past the Anglican one (twice), and was shocked by the bizarre notice in front of it, indicative of the infection of ultra-Low-Church Sydneysiders (the Anglican bishop being one of them): rather than listing "Mass" times, or "Holy Communion", or "Eucharist", or "Mattins", or "Evensong", or "Worship", or "Divine Service", it listed – get this – the times for "Public Christian Meetings"!

Public Christian Meetings.  So that is what the Sydney Evangelicals call Sunday service.  It certainly isn't true worship, they got that right.

Tamworth to Sydney

I have been staying with my Sydney mates again – as they don't have wireless internet (!) I haven't been online for a while.  Oh well, the sky didn't fall in.

But how did I get back down to Sydney?  Well, the short answer is that I drove, of course.

Since this succession of posts is doubling as my travel journal, let me just say that I departed Tamworth only a little before eleven o'clock on Tuesday, having made a visit to the attractive church of St Nicholas.  (The usual postconciliar reordering of the sanctuary at least featured marble rather than the stereotypical hideous green carpet.)  Next door, what had once obviously been a large convent is now the local conservatorium of music.

The scenery en route on both sides of the Great Dividing Range was beaut, and much better than that of New England.  I detoured to find the vineyards of the Upper Hunter, which meant that I missed closeup views of the "dark satanic mills" that burn the great coal deposits roundabout to power Sydney.  Sights of opencut mines, great hills of tailings and huge columns of steam going up for ever and ever were quite enough.  Having found some quite decent wine at Yarraman winery (bottles of their 2001 merlot going for $10!), I went on just as far as Denman for lunch: a decent steak and beer (Toohey's Old) at last.

Unfortunately, I still had a long way still to travel, and the highway through the lower Hunter proved slow, windy and congested as it passed through township after township, gradually gathering traffic on the way.  I gave up my idea of going back into Newcastle, and contented myself with a confusing drive round Maitland, trying to find the former cathedral (the see being now relocated to Newcastle).

I think this is the old Cathedral... in fact, it is the old old Cathedral, the nearby Catholic hall having been turned into the Pro-Cathedral in 1933, then itself replaced!

(Like many buildings in the area, it was badly damaged in the 1989 Newcastle earthquake, and is now unsafe, due to the risk of falling masonry.)

It was half four, and I was still over 150 km north of Sydney.  Despite the excellent freeway, I was running late for dinner with John and his friends – a dinner in my honour – and matters were made worse when I decided to turn off the Pacific Highway into the suburbs in the hopes of finding a quicker route: in the end I ended up back on the same, having wasted a good half hour.  Finally crossing the Harbour Bridge after all, I arrived an hour later than expected.

Dinner, it must be said, was excellent, and it was delightful to meet John's beloved, Laura.  I wish them well for the future.

New England

Yester-day I drove up from Lismore into the interior, crossing the Great Dividing Range again via the twisty Bruxner Highway.  It took me far longer than anticipated to get to Tenterfield.  Having crossed the divide, I was now in New England.  (I must say, it didn't look much like England.)  New England, the high northern tablelands and western slopes, was the home of the only serious New State movement during the twentieth century: and as a devotee of lost causes and nostalgia – I am a traddie – it interests me.

The traditional flag of New England - the rampant lion with sword, fighting for freedom

But first, some shots of St Mary's Church at Casino, only 30 km inland from Lismore:

I am told by an authoritative source that the unhappy reordering of the sanctuary is to be reversed and that right soon: the Blessed Sacrament will be returned to the place of honour at the head of the apse for a start!

Tenterfield, just south of the Queensland border, was the venue of the famous 1889 Federation Oration of Sir Henry Parkes, five times Premier of New South Wales, and a leading agitant for federation of the Australian colonies – "a nation for a continent and a continent for a nation" as Sir Edmund Barton, first Prime Minister of Australia, put it.  In a flag-draped room one could picture the scene, for it was in that very chamber that Parkes delivered his speech.  Sadly, he died five years before Federation was achieved, the Imperial Parliament enacting our Constitution prepared by various Federation Conventions of Australian politicians.  Good old Queen Victoria!

The Catholic church in Tenterfield:

As I drove on – and on – down the New England Highway, I was quite surprised at the altitudes reached; Bolivia Hill at 1031 m, and the town of Guyra, surely one of the highest in Australia at 1330 m!

As the twilight drew near I reached Armidale, putative capital of New England, and home to many fine schools and New England University, not to mention two cathedrals (ours and a false one!) – I made a visit to the Cathedral of SS Mary and Joseph:

(That's not my car, but a close likeness.)

A rather poor shot of the interior; the sanctuary, hard to make out, is quite decent, still retaining the high altar and altar rails:

His Lordship Luc Matthys, Bishop of Armidale, complete with ferraiola:

The end of a very long day's drive (from before ten till after six) brought me to Tamworth; let's just say I'm not that interested in its being the country music capital of Australia!

Shrine of Blessed Mary MacKillop

Daughter of Scottish Catholic migrants, daughter of colonial Australia, daughter of the Church, mother of a religious family, and now forever reigning as a saint of God and Christ – Mary of the Cross MacKillop, about to be canonized on the 17th of October this year: it was her shrine that I visited in North Sydney, just after I crossed the Harbour Bridge, and I knelt and kissed her tomb, praying that Australia be blessed with many zealous and holy priests.  God grant it!

It is, after all, the end of the Year for Priests.  Having one friend a seminarian in Rome, another in Wagga Wagga, and a third preparing to join the F.S.S.P., plus many among the clergy, not to mention those truly concerned to train up much-needed vocations, I feel it only right to intercede for their good estate: God knows His people desperately need good priests, and how much Australia is in need of such.  I also knew a man who, after he became a priest, grievously dishonoured his sacred calling, doing terrible things and being a living scandal: for him, and his victims, pray.

Mary MacKillop's memorial chapel is a moving place of prayer; I stayed awhile, and read part of the Office of Corpus Christi, very appropriately given what God through His saint moved me to pray for:

Sic sacrificium istud instituit,
Cujus officium committi voluit
Solis Presbyteris, quibus sic congruit
Ut sumant, et dent ceteris.

(So He this Sacrifice to institute did will,
and charged His priests alone that office to fulfill:
in them He did confide: to whom it pertains still
to take, and the rest divide.)

— Hymn Sacris solemniis at Matins, 5th stanza

Finally getting out of Sydney, I drove on, and on, and on, along excellent roads through many forested hills... as I pressed north I ran into more and more heavy rain, and finally reached Port Macquarie at six o'clock.  Not leaving Sydney till after midday was a bit tardy of me.

Bathurst to Sydney

It was a special privilege on Wednesday to attend the Mass of an old friend of mine – especially as he used the new translation of the Eucharistic Prayer.  Despite alerting me to this forward-thinking move (quite licit, of course, and happening more and more in anticipation of the official changeover), I managed to momentarily surprise him by replying "And with your spirit" at the outset of the Preface dialogue.  Unfortunately I couldn't remember the rest of the changes in wording of the people's parts...

Earlier that day, I visited Bathurst Cathedral.  Apparently it bears the unusual joint dedication of St Michael Archangel and St John Baptist because the two pioneer priests in Bathurst had each named an earlier church there after their respective name-saints Michael and John, and when the decision was made to build a larger, finer edifice, to be the Cathedral of the new diocese, the only alternative to a feud or duel was to re-use both names!

Most regrettably, the place of reservation of the Blessed Sacrament (off in the north transept, in what was once the nuns' chapel) is scarcely fitting, and ought be improved upon pronto: it looks like Granny's antique dresser or meatsafe.

I eventually realized, given the kneeler and chairs before it, the corporal in front of the curtains, and the lamp (way over to the right, out of shot), that this odd thing was the tabernacle....

As Bp Elliott remarks in one of his works, it is quite wrong to separate the Sacrament from the Altar – if (as is the norm in cathedrals) there is to be a separate Blessed Sacrament chapel, it should have its own altar; the Sacrament could be reserved on or near it, in a fitting tabernacle or Sacrament House.  This would also make for a smaller and more convenient venue for weekday Mass. 

The sanctuary was re-ordered, in what by Australian standards is a fairly conservative way, at the time of the Council, by moving the table of the high altar forward.  The carpet is, well, typical for the era...  I wonder what happened to the old episcopal throne?

Most bizarrely, the deceased bishops of Bathurst are accommodated, not in a crypt (for Bathurst is criss-crossed by underground streams, even under the Cathedral, rendering excavations impractical), but in a room in the steeple!  Talk about bats in the belfry.  Apparently their charnel house resembles a walk-in luggage locker, with the caskets each on a shelf.  Bishops and priests do make very strange decisions sometimes.

Before leaving the Cathedral, I prayed before Our Lady of the Central West at her altar just off the nave midway down its length.  May she intercede for the good of this diocese!

Later in the day in Bathurst, I had the pleasure of an excellent lunch in good company: it's always most enjoyable to engage in conversation with a well-read, cultured person, while partaking of the best of the local gourmet produce.  Moreover, thanks to his extensive knowledge of wines, we shared a smooth and most drinkable bottle of petit verdot grown near Canowindra (close to Cowra).  It was hard to drag myself away in mid-afternoon; I do hope I'll be back from time to time.

On to Sydney!  The drive through Lithgow was easy, but the steep Victoria Pass caught me unawares – quite luckily, since I have a fear of heights, and would have brooded on its approach overmuch, instead of just driving it.  It brought me up to the first of the Blue Mountains townships, Mt Victoria, over a kilometre about sea level.  First, a meander through various other of these settlements, including a detour through Katoomba (where for lack of time I had to forego visiting the lookout overlooking the Three Sisters that I remember from a visit as a child); then, the long, slow descent toward Sydney, as the shadows lengthened.  By the time I was down to Penrith and onto the freeway, it was dark – for a long way, the traffic shot along, but then there was a real snarl once Homebush was passed.

I was very impressed with myself for finally getting out of the heavy traffic and correctly turning off Paramatta Road just two blocks from my friend's place.  It's only 205 km from Bathurst to Sydney, but it was a tough and wearing drive I found.

John was a very gracious host, and it was good to meet his flatmate, Sydney (yes, that's right).  We all talked away till the midnight hour...

I twitted John about his peculiar taste in sacred art: what do readers make of this shrine to St Sebastian that graces his library?

The painting is an original artwork by an inmate of Pentridge Prison

Corvopolis

To-night finds me at Wagga Wagga, "the place of many crows" – hence in Latin, this is the see of the episcopus Corvopolitanus, "the Corvopolitan bishop" (in English we prefer the possessive form to the adjectival, and say the Bishop of Wagga Wagga).  I had lunch at Wangaratta – as another bit of toponymic trivia, the a's in Wang. are all pronounced as a's (though some old folks there still say "Wongaratta"), whereas here the correct thing to say is "Wogga Wogga".  Why is it that so many English words contain "wa" pronounced "wo" – swan, wan, want, waltz, etc.?

The ferry trip across Bass Strait was uneventful (mainly because I went to bed very early, just as we pulled out of dock in fact!), thanks be.  I did have a very busy day yester-day in Melbourne, however, being up at 5.30 am (ready to drive off the ferry at 6.30) and not in bed till after midnight.  Things to do, people to see...

For old times' sake I had breakfast at the European Café, just opposite Parliament House, of which eatery I was an habitué in when first studying theology... huevos madrileños, with chorizo and black pudding, went down a treat.  

There's something very Melburnian – marvellous Melbourne! – about drinking good coffee, reading the newspaper, and having a cooked breakfast somewhere decent.  The fellows at the adjoining table gave some local colour, by seeming, insofar as appearance, manners and overheard snatches went, rather like the stereotypical mafiosi of this city...

After thus fortifying my body, I did my duty to my soul by making a visit at St Patrick's Cathedral just a few blocks away, and caught the blessing at the end of the early Mass.  Bizarrely, many older Italians  were assembling outside, ladies in traditional dress, men in outlandish military outfits, since the 9.30 am Mass was to be in celebration (?!) of the anniversary of the foundation of the Italian Republic (with commemoration of the Most Holy Trinity).  While I am as glad as anyone that the cursèd House of Savoy lost their ill-gotten throne, pinched from the Pope with the aid of Freemasons and worse, I wonder about celebrating a Republic...

Having admired the Cathedral, I drove over to North Fitzroy, off Alexandra Parade, to attend the Divine Liturgy at the Russian Catholic Chapel of St Nicholas; friends of mine were to be singing in the choir, and the service was to be in English.  (Also, because of the contretemps occasioned by my comments pursuant to my last visit to St Aloysius when the schola was singing there, as it was again on Sunday as I luckily found out in advance, I decided discretion was the better part of valour: let sleeping dogs lie.)

Archpriest Lawrence was assisted in the altar by Fr Bogdan, who I was delighted to discover is a convert  priest, formerly Russian Orthodox: he and his wife have both become Catholics.  The sublime mysteries of the Byzantine Liturgy lift one up into the heavenly places: I was deeply moved.  

While the Hours of the Day, according to my Breviary, were of course of the Trinity, in the Byzantine Rite this Sunday is All Saints Day, since the Easterners consider that Pentecost is the manifestation of the Trinity's irruption into the world.  That said, since I crossed myself the really traditional way (three fingers conjoined, two in the palm, right to left), ever so many times at the Liturgy, since one does so at each and every mention of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I by no means missed out on remembrance of the Trinity – indeed, the Byzantine Rite leaves the West for dead in this respect.  The East never ceases to praise the Trinity; how Trinitarian are Western Christians I wonder?

Fr Lawrence, as always, preached a very deep sermon about what holiness really is: the action of the Holy Spirit in one, transforming one's person.  To receive the Sacrament of Christ's Flesh and Blood is very great, but this is but the beginning: thereby we ought be filled with the Spirit Who sanctifies, the Lord and Lifegiver.

After the Liturgy, I then had to find my way to the Balaclava Hotel, where the Latin Massers lunch after the Solemn High Mass.  It was a good chance to catch up with friends, to profit by Fr Tattersall's counsel, and to congratulate Fr McDaniels on the occasion of his 70th birthday: ad multos annos!  After lunch, I had afternoon tea with my friends Justin and his sister, Karina, at their nearby flat.

Finally, having booked in where I was staying, again for old times' sake I drove over to East Camberwell, and joined the Dominicans for Vespers there.  It was great to see them again; Rev Br Paul and I caught up for dinner afterward, something I had been very keen to do since I had unavoidably missed his solemn profession and diaconal ordination last year.  God willing, come December, perhaps I will be able to make his priestly ordination and first Mass...

******

After such a hectic Sunday, to-day, my longest driving day, seemed almost anticlimatic.  I left at 9 am, and stopt at Euroa a bit after eleven o'clock.  There's a fine little secondhand bookshop there that I came across quite providentially; I must say, the magnificent four volume Breviarium Romanum (Antwerp, 1770) on display was a bit out of my price range at $1150, but I did find some little items to console myself with.

I had lunch at Wangaratta, and was careful to visit both St Patrick's Church (which should really be the Cathedral of a Catholic diocese based at Wangaratta, if Shepparton misses out; it's silly for all  north-east Victoria to be managed from Bendigo) and the Anglican Cathedral of the Holy Trinity (for the Anglicans do have their own separate diocese for this area, unusually, since nearly all Catholic dioceses in this country have a corresponding Anglican one, and vice versa).  The former visit was an occasion for prayer, of course, while the latter was an occasion for snooping about and estimating the degree of their churchmanship!  

I hear from my TAC sources that the new Anglican bishop of Wangaratta – once an Anglo-Catholic stronghold – is a strange and dangerous liberal: amongst recent enormities, rather than open the doors of his episcopal palace to too many visitors, he staged the elaborate dinner to host them all inside the very cathedral.  For the record, their cathedral had such accoutrements as a holy water stoup, votive candle stands, statues of Our Lady, and a tabernacle with a lamp burning beside it.  Unlike St Patrick's church, there were no statues of saints, but certainly stained glass images of several.

Most curiously, in a tiny oratory off to the left of the nave, on the small side altar therein were a set of altar cards (see photographs below), displaying an exact rendering into English of all the prayers on altar cards for the Traditional Latin Mass.  I wonder if they are used still?

I reached Wagga Wagga in the late afternoon, and have enjoyed catching up with a friend of mine here.  He tells me that there is a public Mass at 7.05 am at Vianney College chapel to-morrow, so I hope to start the day bright and early there.  All kudos to Bp Brennan who established his own diocesan seminary in the dark days of the early nineties, before either the Melbourne or the Sydney seminary was reformed and purged of illiberal liberals: thanks to his not uncontroversial move, Wagga Wagga diocese has the highest priest-to-people ratio, and the youngest average age of priests, in the whole of Australia: and they're orthodox, naturally.

Happy feast of the Queenship of Our Lady to all readers!

(I must say, though, the revisers of the Roman Rite were correct in moving the feast of the Queenship to the Octave Day of the Assumption, and therefore transferring the feast of the Immaculate Heart from that day to the Saturday after the feast of the Sacred Heart.  That said, why in the Novus Ordo the Visitation was moved to to-day, the 31st of May, from its old date of the 2nd of July I don't know!)

For Those in Peril on the Sea

After lunch to-morrow, I set out on my driving holiday.  First, to Devonport, where I will bring my car as well as myself aboard The Spirit of Tasmania, for the overnight crossing to Melbourne (about 450 km).

I think of Purcell's anthem "They that go down to the sea in ships" (Psalm 106(107):23-32)...

Bass Strait is notoriously rough, and I am no sailor, so I would appreciate prayers for a smooth passage!

Deus, qui transtulisti patres nostros per Mare Rubrum, et transvexisti eos per aquam nimiam, laudem tui nominis decantantes: te suppliciter deprecamur; ut in navi famulos tuos, repulsis adversitatibus, portu semper optabili, cursuque tranquillo tuearis.  Per...

(O God, Who didst bring our fathers through the Red Sea and didst guide them in safety through the overflowing waters, whilst they sang praises to Thy name, we humbly pray that Thou wouldst keep in safety Thy servants on board ship and grant them a calm voyage to the haven they desire.  Through...)

— Roman Missal, For those at Sea, Collect

Impera, Domine, ventis et mari: et navigantibus famulis tuis fiat tranquillitas; Qui vivis…

(Command, Lord, the winds and sea: and for Thy servants, seafarers, make it calm: Who livest...)

— Paris Missal, For those at Sea, Postcommunion

Pyengana

On Saturday we went off on one of my famous long-distance "half-day" drives in the country: out to the North-East, through Lilydale and Scottsdale, then further on where I've not been for many years, through Branxholm and Derby, winding through the Weldborough Pass to Pyengana – where we at last lunched, at the Holy Cow Café no less!  The lush dairying farmscape out the windows, beneath high hills wreathed in low cloud, helped explain the reason why this café was located at a well-known cheese factory.

Rather than drive back the same way (we'd come about 140 km on a very winding road that is pleased to call itself a highway), we pressed on to St Helens, down to Scamander, and then up through St Mary's Pass to St Mary's.  The Pass itself is only 6 km long, which is better than the windy slow sections of the Weldborough Pass.

Then we sped through the Fingal Valley toward the Midlands Highway (some idiot has rebranded it the "Heritage Highway", but that's nuts), which I followed only for a short while before taking the turnoff to Nile and Evandale – a road less-travelled, part of which is unsealed.

Our Saturday outing only took us about 7 hours.

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850 km later...

Well, I'm back.

I took a number of side roads on the way down to Hobart on Saturday afternoon, stayed with friends (with whom I had some nice fish and chips down at Mure's on the waterfront), slept in on Sunday morning, heard Mass, and then headed off for points further south.

I drove down as far as Dover (not quite the end of the road - it's sealed as far as Southport, another 20 km on, and then on a dirt road one can reach Cockle Creek, almost the southernmost point of Tasmania) before turning back for my overnight accommodation at Castle Forbes Bay.  

It's been years and years since I've been down the Huon, in fact I don't recall driving south of Geeveston (where we went for a trip to the Tahune Airwalk) since 1994.  That was the time that, as a novice driver, I lost control of my new car on the road near Lune River, and wrote it off - narrowly avoiding being killed.  I mused on the fact that my story nearly ended then and there - would I have been saved?  God knows.

I booked in at the bed & breakfast, then retraced my path back to Huonville, even touring out to Judbury and back.  Of all things, I ended up eating a butter chicken pizza for dinner at Franklin - very nice, if rather eclectic (Italian base, Indian topping, cooked by a Scotsman).  Back to my lodgings, and some DVD's and reading before bed...

The weather, even in the far south of Tasmania, continues unpleasantly hot and humid, making sleep difficult.  At least to-day dawned rainy, and I had a good breakfast before heading off into the pleasant drizzle, with low clouds curling around the patchwork of farmed and forested hills that mark the Huon and the Channel.

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At Huonville, I turned south-east, for Cygnet: at first winding along the left bank of the Huon River, then over high hills and down again to that town.  Instead of crossing the peninsula, I kept to the coastline and traced out the whole of the Channel region, stopping briefly at the D'Entrecasteaux memorial to admire the view.

This whole area of eastern Tasmania south of Hobart to land's end was first explored and named after two French navigators, who surveyed the coastline in the early 1790's, about a decade before British colonization: Admiral Bruny D'Entrecasteaux, and his second-in-command Captain Huon Kermadec, in the Esperance and Recherche.  Hence the long island lying offshore between the mouth of the Derwent (Hobart's river) and Southport – a straight-line distance of at least 50 km – is Bruny Island; the sheltered strait between it and the mainland is the D'Entrecasteaux Channel, from which the Channel region, the promontory in the north-east of this area, takes its name; the great river debouching into this Channel is the Huon (hence the name of the remainder of these parts) and athwart which stands the regional capital of Huonville (as though the French, not the English, had settled here); toward the south end of the Channel, one finds Port Esperance and the Esperance River; while at the very south (beyond my weekend travels) lies Recherche Bay, where once the French came ashore.

Until the 1970's, the great industry of the Channel and the Huon was apple and pear-growing: but Mother England double-crossed us when she gave up Empire Preference to join the wretched Common Market (getting into bed with the Frogs, Eye-ties and Jerries), and overnight the whole market collapsed - the Government had to pay the bankrupt farmers to rip up their profitless orchards, and while still apples and pears can be found for sale in the area, the once-great harbours of Port Huon and others, where of late the merchant vessels loaded for London, are only for small craft now.

To conclude: I pushed on along the foreshore as far as Margate, then cut up through Sandfly (appalling name for a nice spot!) and Longley that I might take the mountain road through to Fern Tree, in the foothills of cloud-shrouded Mount Wellington, before descending to Hobart.

(In passing, I suppose if matters had fallen out differently, the mountain would have been Pic Napoléon, and the city below, Talleyrand, on the Rivière du Nord.)

Having thoroughly slaked even my thirst for driving here, there and everywhere (I'd covered 650 km already in two days, as far as from Melbourne to Sydney), I sped north on the Midlands Highway, and did the 200km back to Launceston in a very respectable 2 hours 20 minutes, despite traffic.

In passing, I note that the State election is due on Saturday the 20th of March: the Liberals are promising to finally build a four-lane highway between Launceston in the North and Hobart in the South, and they have my vote for this reason alone, so frustrating the current narrow travelway is.

(Then again, in 1949 my Dad got a lift from an old fellow in a Model T Ford along the old, unsealed road dating from convict times: it took 12 hours to do the 120 miles.)

Three Bears

There's a lot of wildlife around... just yesterday, as I drove out to go to confession, there was a wallaby standing in the driveway, which hopped away across the street towards one of the other houses...

To-day, I took my father out for a drive in the country, since he no longer drives and rarely gets out any more.  We drove up along the Tamar, past Brady's Lookout (where once that notorious bushranger espied likely targets, while keeping watch for the approach of any officers of the law), and stopt at Exeter for a pie for lunch at the excellent bakery there.  Next, we turned away from the river and proceeded west along the Frankford Road, then south to Westbury (where in colonial days one of the British regiments was garrisoned), and home via the old road through Hagley, Carrick and Hadspen.  The trip, including visiting my sister for a spell, took a couple of hours, and covered about 100 km.

A few kilometres to the west of Carrick lies what my parents have always assured me is the Three Bears' Forest (I see no reason to doubt them), where the events of that well-known incident took place that have long since been immortalized in print.  It's always pleasing to see it again, just as with wonderment my sister and I stared out at those dark trees all those years ago when we were young.

The forest is directly north of the Meander Valley Highway:

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23rd after Pentecost

To make my Sunday duty more bearable I took along a '62 hand missal to Mass with me...

Despite this, I did what I once abhorred, and ran for the door as soon as we were dismissed, not waiting for the awful last song to be sung. O tempora, O mores!

Having read up some of the details in the B.D.W., which I again used for prayer this morning, I discovered that the lessons I read yesterday were actually all wrong! Oh well.

To-day has been hot (29), and the sun, burning. A good walk around the Gorge was really taxing. And this afternoon, another long drive, up past Devonport and along the north-west coast to Penguin and back (about 250 km or so). The countryside, and the seaside, at least appears green and in the full burst of springtime; all the hawthorn bushes along the roads are in flower. They say Tasmania in its oldest settled parts looks like England - I've never been Home, so I wouldn't know.

Runabout

I had the itch to go out for a drive this afternoon, but rather overdid it... having spent close to six hours on the road, and covered over 400 km, I now think a good bushwalk would have been better! For the record, I drove down through the Midlands until I reached the Fingal Valley turnoff, then went up through Avoca, Fingal and St Mary's, turned down Elephant Pass but took the slightly easier St Mary's Pass through to the sunny East Coast, drove up to St Helens, but then, rather than take the Weldborough Pass through to Scottsdale, I retraced my route down past Scamander, then - rather than go up to St Mary's - I took the coast road down to Bicheno, then down cross-country toward Swansea (by this stage I was regretting my earlier enthusiasm), took the Lake Leake road through to Campbell Town, and finally returned north to Launceston via the Midlands Highway. The countryside was nice to see, but now I'm pooped.

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All of this faffing around puts me in mind of Newman's saying, "We walk to heaven backward".

As it's All Souls day, when not frantically zooming down the highway, I have been reading the Day Hours of this solemn Commemoration. Pray for the Holy Souls in Purgatory!

In Hobart Again

I really enjoyed my drive down the East Coast. Of course, first I went south to Campbell Town (and had an alright lunch there), but then I took the Lake Leake Highway, through the not terribly inspiring bushclad hills, and then out onto the coastal plans, astonishingly verdant for this time of year, north of Swansea. It was great to see the effects of rain in an area drought-stricken for years... though, now I think of it, it's been eight years since I was last anywhere near this part of Tasmania.

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To-day has been quite hot - 25 degrees or so - and it was magic to come down to Swansea, stop the car, and walk down to the end of the jetty, with Oyster Bay spread out before me under a clear brilliant sky, and the Hazards on the horizon, outlining the great granite mass of the Freycinet Peninsula. A little while later, I found that the local Catholic Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour was open (touchingly, they leave the key in the lock), and so I went in and read Matins, Lauds and Prime of the Blessed Virgin (better late than never). The Church is very small, but old, and obviously cared for; the parishioners only get Mass once a month.

I headed further south, enjoying the magnificent scene: the road running along the sea above a rocky shore rising abruptly from Oyster Bay, with the Peninsula, Schouten Island and Maria Island all gracing the horizon with their rugged mountainous outlines. Stopping very briefly at Triabunna and Orford, the great mass of lofty Maria Island presented an awesome prospect.

Then, on to Buckland in the interior, the road turning inland and upward at last: and, at Buckland, I stopt and prayed Terce at the Anglican Church of St John Baptist (built 1846) - for the east window is Catholic, being known as stained glass from Battle Abbey, established by William the Conqueror at Hastings, then looted by Henry VIII. Somehow, this fourteenth century stained glass escaped the Puritan iconoclasts, and ended up shipped out to colonial Van Diemen's Land...

I could clearly read the Latin inscriptions under the upper images of Our Lady and St John, either side of an image of the Crucifixion: S. Maria Deipara (Holy Mary Theotokos) and Scts Joannes (St John). The glass shews in the centre, lower down, the Baptist baptizing Christ, and on the left St John pointing to the Lamb of God, and on the right the head of the martyred John being given by a soldier to wicked Salome (an apt foreshadowing of the fate of Catholic property in heretical, Erastian England).

Now, having driven on over Break-me-head and Bust-me-gall Hills, and the even more strangely named Black Charlie's Opening (all very steep twisty roads originally opened up by convict chain gangs in the bad old days), and passed through Sorell, and over the causeways to Midway Point, I've finally come through the last range of hills and over the Derwent into Hobart.

It's been a rewarding drive; perhaps next time I'll leave earlier, and drive the whole East Coast, first passing through Scottsdale, then down past St Helens and St Mary's, over Elephant Pass... [Then again, maybe not on second thoughts!]