Remembering and rejoicing

It was strange to remember wars today while all the time having the sense of a war being over, or almost over. The euphoria displayed by the dancing crowds in the streets of American cities was so real, so human - and so different from the grim-faced men, several armed to the teeth with assault rifles and body armour, suggesting to a reporter that it was their constitutional right to go around like this and that they expected trouble.

And all over these islands people were remembering the dead of two world wars and other, lesser conflicts; remembering too the damage done to the living by surviving such conflict. We were reminded in church this morning that over 100 years ago people vowed "never again" and within twenty years were again at war, but we were also reminded at the end of the service that we had hope - not a vague hope, but a genuine one. And as the service ended, the organ thundered out Beethoven's Ode to Joy, with all its modern connotations but also the promise that "all men will be brothers". As we spilled out into the grey morning, I thought that that idea might just be possible to imagine.

And of course the encouragement came from the fact that America seems to have elected two humane and attractive characters to lead their country, instead of the gross caricature of a leader currently sulking in the White House. Now England needs to do much the same. And yes, I meant to write that...

So that was the morning. After lunch, we both found ourselves falling irresistibly asleep over the Observer - what with the organisation of the Last Post and the rest of the music (Mr PB) I had sung what is possibly my favourite alto solo ever during the communion - the "Vouchsafe O Lord" from Purcell's Te Deum.  I sang that with our four part choir, The Hesperians, some 40 years ago, and during the loft-tidying saga Mr PB found a tattered old score that seems to have been used by our accompanist in the performance. Next thing I knew, he'd photocopied the solo and I was off ...

We couldn't let the afternoon just pass, however, so we went for a shortish walk in the already gathering gloom. There wasn't a breath of air, just a penetrating damp and low cloud over the hills and forests. It was completely silent - not a bird, not a squirrel - and after the first five minutes we saw no-one. Blipping the view down Loch Eck towards the sunset - proof, if you like, that the fog comes through the Central Belt and dissipates the further west you go. It was all very atmospheric.

I wonder what this week brings.