My decision to travel by coach from Glasgow to Northampton and back for, essentially, a day trip was necessitated by the fact that a late decision meant the there were no bookable train seats left and no workable flight combinations.  Apart from being slower and cheaper than the train, it all worked very well (at least National Express allow p-l-e-n-t-y of time for connections so that a coach running 30 mins behind schedule won't mess it all up for you).

What I hadn't bargained on was the free nostalgia tour because of the routes the three coaches took.  The 11 p.m. from Glasgow was in fact an Edinburgh to Plymouth service, calling at lots of places en route.  So I saw Hamilton, Carlisle, Lancaster, Preston, Salford, Manchester, Manchester airport and Stoke on Trent all en route to Birmingham.  Then Birmingham international airport and Coventry en route to Milton Keynes.  Lastly Milton Keynes to Northampton via Milton Malsor, Collingtree turn, former Blackey Moor, Queen Eleanor Cross, and Far Cotton ending up where the bus station used to be, very handily across the road from where my Mum lives!!

I started to spell it all out - and it soon became too long and too self indulgent but lots and lots of memories, mostly happy ones, and a surprising summary of much of my life.  Places I lived, places I travelled, places  I passed through travelling, places I walked, places I know or knew, places that haven't changed and places that were barely recogniseable...  A summary of a life, from the relative comfort of a long distance coach, and the continuation of lives there and here...

(photo found on line)

Between 11 p.m. on Saturday evening and 6 a.m. this morning I spent something of the order of  22 hours on National Express coaches.  A fair chunk of that was sleeping (or trying to), the rest looking out of the window and seeing familiar and unfamiliar places.  Passing through Stoke on Trent at around 6 a.m. on Sunday morning, I happened to spot this pub... I must have passed that way dozens of times driving in my car, but had never seen this, set back from and below the ring road (or whatever it is called).

The Holy Inadequate - a great name for a pub, with some excellent west midlands humour.  Also, I think, a good description of a minister!  No, this is not me self-flagellating yet again, just the reality that all ministers are in some senses inadequate and in some senses holy.

I'm very tired after my travels - sleeping in 20 minute chunks, puntuated by loud speaker announcements that "ladies and gentlemen we are now approaching such-and-such coach station" was not very restful.  Spent much of the morning making zeds... and think an early night is in order too!

This afternoon I listened to ten or so people share their poems, and was invited to judge between them.  Thankfully with two other judges.

I think it confirmed what I've always known... I'm not cut out for judging things.  I was very happy with the descisions that were made, and overall our opinions weren't so very different... but it left me very stressed.  I think because I am very aware of my lack of understanding of poetry as a genre.  I think because it is, ultimately, subjective.  I think because every one, however technically competent or otherwise offers something of themself.  And maybe because I'm just a wuss.

I really enjoyed the poems: I laughed, I ached, I was taken to places, I was asked questions, I was granted insights to people's souls.

I'm really glad I was there, and grateful to have been allowed to share in the judging... but now I need to lie down in a darkened room!!

This afternoon I have been invited to act as a judge for Poetry Slam under the banner of "Faith and Unbelief".  My credentials are, I assume, being a minister type person and quite liking poetry.  I do feel a bit of a fraud though... last year someone announced they had written a sonnet, and specifically such-and-such a type of sonnet... all I knew was that sonnets had 14 lines.  Likewise I know that a Haiku is three lines of 5, 7, 5 syllables, but not a lot else. Grade A for 'O' level English literature back in 1979 is a pretty poor qualification for this, I fear!

But what strikes me is that, whilst I remember almost nothing of their content, I still recall the themes and 'feel' of the pair of poems we awarded the prize to last year.  A reflection on standing in a cliff top chapel and another on the birth of a first child.

I think that has to be my basis for judging... does the poem move in such a way that I will remember why I liked it in a year's time?

I will enjoy being there; I will still feel a fraud; I look forward to hearing people's work.

Well it made me smile, anyway.

I'm not at church this Sunday so it will be very careful exegesis that underpins the sermon (especially as it's someone whose research area is something like philosophical hermeneutics, whatever that is!!).