The right of people in England and Wales to worship in public has been ... I'm not sure "restored" is actually the right word. Putting aside the consciences of other religious bodies, let us say that the CBCEW is no longer afraid to permit Catholics in England and Wales to return to Mass. Catholics in Scotland are not yet permitted by our bishops to return to Mass; the government has permitted them and us to return to Sunday Mass on July 19th.
Fr. De Malleray preaching on anger (for the four months we have been deprived of personal attendance at Mass), hunger (for the Holy Eucharist), the Gospel of the day (feeding the four thousand and then all the scraps collected in seven baskets), the Divinity of the Holy Eucharist (and therefore the necessity of the correct method of receiving the Holy Eucharist), and Correct Deportment and Clothing for Mass.
Correct Deportment and for Mass came right at the end, capping off a courageous homily with what might have been the most courageous part of all: risking annoying the congregation. As it was, we were well into the Nicene Creed before Benedict Ambrose and I stopped arguing over what Fr. De Malleray (who is French) meant by a "suit." Benedict Ambrose argued that a jacket and trousers (with shirt and tie) are smart enough for Mass; they don't and shouldn't have to match.
"If you would wear a suit to a wedding, why would you not wear a suit to the Wedding of the Lamb?" I said piously, echoing (I suspect) the married women scattered throughout the English-speaking world who had just heard Fr. De Malleray's homily. And how refreshing it is for a man to take umbrage at a priest's strictures about Correct Dress.
"I'm wearing leggings next week," I said.
"No, you're not," said B.A.
In the end I admitted that Fr. Malleray might not have mean "suit" in the same way that B.A. means "suit." But again I underscore that as trad women hear over and over again arguments that we must wear skirts, and that those skirts must be at least knee-length, and that our sleeves must be at least elbow-length and that, really, we should wear our Sunday Best, it is refreshing to hear that men must also bow to an exacting standard.
Incidentally, last night I insisted on changing my Denim Maxi-Skirt of Feminine Traddery before going to the patio of a newly reopened Italian restaurant for drinks. I put on my Sala Stampa dress, and B.A. (who put on a jacket) noticed that all the women on the patio were more formally dressed than the men.
Meanwhile, the Warrington Mass ended with a Te Deum. Thanksgiving was indeed apt.
2. Yesterday we had a splendid walk. We put on masks like good little subjects and took the country bus to Haddington. We queued up outside Falco's German bakery-cafe, which is in a splendid 18th century building, and ate our treats and drank B.A.'s coffee in the shelter of St. Annes Place. Then we toddled off along streets to a scary highway, which we crossed with great care. Then we followed a lovely path up into the Garleton Hills. At the top of one of these hills, we waded through long grass, Scottish thistles (ouch!), and little blue forget-me-nots to reach a ruined brick hut. There we had a rest. We could see for miles and miles all around, and I was quite delighted to think that all of these beautiful landscapes were our home.
When we were sufficiently rested, we continued on past ruined castles and healthy farmhouses towards Athelstaneford. Part of one ruined castle was being used as a shed for farming equipment and such rubbish as old pallets. B.A. noticed that the walls had slots for firearms and so decided the castle must have been built in the 16th century.
Athelstaneford is a pretty village overlooking the site where some marauding Scots and Picts trapped by King Athelstan of the Saxons and his men prayed for divine assistance and saw the Cross of St. Andrew in the blue sky. Thus Athelstaneford is called the Birthplace of the Saltire (Scottish Flag) and it has a splendid 16th century dovecot converted into a museum to celebrate it. The dovecot--and the view--is tucked behind the 18th/19th century village church. Naturally there has been a church there for many centuries before that, but this is merely its latest shape.
We ate our packed lunches on a bench outside the village hall and then we wandered through the village hoping to see my acquaintance who had me to lunch at her home there once. We didn't see her, though, and I couldn't remember which was her cottage, so eventually we wandered off the main road to look at a house I had seen advertise for sale online. We found it, and B.A. was enthusiastic. It would certainly make an excellent base for country walks. It would significantly add to our transportation costs, however.
We meant to take the country bus to North Berwick, but the timetable on the bus stop did not match the notes B.A. wrote on a scrap of paper. Therefore, instead of kicking our heels in the village, we marched off in the direction of a hamlet called Needless and turned left at the road for Drem, which has a railway station.
B.A. thought it would be splendid to live in Athelstaneford (or Needless) and zoom up and down this very quiet country road on a Vespa to the railway station. We passed many farms and cottages, the cottages mostly hidden behind large hedges. We saw sheep and cows and, in the distance, the railway line and very much in the distance the Firth of Forth. It was a sunny, breezy day--excellent walking weather.
When we got to the empty Drem railway station we established that the Edinburgh train would arrive in just a few minutes, so that was splendid timing. We put on our masks and climbed aboard, dreaming of our drinks at the Italian restaurant. Originally we were going to have our post-hike beer in North Berwick, but we were just as happy to support our local.
A local, strictly speaking, is your nearest pub, but our nearest pub is somewhat frightening, so we are agreed that the snazzy restaurant is our local instead.
3. This morning I also perused the Spectator and saw that the novelist Lionel Shriver had written an essay against the concept of "white guilt." What struck me was her utterly secular observation that no human being can take on the responsibility of all the sins of humanity and that inherited guilt means damnation. Look at this:
As a species, we've been treating each other like [faeces] from the year dot. The horrors to which we've subjected one another, including slavery but a great deal else, are so incomprehensibly dreadful that no-one, as an individual, could conceivably bear the crushing weight of all that torture, mass murder and sadism. If guilt is inherited, then every last one of us should be condemned to Dante's nine circles of hell."
As a Christian, I have two observations. The first is that only God could bear that crushing weight and, in fact, He did in the Person of the God-Man Jesus Christ. The second approaches the doctrine of Original Sin.
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