Mrs P. lived with her husband GC. and son GL. and a Moroccan lodger Y. Every mealtime the long table was always full, and there was also Don P. who was the local priest; and so as some kind of civic duty she fed and watered them all, including the priest.
Month: April 2018
A couple of years later, just before my son Phil was born, we moved from where we were living in the mountains of Switzerland to just across the border to Italy, to a house right on the Lakeside.
Don W. was described by some as a whiskey priest, meaning one who had been drawn to the priesthood by the easy life rather than any true conviction. A rumour which had gone around at one time was that he had been famed for having once broken an ankle whilst jumping from an upstairs bedroom window on the arrival home of an absent husband.
When my daughter was born, it seemed natural she should be baptized in the Roman Catholic Church. In Italy everyone is more or less, plus from my own personal experience, things are more difficult once you are older
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And so after leaving the army I didn’t come into contact with anything religious. After all, why would I; left to my own devices, church and all the rest never entered my head.
Fast forward a few years, and I was living and working in Italy. I then met my partner, and we were now living together in Switzerland, in the mountains overlooking Lake Lugano, and life did indeed seem just perfect. We decided to get married, and finally tie the knot!
From my first two years at Junior’s in the army, two people spring to mind; both of whom had had religious upbringings; and strangely enough they both had the same surname!
The next time I was to encounter religion was when I joined the army. Yes. When I was 16 I went into the British army as a bandsman. Thinking about it now, it seems like a really dumb thing to have done, but when I was coming up to leaving school, it sounded like my best option. But that’s another story.
Probably the first contact I had with the church was when I must have been about 13 or so. I played the trumpet in the school band, and a few of us had been asked to play a fanfare at the C of E for the visit of a Bishop one evening.
I’m not sure, but I suppose my mother must have believed in something. She had gone to a Catholic school in London when she was a girl; her mother had evidently been terrified of the nuns!
Nobody seems to talk about it: the translation of resurrection. Personally for me, it should be of no great importance, but for most in the Christian community it seems to be a making or breaking point.
Just spent the Easter weekend down in Ravenna and then a visit to home of Raffaello, Urbino.