Pastor Kurt van Fossan picked me up at Heathrow terminal 4. That’s after flying in from Amsterdam and taking the National coach to Cambridge for the Lutheran conference at Westfield House. That however is a story of its own.

The trip through the British breadbasket was a delight. Hedges patches of forest here and there breaking up the otherwise yellow monotony of the harvested cornfields. No deer, rabbits or even pigeons anywhere. Perhaps you have to go to Scotland for that or even Ireland to see such creatures of antiquity. But there were thousands of cars on the motorway – pressing north or hurrying back south – even if it was way after “Feierabend” on Wednesday or early Afternoon on Sunday: the beasts of modernity on the prowl or in full flight.

The bus drivers were of varied mood, shades and characters.  The first was still quite funny. Smoking in Hatfield, trying his luck at cracking jokes now and again, but getting far too serious once I asked whether he was from here or not. If you are a stranger in the land, don’t ask the old-time residents: “Are you from here?” They don’t particularly like it. Don’t ask the obvious new-comers either. They don’t like that sort of question either. If you are a foreigner just don’t ask that question as I did. Guess who was the one with the accent or the one far from home. He actually reversed the bus more than 200 meters when the automatic access control pillars were not so automatic after all. Quite the excellent driver. Nearly as good as Prof Maxfield  himself.

As usual the women were the best drivers – sticking pedantically to their task of driving that bus safely through the busy streets of London. Although they couldn’t get the automatic air conditioner working either and spent the better part of their break in Stansted to find a solution.

The worst of the lot of drivers or at least helpful was the guy taking off from Cambridge. Not only did he state a wrong arrival time – out by more than an hour – but also did not allow us to board before or ahead of departure.

The only fox I saw was the reclusive one on Monday morning at 3:00 slinking through the back streets of South Ruislip before daybreak and just after the milk truck had rattled by. There weren’t many birds, not many pets to be seen and very fee insects although the summer had been wet as usual and the glorious summer temperatures would surely have brought them out in full force – had there been any.

Going to Church was something special and not only because the front portal of the Church has a full mural: “St. Andrew – the Fisher of Men” painted by Norman Blamey. Even if I had rejoiced at the idea of calm and collected preparations in the morning hours as the bells we to toll at eleven, pastor van Fossan habitually drives over even before nine o’clock. That took care of the calm and collected part of it even if I did get my weekly dose of “Alle volke loof die Here” with Fanie Smit on RSG at breakfast which was coffee and muesli (not such a typical British breakfast).

Cousin K-H tried his best to catch up with my schedule. After he had failed to connect in Cambridge for a beer or two at C.S. Lewis’s favourite pub “The Pickerel”, we had been very confident to meet in S.E.London on Sunday instead. The automatic doors in the train wouldn’t open and so prevented his timely exit at St. Pancras I guess he must have been quite “die donner in” and didn’t feel quite in the mood for joining us intoning the divine liturgy after all. Perhaps we’ll make it next time.

After preaching and being a guest at the Lord’s table, receiving his goodness and grace far beyond what we deserve and even dream to ask for – the congregation gathered for old style Christian fellowship and hospitality. Here was ample opportunity to be with the handful of congregants. Here I met the parents of the old Quirks, enjoyed talking with the old friend Carolla Mostert and making new ones from Nigeria and some from much closer to home – Brits and Pietermaritzburg. It was quite the mixed bag of beans – the diverse group of people I mean, not only the piles of food prepared in the varied recipes from across the globe. Chicken does taste like chicken however – even in England. I got another opportunity to address the people and they got a chance of asking some pressing questions. I must say that I enjoyed that once again, talking about the treasures of the Church (gospel) and gaining confidence from there to face the daunting challenges facing the church globally and in Southern Africa specifically.

Going by subway we went all the way to Kings Cross or was it Oxford Bridge before we got out to see the British museum on this glorious summers day. I wanted to see the Rosetta stone, but I got far more than I had bargained for: Greek and Chinese discuss throwers (Olympiads), more than one Venus and even Nordic chess figurines. I should have taken all my time in England to visit this museum, but as it was I ran out of time much to quickly. Buying a post card and this and that tourist guide really can’t make up for the real thing. Not even the cats from Egypt really work on post cards – never mind Picasso’s lovelies.

In St. Paul’s cathedral we got a c hence to see both the good and the ugly of Anglicanism and its denominations syncretism. The presiding priestess was more like the witch teaching divinations at Hogwarts than an dignified liturgist some would like us to think preside amongst the Episcopalians. They did not confess the creed, but gave a non-committal declaration of some sort, the meal shared was one of remembrance and pious recollection and gathering even if finally thanks were offered for the body and blood of Christ received. So either you picked what you liked and left at peace or you felt rather confused like me, unsure what was on offer, therefore abstaining from becoming involved too much and having to

leave bewildered and not satisfied by such mixed signals and divergent gestures and messages. Mark you that could have been the goal from the outset as the preliminary action undertaken after the hidden organist had started to play mysterious melodies was for the sacristan to ignite the impressive pot of incense to exude plumes of smoke throughout the magnificent dome, shrouding all and especially the ancient mosaics and holy inscriptions in dense fog and unfathomable mist thus casting a magic spell on all participants or at least leaving them guessing at the hidden meaning of it all. Perhaps that was behind the sign outside of St. Paul’s inviting to join the cathedral’s choir: “Getting in touch with eternity”. No defined message, but rather a nebulous feeling of the “extreme other” somewhere out there in the clouds of Nirvana.

Outside the sun was shining brightly, bringing everything to most glorious light. We enjoyed the walk down the Thames in this lovely summertime tiger with thousands of other tourists from across the globe. Fascinating variety and all thrilled by the exhibits of Britannia’s past and present glories. The Olympic rings were still predominantly displayed between the imposing pillars  of the Tower bridge. Warships were lying at anchor,  having weathered out the terrorist threats for the time being. The Olympics were history and the immediate threat averted – nobody expecting anything serious right now. Pleasure boats were cruising up and down – some in a hurry others less so. Topics to cover would be: Photography – running – missing out on coffee – eating an apple and drinking some water.

At 20:00 the mighty bell of Big Ben struck eight – bringing but the most hurried to awed attention. There’s an impressive conglomerate of worldly power assembled in those quarters and not everyone will heed the timely admonition on St. Margaret’s: “Hear all ye people and praise the Lord all ye nations.”

Later that evening we had made it safely back home to S. Ruislip. That’s when pastor van Fossan prepared supper and after a glass of wine started his story, that changed my life. More about that next time a for now I had to back my stuff and get a few winks of sleep before rising at 3:00 to get to Heathrow on time for checking in for my flight from there home via Amsterdam – and that’s when I saw the aforementioned fox.