My apologies for leaving you in suspense about the outcome of Monsignor Porter's adventure, as I was unexpectedly called to Rome to settle a little matter which I may share with you another time. I think we left matters with the good Monsignor loitering palely withal, while the massed ranks of the ACP hared along the highways and byways of Wales intent upon destroying St Peters Trollington at the earliest opportunity.
Naturally I turned for help to my beads, and (coincidentally, as Prof Dick Dobbin, Senior Lecturer in Comparative Religion at Herstrop would no doubt say) I remembered that Miss O'Dowd - a spinster blessed with an inexhaustible number of nephews in the Construction industry - lived in the North of our fair Diocese, near the Friars Ferry Bypass - a particularly fiendish bit of the road system, and I thought I would ring to find out whether the notorious swingbridge was closed to traffic, which would slow the priests down and give us some thinking time.
"That was quick", quoth the dear lady, on picking up the phone, and when I replied in the interrogative, she seemed as pinkly (note to self and to whom it may concern - it was not a skyped conversation, so I cannot know for certain what colour she was) and uncharacteristically confused as had Mrs Cutley earlier in the day.
On being apprised of the situation, Miss OD claimed that although it was fairly clear on the road (as far as she could see through her nets and pebble spectacles) that "it might get busy later on". She seemed in a hurry to get off the phone, and indeed, as Mgr Porter was already heading for the door with car keys in hand, I lost no time in following him, and we were once again doing a fair impression of Jeremy Clarkson along the Trocklesfield Bypass in order to reach Trollington before darkness descended.
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| View from the public toilets |
Two pieces of luck transpired. I found later, that the ACP coach had decided to make a toilet stop in a small Welsh village, as Fr Oscar and Fr Alfredo had had one too many camparis on the ferry and were unwilling or unable to last out until they got to the Little Chef at Trollsmere Port. Just as well, really, as they were delayed for two hours, just a mile beyond Friars Ferry, where a builder's lorry shed its load just at the entrance to the swingbridge. I dread to think what might have happened had they not spent those happy hours beforehand, ensuring that they were fully drained.
It therefore transpired that the ACP and ourselves arrived at pretty much the same time, from different directions, on the moors above Trollington, but as luck would have it, a sudden mist rolled in from the direction of the setting sun, and we were lost.
