Better to travel hopefully

I frequently peruse, with wonder and admiration, the travels of Fr Zuhlsdorf, punctuated as they are, with delectable meals, convivial blognics, and always culminating in a hospitable and convenient lodgement inspired by benedictine traditions, a mere post-prandial waddle from St Peter's. I, on the other hand, booked through St Christina's Catholic Travel Agency,as is diocesan policy, and found myself at the head of an orderly queue for the charter flight at Trollchester Airport in front of a mother-of-eight, four of whose offspring were inadequately contained with a quadruple-buggy, while the others were armed with overflowing Trunkies. There was also the statutory nun with guitar, assorted backpackers in day-glo cagoules, and a rather trendy looking monsignor in mufti, whose status was given away only by the glint of purple sock between his jeans and sneakers. I will draw a humeral veil over the injuries to my humerus and other parts of my anatomy occasioned by the general dash forward that took place when the flight was called. I acquired an interesting set of bruises from luggage, buggies and guitar, and made for the last seat on the plane. I was entertained for half an hour or so by the frantic kicking from the seats behind as peanuts were extracted from juvenile noses, and if ever I regretted my vow of celibacy, I renewed it with fervour as a result. I had paid an extra tenner for dinner, as I was not expecting anything too wonderful on my arrival, and was presented with this interesting combination, which, I learned from the stewardess, was bought as a job lot from Richard Branson's caterer at a knock down price.

On arrival at a Mussolini era aerodrome about fifty miles from my destination, we were loaded onto an antique bus, and transported via the wonderful B roads of central Italy, to a small modern chain hotel on an industrial estate near the outer ring road, where I fell exhausted onto my single cot bed, and fell into a fitful sleep.

All roads lead to Rome

Tempus fugit, as my old tutor used to say, as he passed me another glass of excellent sherry, in his cosy sitting room, as we sat by the fireside watching the last of the Autumn leaves struggling downwards to the pavement, and attempting to parse some particularly fiendish bits of Virgil about the Danes and their longships. My apologies for my prolonged absence, and it will no doubt take us a little while to get up to speed, but I will start more or less where we left off, with Charlie and Hetty frolicking in the glebe. As I contemplated the serendipitous circumstances of having achieved Robert Browning's poetic wish to be in England in April,I noticed Mrs McElhone waving frantically from the doorstep, holding the phone in one hand and a wooden spoon, (liberally coated in cake mix) in the other. I made for the phone, and the spaniels, less reluctantly, for the cake spoon, and little did I know then that the simple pleasures of a country co-adjutor bishop were to be suspended, as I heard the crackly tones of a long distance call summoning me to Rome.