Midlandshire

Wednesday was touring the midlands.

John, our host, is chaplain to a swath of rural areas in addition to his charge of the historic St. George's Church in Hobart. So we set out with him for his visits to the inland areas.

Of course we didn't participate in the actual visits with his parishioners, lest I accidentally infect them with amerigopopreligiousism. ("Did you know that our Lord died so we could have over two hundred channels of viewing?" "G-d not only loves Christians, He also likes non-Americans!" "Excuse me, if this is a church, where's the gift shop?")

So while John worked, he left Cath and I to explore Bothwell and Oatlands.

Bothwell includes the oldest golf course in the Southern Hemisphere; Oatlands has a mill and fresh bread and cookies. Oatlands wins.

Our driving tour included a trip through the Lower Marshlands, which I believe is where Tom Bombadil lives. Just to be safe, I refused to nap at the base of any trees.

The sun came out just in time for our ride home – gorgeous vistas of sun dappled vales and rolling hills. Ah.

And back to rain by the time we returned to Hobart. Ah.

The treat for the night was an evening at the Royale Theater accompanied by John and Ros. Second balcony in the pews, but clear sight lines and perfect sound.

Plus we got to watch the Aussies put on their best American accents in a tour-de-force production of "Tuesdays with Morrie." Safe to say their American was better than my Aussie.

(For example, ask me where I'm staying, I'll tell you the rectory of "Saint" Georges, whereas an Aussie will say "Sin" Georges. Wait, maybe that isn't a dialect issue but rather a theological one.)

They say the sun might come out for real tomorrow.

Just my thoughts,

Sean

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