here and here). There was however, a new variety on the block or possibly hanging from the roof. Rather hard to identify but, for the time being and pending confirmation, I'll describe them as the plain breasted reluctant. It's a peculiar bird which whilst travelling with the rest of the traddie flock, neither likes Mass in Latin nor many of the finer points of tradition. Specialists are divided over over whether this is a sub species at all or rather a trans migratory, or perhaps even transitory, mutation caused by flying too close to certain peaks in the former Yugoslavia.
Anyhow, and casting coy simile to the wind, over supper on the first night the first signs of deviance from the norm appeared. 'Will Father be saying a Mass in English?' Several acidic responses came to mind as my heckles began to rise. I settled on a potted rant on the educational failings of the last forty years. Day 2 arrived and I find myself tucked away in a pious corner but sufficiently within earshot to eavesdrop on the following; 'Well if it's not in English, I'm not going'. By this stage I was beginning to wonder whether this trio had actually read the advance information sent by the organisers. I bit my tongue considering the vague possibility that some well meaning traddie friend had rail-roaded them into the pilgrimage whilst being sly with the actual details.