Last Mass and Day of Departure

And so this day finally arrives. For two years I've been living with the knowledge that the parish and chaplaincy will be taken over by Dominicans in September 2012. What can I say abou the chaplaincy and St. Cuthbert's other than this: I have loved every minute of being their priest.

The last two years have been difficult. The announcement of departure is inevitably followed by two years of people asking me, "Have you not gone yet?" No doubt for the next two years people will be saying, "So Fr Tony/ The Rev (my cricket playing alter-ego) just up and left like that, without so much as a by your leave."

I've been surviving on 4-5hrs sleep ythis week with packing (far too much stuff) and the anxiety of trying tofinish jobs off . Again this morning was an early one. A succession of things to be done- and could I remember the homily I'd been mapping out mentally, but not yet managed to commit to paper. I struggled, in the end. I knew that I could not say too much about me love of St Cuthbert's because the leaving of it is such a painful loss to me, a kind of bereavement. There was an audible sigh when I first lost my words and it took me a moment to regain my voice. But I knew that there was a lot of love and a lot and support, and people willing me on. And that was my overriding sense of the day: what a loving place this is- what a loving bunch of people- and what a witness to Durham is this loving people is.

The Mass and the day were perfect. The music both heightened the emotional charge and at the same time got me through it. The barbeque was the sunshine in the garden were beautiful. I enjoyed introducing family to parishioners and vice versa, feeling a kind of pride in both: meet my lovely family; meet my fantastic parishioners.

There were lots of hugs and goodbyes, but not enough- later, as I cycled away I became conscious of people I hadn't said goodbye to. Too soon it was time to change into cycling gear and make final preparations. A cutting of cake in the garden and the stamping of my Pilgrim's Passport and singing and cheering and waving and finally I set off.

I rang my bell at parishioners that I spotted on Old Elvet and againon North Road. And I thought of the se streets which I have come to know as a cyclist first, and latterly as an early morning runner. I knew the dips and the rises, and the spot where the ice would be most treacherous in winter.

I'd worked out that I could avoid the climb up to Wrekenton if I took the C2C route from Vigo Lane and cycled north through Washington. this m,eant I could cycle past St Bede's where I had first been appointed as a curate,a nd where I had arrived one day less than tenyears ago exactly.

The cycle to the North Shields Ferry Port was uneventful. The paths are easy and pleasant, and it was warm sunshine all the way. The trail goes through Monkton which always remined me of my grandma telling a bus driver, "If you think Monkton's Jarrow, you're rubbish," which passed for gross vulgarity in my grandma's lexicon.

Through the Pedestrian Tunnel and to the ferry port and Veronica and Evelyn and Freya met me with a packed dinner and weekend papers. Final goodbye kisses and then the words which brought it all home to me: "See you in a couple of months!"