All Souls...

It may be a gift - a true charism - or it may be nearer a curse, but the Anglican position is, in theory, that all who are within the Parish bounds are within one's cure - hence curate indeed.

Romans, Non-Conformists (which is most if they but knew it), religious of other faiths or indeed none - rank athiests to the core - are all persons one is charged with seeking to nurture and to point towards Heaven.

This can indeed be taxing if one chooses to reach out to those who are not explicitly attached. By and large, on the whole, taking all as it comes as it were, one does not seek to intrude. One simply lets it be known to any without the obvious flock that one is there if needed.

This is not to say that one is just a soft touch. H will - bless her - give very short shrift to, say, a Baptist farmer who phones to ask whether we would mind minding his chickens whilst he is away preaching the Lord's work to some heathen flock in the benighted North or - more likely these days - the darkest South. There are lines though faint and where those lines are they must be drawn.

So what does one do for passers-by, those who appear but to disappear? One has been called from abed to minister to fallen angels - as we all are in some regard - resting for a night at the Dragon Inn only to discover that the Grim Reaper has come to present the lifetime's bill. A rare but not unknown occurrence it must be said.

I won't, though, do tourist weddings - out-of-town couples who espy our rather lovely ancient Church and insist that it is just the perfect location for their 'OK' nuptials. This is plain silly and easily resisted.

Where then within this wide, if not near boundless, spectrum of catholic - in its generic rather than specialist import - concerns for souls sit Gypsy travellers? They arrive, they inhabit a place - generally unlawfully - and then one fine or misty morning they are gone again, leaving it has to be said most often a trail of unsolved burglaries and thefts, not to mention a multitudinous mountain of domestic detritus.

'Reaching out' is mostly just not the thing. Encampments hardly ever warm to the visiting dog-collar. Round abuse is the most common reply to a decent Rectorial greeting. I state but facts, not expose prejudice.

Would it then surprise you, given the above, that I report a large such Romany settlement not some three miles from her with some deep unease? Settle is perhaps not the word - twenty caravans appear as if from the magician's hat and the Council stands back astonished at such sorcery.

Legal action is to be taken of course and eventually they will go. I the meanwhile will cast my eyes to Heaven - not I admit in search of godly guidance, but rather secularly to check that the lead-roofing of the Church remains in situ.

Does this all sound as if I somewhat lack that fulsome Christian charity for which I should be renowned? I fear it just might, yet no sooner had they come than the entire tack and tackle of a local stable vanished overnight. We are talking thousands of pounds worth of equipment carefully saved for and bought so that darling daughters can ride. Gone in one midnight raid.

I do at that fume I admit. It should not be that way but sadly it is. Gypsies come and saddles and bridles vanish. I again state but the facts.

A parson yes, but first of all a father to a beloved daughter. E is terrified not simply that her saddles will go, but far above that her horse is at risk. Horse rustling is not unknown sadly and must be assumed a possibility.

Local night patrols have been organised and I freely confess that should 'Gypsy Dave' come within but one furlong of our horse with malice aforethought, then he will depart with at least three broken limbs not to mention the lack of a pair of his finest testicles.

This is not quite how I had envisaged the ecclesial role and function, but there you have it.