In the early hours of 22 September 1934, the earth shook, the lamps went out, and 266 men and boys were lost in the darkness beneath our feet. Fathers, sons, brothers, friends. Whole families changed in a single night. The pit wheel stopped turning, but the grief never did.

What moves me most is not only the scale of the tragedy, but the courage that followed. The rescue teams who descended into danger knowing full well what they might find. The women who held communities together with nothing but grit and love. The children who grew up carrying stories instead of memories. And the town that refused to let those names fade.

Even now, when you stand at the memorial and read the roll of the fallen, you can feel it — that quiet, stubborn dignity that defines this part of Wales. These were our people. Their blood is in our soil, their stories in our breath.

So today, on the anniversary, I remember them.

I remember the laughter that once echoed through their homes. I remember the bravery shown in the face of impossible odds. I remember the families who endured the unendurable. And I remember that our community is shaped not only by what we celebrate, but by what we survive.

May their memory be a blessing. May their names be spoken. And may we continue to honour them not just with wreaths and silence, but with the kind of compassion and solidarity they would recognise as truly Welsh.

Gresford will never be forgotten.

This evening brought the meeting of St Deiniol’s Chapter, and what a gathering it turned out to be. The room was full to the brim with thirty eight in attendance, a number that speaks volumes about the quality of their meetings. In a time when many places are still rebuilding their numbers after the long shadow of covid, St Deiniol’s seems to have missed the memo entirely. Members, visitors, and enthusiasm are all in plentiful supply.

They welcomed two joining members and a new Candidate for Perfection, and in true St Deiniol fashion they did not stop there. Just as the historic Saint was known for his untiring energy, the Chapter that bears his name seems determined to follow in his footsteps.

The MWS Gareth Evans delivered an excellent Perfection ceremony, full of dignity and precision. The moment the newly made Prince took his seat, Gareth simply turned the page and began the ceremony to Enthrone his successor. Two ceremonies in one evening. Most would not even consider attempting it, yet he carried both with confidence and grace. I suppose sitting beside both the Inspector General and the Past Inspector General gives a man a certain incentive to bring his very best.

If you have never visited St Deiniol’s in Hawarden, you really should make a point of doing so. They are an exceptionally friendly Chapter, the room is full which is always heartening to see, and you may witness things you have never seen before. I particularly enjoyed the moment when they held up pictures of the banners of the intermediate degrees as they were conferred. In all my travels I have never seen that done, and it added a lovely touch of colour and symbolism to the evening.

The three of us who travelled up from Valle Crucis agreed it was a fantastic night, and we will certainly be returning.

Pictured are the Inspector General with the new MWS E and P Bro Martin Jones, and their newest Prince E and P Bro Paul James Rimmer. The second picture features Neville Owens, because I am contractually obliged to include him in any photograph I ever take.

This evening was the Bishop Wilkins College SRIA meeting.

We had a full evening planned, including electing our next Celebrant, a double Grade II° ceremony, and our current Celebrant was going to finally give his paper from going into the chair. What could go wrong?

Well in the run up to cut off for booking a meal, more and more people sent their apologies, some for valid reasons, but the majority were going to visit a craft lodge to see an installation. Personally I am of the belief that your own meeting should always come first, especially if you are in office. But, nether the less we had enough people to do the evening since we had spare people who could fill in roles so all was well.

Then the night before the meeting, our treasurer happened to message some people about the meeting only to be told they were not attending. This included the Celebrant who was doing the ceremony and the talk. But never fear we had the exact number of people (thanks to a visitor) to do the ceremony for the one candidate still coming. And I decided to write a paper on the day of the meeting for “just in case”. We were OK.

Then the day of the meeting came, and as the treasurer checked if a member needed a lift to the meeting, he was informed that he was going to the same installation as the others and not attending the college meeting. We were now officially one person short.

Luckily Bishop Wilkins College has both the Chief Adept, and the Provincial Secretary in it, and they managed to sort it out so we could do the Grade II° for the candidate who turned up, and we had time for two papers, one from myself and another from our Visitor who was also a past member of the college. In the festive board after as we were all chatting away, everyone was saying how enjoyable the evening ended up being. 

So while up to the start of the meeting everything was going wrong, the end result was a great night for all. So let this be a lesson to you all, never give up when things are going wrong because sometimes what comes after is worth it!

Did you observe the two minute silence at the ninth hour on the ninth day of the ninth month?

I did. I stopped, I stood, and I let the quiet do its work.

Because today is 999 Day, a day that deserves far more attention, reverence, and gratitude than it often receives. 999 Day is the annual moment when the United Kingdom pauses to honour everyone who serves in our emergency services. Police, Fire, Ambulance, Coastguard, Mountain Rescue, Community First Responders, and of course the volunteer riders and drivers of Blood Bikes organisations. It is a day woven from courage. A day shaped by people who run toward danger while the rest of us run away. A day for those who answer the phone when someone’s world has just fallen apart. A day for those who stand between chaos and safety, between fear and hope. At the 9th hour, on the ninth day of the ninth month, we hold a two minute silence… a symbolic pause that mirrors the three nines we dial when we need help. It is a moment to acknowledge sacrifice, service, and the quiet heroism that rarely makes headlines.

999 Day matters because the people it honours matter.

• They matter at three in the morning when a stranger’s knock on the door means help has arrived.
• They matter when a helicopter thunders overhead carrying someone’s loved one to safety.
• They matter when a volunteer rider delivers blood, plasma, or vital samples in the dead of night simply because someone, somewhere, needs it.
• They matter because they choose service, not for applause, not for glory, but because they believe in protecting life.

And in a world that often feels loud, divided, and distracted, taking two minutes to stand still and say, even silently, thank you is a powerful act.

As someone deeply involved with Blood Bikes and the world of volunteering, 999 Day always strikes a chord. It reminds me of every rider who has braved storms to deliver a lifesaving package. Every dispatcher who has stayed late to ensure a run is covered. Every volunteer who has given time, energy, and heart simply because they care. These people are the quiet guardians of our communities. And today is their day.

The International Day of Charity arrives like a quiet bell in the middle of our busy lives, inviting us to pause, breathe and look toward the people who carry the world on their shoulders without ever asking for applause. It is a day that reminds us that kindness is not an abstract idea but a living force, moved forward by real hands and real hearts.

Across every country and every community volunteers step forward with no promise of reward. They give their evenings, their weekends, their energy and their compassion so that someone else’s burden might be lighter. They help the lost find direction, they lift the weary, they strengthen the vulnerable, and they weave a thread of hope through places that might otherwise feel forgotten. One act of service at a time they make the world gentler, safer and more human.

Today is a good day to stop for a moment and give thanks. To think of the neighbour who checks in on the elderly. The coach who guides young people. The fundraiser who stands in the rain with a bucket. The volunteer who sits beside someone who is struggling. The unseen helpers who keep charities alive. These people are the quiet architecture of a better world.

And among these global volunteers stand the men and women of the Blood Bikes organisations. From Wales to Ireland, from England to Scotland, from Europe to distant continents, riders and controllers give their nights and their miles so that hospitals can keep moving and patients can keep fighting. They carry blood, samples, medication and hope through darkness, storms and silence. They do it freely. They do it faithfully. They do it because every life matters.

On this International Day of Charity let us honour them all. The volunteers who lift the world one act at a time. The ones who give without asking. The ones who ride through the night so that someone else may see the morning.

The new season has rolled in once more, and as ever it opened with Clwyd College SRIA up on the coast at Mostyn, that familiar stretch of shoreline where the wind always seems to carry a hint of ceremony. Oddly enough, my second meeting of the season is also in Mostyn, this time Rhodri Fawr Rose Croix on Saturday. I cannot remember the last time my first two meetings of the year were in the same place, let alone the same coastal village. Two trips to the edge of the sea in four days feels like the universe is trying to lure me into becoming a part‑time beach dweller.

Today’s gathering was a blend of Grade IV and Grade I, a pleasant mix of depth and initiation. Time slipped away from us faster than expected, so the paper planned for the evening has been nudged forward to the next meeting. The Candidate was mine, so I gave him a lift, and it made a refreshing change to have company on the road. The drive to Mostyn is always beautiful, but it is even better when there is someone beside you to share the small jokes, the quiet anticipation, and the inevitable post‑meeting debrief.

So here we are, the new season upon us once again. I may no longer be a Busy Mason in the old sense, but September has decided to ignore that entirely. It is shaping up to be a whirlwind month, full of meetings, rehearsals, and the gentle chaos that seems to follow me around the Masonic world. A quieter life may be the goal, but clearly the calendar has other ideas.

A Memorial for Tim Curry and Dolly Parton.

There are days when the world feels a little dimmer. Days when the great stage lights of our shared culture flicker, soften, and finally go out. Today is one of those days. Two legends, two voices, two spirits who shaped entire eras have stepped beyond the final curtain. Tim Curry and Dolly Parton, gone on the same day, leaving us with memories that feel too large to fit inside a single heart.

It is strange to think of them together at first. One was the velvet voiced master of mischief, the king of camp, the man who could turn a single raised eyebrow into a cultural event. The other was the queen of country, the glittering storyteller of the mountains, the woman who turned rhinestones into poetry and kindness into a lifelong vocation. Yet when you look closer, their careers run like twin rivers, winding through the same landscape of joy, courage, and unapologetic individuality.

Tim Curry was never just an actor. He was a phenomenon. From the moment he strutted into the world as Frank N Furter, he rewrote the rules of performance. He showed us that theatre could be dangerous and delightful at the same time. He taught generations of outsiders that flamboyance is a form of freedom. His voice, rich and wicked, became a signature of animated worlds. His presence, even in the smallest role, was unmistakable. He was the kind of performer who made you lean forward, knowing something unforgettable was about to happen.

Dolly Parton was never just a singer. She was a force of nature. She carried the Smoky Mountains in her voice and the whole world in her smile. She wrote songs that felt like confessions whispered on a porch at dusk. She built an empire out of compassion, generosity, and relentless creativity. She made glamour feel human. She made country music feel universal. She made millions feel seen, loved, and lifted. Dolly was proof that kindness is not weakness but a form of power.
And now, in a twist worthy of myth, they have left us together. Two icons departing on the same day, as if the universe decided that if one star must fall, another will accompany it so the sky does not feel lonely.

There is something poetic in that. Tim Curry and Dolly Parton both understood performance as a kind of magic. They both knew that art is not simply entertainment but transformation. They both gave permission for people to be themselves, loudly, proudly, joyfully. They both turned their lives into lanterns that lit the way for others.

Today we mourn. But we also celebrate. We celebrate the courage of Tim Curry, who taught us to embrace the strange and the spectacular. We celebrate the heart of Dolly Parton, who taught us that love is a legacy that outlives every song. We celebrate the way their careers stretched across decades, shaping childhoods, shaping identities, shaping entire cultural landscapes.

Two legends. Two lives. Two lights that will never truly go out.

Somewhere beyond the veil, I like to imagine Tim greeting Dolly with that sly smile of his, and Dolly greeting Tim with that warm laugh that could melt winter. Two performers taking their final bow, together, on a stage larger than any we can imagine.

And here, in the world they leave behind, we remember them. We honour them. We carry their stories forward.
Because icons do not disappear. They echo.

Yesterday evening the sky decided to put on a show. A partial solar eclipse swept across the UK, the first since 1999, back when we had dial‑up internet, and thought a Nokia 3210 was the height of technological wizardry. The next one won’t grace our shores until 2091, which means most of us will be watching it from the great lodge in the sky. So yes, this was a big one. The whole country went delightfully eclipse crazy. People were hopping across Europe like migrating starlings, chasing the perfect viewing spot. Anyone lucky enough to own a pair of eclipse glasses suddenly found themselves in possession of a priceless artefact. You could practically trade them for a four‑bedroom house in Chester. For a few glorious hours, they were the new Bitcoin.

And you can understand the excitement. Anyone under twenty‑six has never seen one, and the next chance is sixty‑five years away. It wasn’t just a celestial event, it was a generational moment, a cosmic postcard reminding us that the universe still enjoys a bit of theatre.

Yesterday evening also happened to be the monthly Blood Bikes Wales North East meeting. So, in true volunteer‑spirit fashion, we nudged the start time back by half an hour and turned the club car park into an impromptu observatory. Riders, controllers, volunteers, all of us gathered together, helmets swapped for eclipse glasses, radios quiet for once, watching the moon take a theatrical bite out of the sun.

For a moment it felt beautifully symbolic. A team dedicated to serving the community, standing shoulder to shoulder, witnessing a rare moment of cosmic alignment. The sky dimmed, the temperature dipped, and the whole world seemed to slip into that ancient, enchanted hush North Wales does so well.

Or at least… it would have.

Because this is North Wales… the land where clouds are permanent residents and the sun is an occasional tourist. So our grand celestial spectacle consisted of: a cloud with a bright light behind it, followed by a cloud with a slightly dimmer light behind it, before returning to a cloud with a bright light behind it.

That was our eclipse. A three‑act performance by the same cloud.

After ten minutes of heroic squinting, we admitted defeat, packed away the “observatory,” and headed to the bar, where at least the lights are reliable.

I remember the last eclipse well, the legendary summer of 1999. I was at the Whitby Gothic Weekend, surrounded by a sea of black‑clad pilgrims who had bravely ventured into the sunlight for the first time since the late eighties. It was like watching vampires on a team‑building exercise. They hissed, they squinted, they clung to the shadows of the nearest lamppost. A glorious sight.

While the crowds risked spontaneous combustion out on the seafront, I chose a far more civilised approach. I watched the eclipse on the pub television, safely indoors, day‑drinking with friends. A cold pint, a comfy seat, and the cosmic ballet unfolding on a screen above the bar, that, surely, is the gentleman’s way to witness celestial events.

There was something wonderfully surreal about it. Outside, the world was dimming under an ancient astronomical alignment. Inside, someone was arguing about whose turn it was on the fruit machine. The moon slid across the sun with mythic grandeur, and we toasted it with lager and laughter, as if we were attending a solar coronation.

And honestly, I stand by it. If the universe insists on performing rare cosmic theatre, the least we can do is enjoy it with good company, a drink in hand, and absolutely no risk of sunburn. It’s the only way… observe the mysteries of the heavens, but do it comfortably.

Today is National Book Lovers Day, that curious unofficial holiday designed to encourage bibliophiles to celebrate reading and literature, or perhaps to nudge the non‑readers gently toward the nearest bookshelf.

I’ll be honest: this particular holiday has always baffled me. I was under the apparently incorrect impression that every day was Book Lovers Day. Who knew we were meant to restrict our devotion to the printed page to a single date on the calendar?

Still, if the world insists on giving us a dedicated day, let’s honour it properly.

So find a good book, settle into a comfortable corner, raise a glass to the quiet magic of stories, and begin reading. After all, the best journeys often start with the simple act of turning a page.