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.

The newest book by Robert Lomas has just landed on my doorstep, delivered with all the solemn ceremony the postman could muster, and that means my holiday reading is officially sorted. There is something wonderful about that moment when a long awaited book arrives (especially when it is a free book). It feels like a small blessing, a quiet invitation to step out of the noise of the world and into a space shaped by ideas, stories, and the steady voice of someone who has spent a lifetime exploring the mysteries that fascinate us.

This volume is a collection of the lectures Robert has given at the Daniel Owens Festival, a gathering that has become a kind of spiritual home for those of us who love the dance between history, and the living tradition of learning. To see those lectures gathered together feels like holding a lantern made from many flames, each one illuminating a different aspect of Daniel’s Life.

I was honoured to write the foreword for this collection. Truly honoured. Writing that foreword felt like standing at the threshold of a great hall, opening the door, and inviting readers to step inside. It was a chance to speak about the festival, about the legacy of Daniel Owens, and about the way Robert’s lectures weave together insight, humour, and the kind of wisdom that arrives only after years of patient study.

So yes, the holiday is sorted. A good book, a quiet corner, a fresh coffee, and the chance to revisit the festival through the words of a man who has been one of Daniel Owen’s brightest voices. I could not ask for better company.

St Swithin has always been one of those saints who feels less like a figure from a dusty manuscript and more like a quiet companion who walks beside us through the British summer. His day arrives every fifteenth of July, slipping into the calendar with a kind of gentle authority, and suddenly the weather feels as though it has stepped into an old story. The legend is simple, memorable and wonderfully dramatic. Whatever the sky chooses today it will keep choosing for forty days more.

The old rhyme still carries its charm:

St Swithin’s day, if thou dost rain,

For forty days it will remain.

St Swithin’s day, if thou be fair,

For forty days ’twill rain nae mair.

A neat little prophecy wrapped in four lines. A reminder that our ancestors watched the clouds with the same mixture of hope and dread that we do.

And today the sun is not merely fair. It is triumphant. It is hot, so very very hot. The kind of heat that makes the air wobble above the roads and the kind of heat that makes every Welsh hillside look as though it is glowing from within. You step outside and the world feels like a kiln. You step back inside and the world feels like a sauna. Even the shade seems to have given up and joined the sun in its mischief.

If the old rhyme holds true we are now standing at the doorway of forty more days of this blazing splendour. Forty days of shirts sticking to backs. Forty days of cold drinks vanishing faster than you can pour them. Forty days of dogs lying on cool floors with expressions that say they blame us personally for the weather. There is something delightful about it though. Something mythic. As if the land has decided to remind us that folklore is not dead. It is alive and warm and occasionally scorching.

St Swithin’s Day always feels like a moment when the past taps us on the shoulder. Today it has done so with a sunbeam that feels more like a spotlight. We are living inside a story and the story is glowing.

Now, in the spirit of survival and sanity, does anyone know of any good ice cream machines?

This evening a merry little band of us made our way to the Bridge Inn in Llangollen, summoned by the promise of a cheque and the even stronger promise of cold drinks. The pub had raised two hundred and fifty pounds for Blood Bikes Wales through their weekly quizzes, and we thought it only right to turn up in person, shake hands, smile warmly and generally look grateful and heroic. It is always good to remind people that bikers do more than roar about the countryside. Sometimes we collect cheques.

Since we were going anyway it made perfect sense to combine the noble act of charity with the equally noble act of having a few drinks. Bikers are creatures of tradition after all. You cannot simply walk into a pub, accept a donation and then leave like a group of monks. There are standards to uphold.

And once the drinks had begun to flow it seemed only polite to join in the pub quiz itself. Hospitality demands participation. So we formed a team of four and gave ourselves the kind of name that would strike fear into the hearts of lesser competitors. We were Three Drunkards and a Girl. On paper we were unstoppable. Two who had been to university and still remembered most of it. One retired engineer with a mind like a toolbox. One who had travelled the world in the merchant navy and collected more stories than stamps. A perfect blend of ages too. Two baby boomers, one Gen X and one millennial. A cross generational alliance forged in the fires of mild intoxication.

We were certain to win. Absolutely certain. You could feel the confidence radiating from our table like heat from a forge. Answers were whispered with the kind of authority usually reserved for professors and people who have watched a lot of documentaries.

In fact I am fairly sure we did win. I assume we won. We had to leave before the scores were checked because duty called and bikers are always in motion. But in a gesture of international goodwill we handed our winning answer sheet to a group of foreign students. It felt like the right thing to do. A small act of cultural exchange. They seemed delighted. We like to help.

If anyone ever sees a group of visiting students proudly claiming victory in a Llangollen pub quiz, you will know exactly where their mysterious knowledge came from.

A day like this asks for stillness. It asks for the kind of quiet that settles over the hills of North Wales when the wind finally pauses and the world seems to hold its breath. Today marks the anniversary of the bloodiest day in the history of the British Army, the opening dawn of the Battle of the Somme, when hope and horror walked side by side into the smoke of a new century.

It is strange how anniversaries feel like doorways. You step through them and suddenly the past is not distant at all. It is close enough to touch. Close enough to hear. Close enough to remind you that the stories we inherit are not just lines in a book but echoes of real men who once stood upright and unafraid, even when the world around them was breaking.

On this day in 1916 thousands of young men rose from the trenches at first light. Many had never seen battle before. Many carried letters from home tucked into their tunics. Many believed they were marching into a decisive moment that would change the course of the war. They were right, but not in the way they hoped.
By nightfall the fields of the Somme had become a scar upon the earth. A generation was shaken. Families across Britain and the Commonwealth waited for news that would never come. The scale of loss was so vast that even now it feels mythic, as if the land itself remembers and refuses to let the memory fade.

Yet within that darkness there remains a thread of light. Courage that did not falter. Duty that did not bend. Love that endured even in the face of unimaginable fear. These are the things that survive the centuries. These are the things that shape us still.
So today we pause. We remember. We honour the men who stepped forward into history and never returned. And we carry their memory with the quiet dignity it deserves.

As the old words remind us:
They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.