Rarefied air, real ale and a romantic afternoon

Another term over, and lots of time to relax...? Not a bit of it! The last students had barely left the building when I set off for the Society for the Study of Theology annual conference at Girton. The rarefied air of academic theology always makes me feel rather suffocated, though I'm always glad I've been.

There seem to be two kinds of conferences. There are those which are a long-awaited and much desired opportunity for people to share their ideas with one another through papers, workshops and conversation. They are usually businesslike, hardworking, and a thorough joy to be part of because they develop a sense of teamwork among participants right from the start.

Then there are the conferences which showcase the brilliance of the brightest stars in the firmament, leaving the majority of attenders in semi-darkness. Attending them is about trying to learn to appreciate the "splendour of light" without being dazzled. I have been astonished at the erudition, scholarship and sometimes genius of the plenary speakers, but deeply depressed that so little of it bears on the messy business of living. The gap between ivory-towers academic theology and applied and practical theology in community is nowhere more obviously a chasm than in such a forum, and I feel helpless with frustration that it falls to people like me to try and capture and distill the genius of the academy to resource my students and my own theology.

But parts of it were so satisfying, and so encouraging, that I continue to believe it's a positive experience. Short papers presented by people who are still doing, or have recently completed, doctoral research showcase the most diverse overview of the best of the theological landscape, and the shorter conversations around those are inspiring and provoke engagement.

There were other compensations. I took one evening off to spend with my much beloved Uncle rediscovering my all-time favourite beer (Woodforde's Wherry) over a meal and live music at the Bluebell Inn, with the unexpected bonus that my cousin, whom I haven't seen for years, and his wife joined us. So we went back to their house (quite stunning) for coffee before I went back to Girton just after midnight. It was a merry evening of family pleasure.

The last full day of the conference had an afternoon free for sightseeing, so my lover and I returned to the village of his childhood to lunch, walk and talk by the water. The warm spring sunshine, gentle romance, and conversation that swung from silly to serious from moment to moment all combined to make it a magical afternoon, and it was with reluctance that we parted and I dragged myself away to tackle another plenary session at 5pm.

Before leaving Cambridge, I called in to see my ex sister-in-law and then had lunch with my ex mother-in-law. It's a testimony to their generousity that we remain friends after the marriage that brought us into the same family is long over.

Tomorrow second-youngest son arrives home for Easter so I'm up at sparrrowsfart to be at the airport for 8.30am. Then we're into Holy Week, of course, and the existential journey towards death and resurrection begins once again. The cycling seasons of the liturgical year, the changing colours and moods and music, all seem this year to be in their proper place in the cosmos. It's been a long time since it's felt that way...