That was the theme of this year’s Spring Harvest, an annual gathering of Christians of various flavours. It’s the first one we’ve been to with children, and it was a Very Different Experience.

After avoiding much of the typical snarl-up into Minehead by taking a scenic route across Exmoor, we checked in to our apartment. Woo-hoo! We’d been ‘specially selected’ for an upgrade (which seemed to mean there was a microwave in the Butlin’s kitchenette).

We spent much of the ensuing week travelling from one children’s venue to another, as the girls were in different age groups and their time slots only overlapped for 90 minutes each day. On the first day, however, we bumped into our best man, Darren. This seems to be a recurring theme at Spring Harvest. Being blokes, we’re never quite organised enough to orchestrate a meeting in advance. Maybe next year.

The Big Start (all-age worship) sessions in the Big Top each morning were very good, and the girls enjoyed them immensely. We did too, as much hilarity ensued from the misadventures of the hapless superhero host and his ‘undentity’ which ranged from Mr Undependable through Mr Underpants to Mr Underground (with a plethora of London Transport gags). God was in there too, honest.

We didn’t get to any of the main teaching sessions, but enjoyed the God and Culture seminars which were ably led by Sheridan Voysey and Bex Lewis. Highly interactive, relevant, probing and energising, with excellent use of supporting material. Sarah enjoyed meeting up with Bex after one of the sessions, and is a thoroughly Nice Person.

However, not all of Spring Harvest was the spiritual shot in the arm that it was expected to be. My observations began on the first evening as ventured to the Spar to buy provisions. The customer in front of me was spectacularly rude to the checkout assistant. The assistant, noting my shocked/apologetic expression, later explained that she’d been having a bad day and really didn’t need to be grumped at by people unable to buy their usual brand of frosted breakfast cereal.

On the way back to the chalet, I encountered a gaggle of teenage girls, the majority of which were smoking and swearing. Again, not good.

Then there were the scooters. Oh, the scooters. They were everywhere. Outside, inside, on my foot, colliding with other scooters and/or the ground. Many of the meeting rooms had clear signs requesting people not to leave scooters lying around or use them on the routes to/from the venues. These were universally ignored.

Perhaps most shocking, however, was noticing that during the final night and morning some people had used bike locks to stake their exclusive claim on the luggage trolleys!

Much of the behaviour seemed, well, un-Christian. It wasn’t loving. It wasn’t  kind. It wasn’t patient.

I’ve already been taken to task on this and I know that Christians can smoke. (But should Christian events really turn a blind eye to underage smoking? It’s illegal after all.)

I know that Christians can – and do – have bad days and that our witness should be as fallible people, not painting an unrealistic, rose-tinted façade. Furthermore, I know that I am imperfect… often grumpy… and quick-tempered. And who am I to ‘judge’ anyway?

But my overwhelming feeling is that this was a Christian gathering that in many ways failed to live up to its calling. What would that stressed-out checkout assistant’s view of Jesus be, based on her experience of one of his advocates? Would the Butlin’s security staff who witnessed the shouty/sweary/smoky girls note any difference in their behaviour to the non-Christian hen party the next week?

What does it say about the church when we prize ‘our’ luggage trolleys so much that we chain them up lest someone else borrows them?

The church has much more important stuff to do than lecture its own members on how to be nice to each other. Let’s get on with it.

Homeward bound, and enjoying one last Amtrak journey before my flight back to the UK.

As much of my journey south had been in darkness, the dry, bright weather on the train back to Kissimmee was very welcome. The scenery through Fort Lauderdale and lots of places with ‘Beach’ in the name was interesting, although there must have been at least 200 miles of orange grove.

A final Amtrak lunch consisted of a very pleasant crab roll with kettle chips and salad. Highlighting typically American excess, thousand island dressing was eschewed in favour of ‘two thousand island dressing’. Honestly!

Kissimmee’s well-kept town centre was much more civilised than its brash Orlando neighbour, although much of it seemed to be closed on a Monday afternoon. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant place to while away an hour. Irritatingly though, I managed to lose my mobile phone somewhere between the railway station and the bus stop.

Edit: Someone handed it in! The rather alarmingly-named Kissimmee Police Department ‘Evidence Section’ called to arrange repatriating it. Hurrah!

On arrival at the British Airways bag drop, the check-in assistant printed off my boarding card, and I’d been reallocated to a standard class seat. Oh well.

After boarding BA2036, it transpired that I’d been assigned a seat with inoperative ‘entertainment’ system. So after take-off and much faffage from the cabin crew, they asked me to move again.

Settling into what was now the third of the seats I’d been allocated to, I was just getting comfortable when there was a murmur of discontent from the passenger behind me. Apparently, the seat was broken and had dislodged her tray table: ‘Would you mind moving?’

I held my tongue. Just. But it was not the most enjoyable of flights.

However, Blighty – and breakfast with Mrs Giles – beckoned ever closer. Arriving back home on April Fools’ Day seems eminently suitable.