Better to travel hopefully

I frequently peruse, with wonder and admiration, the travels of Fr Zuhlsdorf, punctuated as they are, with delectable meals, convivial blognics, and always culminating in a hospitable and convenient lodgement inspired by benedictine traditions, a mere post-prandial waddle from St Peter's. I, on the other hand, booked through St Christina's Catholic Travel Agency,as is diocesan policy, and found myself at the head of an orderly queue for the charter flight at Trollchester Airport in front of a mother-of-eight, four of whose offspring were inadequately contained with a quadruple-buggy, while the others were armed with overflowing Trunkies. There was also the statutory nun with guitar, assorted backpackers in day-glo cagoules, and a rather trendy looking monsignor in mufti, whose status was given away only by the glint of purple sock between his jeans and sneakers. I will draw a humeral veil over the injuries to my humerus and other parts of my anatomy occasioned by the general dash forward that took place when the flight was called. I acquired an interesting set of bruises from luggage, buggies and guitar, and made for the last seat on the plane. I was entertained for half an hour or so by the frantic kicking from the seats behind as peanuts were extracted from juvenile noses, and if ever I regretted my vow of celibacy, I renewed it with fervour as a result. I had paid an extra tenner for dinner, as I was not expecting anything too wonderful on my arrival, and was presented with this interesting combination, which, I learned from the stewardess, was bought as a job lot from Richard Branson's caterer at a knock down price.

On arrival at a Mussolini era aerodrome about fifty miles from my destination, we were loaded onto an antique bus, and transported via the wonderful B roads of central Italy, to a small modern chain hotel on an industrial estate near the outer ring road, where I fell exhausted onto my single cot bed, and fell into a fitful sleep.

All roads lead to Rome

Tempus fugit, as my old tutor used to say, as he passed me another glass of excellent sherry, in his cosy sitting room, as we sat by the fireside watching the last of the Autumn leaves struggling downwards to the pavement, and attempting to parse some particularly fiendish bits of Virgil about the Danes and their longships. My apologies for my prolonged absence, and it will no doubt take us a little while to get up to speed, but I will start more or less where we left off, with Charlie and Hetty frolicking in the glebe. As I contemplated the serendipitous circumstances of having achieved Robert Browning's poetic wish to be in England in April,I noticed Mrs McElhone waving frantically from the doorstep, holding the phone in one hand and a wooden spoon, (liberally coated in cake mix) in the other. I made for the phone, and the spaniels, less reluctantly, for the cake spoon, and little did I know then that the simple pleasures of a country co-adjutor bishop were to be suspended, as I heard the crackly tones of a long distance call summoning me to Rome.

Altar Egos

I resolved to resist peeking at Canon Lewis' minimised pages for a good long time. I cast my eyes around and found a ream of perfectly good paper in the recycling bin, next to the shredder. I thought the Canon would appreciate an effort at recycling, so I turned it over, and put it into the paper tray, but he printer did not restart immediately. I wiggled the mouse. Still no luck, so I decided that I had better go into the control panel and investigate - but unfortunately I accidentally activated the slumbering software and the grinning face of Dr Thomson sprang out at me as the printer sprang into action.

The blogmeister

I can't remember the exact post that Damian had made that day. Possibly something about George Galloway singing a woeful ballad to Rowan Williams' eyebrow while dressed as Hinge and Bracket at an ecumenical gathering of transvestite gas engineers.Or  Opus Dei infiltrating the Neo-Catechumenate. (Of course that may have been Eccles. I can't quite keep track). On the odd occasion I drop into the blog to read the posts by Paul Priest and Laurence England to brush up my apologetics, and find out what is going on at the Bishops' Conference, I try to keep a low profile.


On the first tab, Canon Lewis had half finished a comment in the character of a priest called Arthur claiming that there was only ONE Mass and that all traditionalist priests were addicted to lace and incense, and were grinding the faces of the poor in order to fund their expense accounts at Gammarellis.  On the second, he was suggesting, in the character of a layman called Daryl, that Fr Arthur knew what he was talking about, and that everyone who disapproved of Vatican 2 was a giant rabbit or a member of the Russian Mafia. The third tab held an lapsed character called Phil who claimed that only .3% of the population were homosexual (to which Arthur had replied that only .3% of priests celebrated the Tridentine Rite by coincidence) and that Daryl was the best Catholic he had ever met, and the fourth was a chap called Buttonmoon whose job in life seemed to be the sexual propositioning of a character claiming to be a 5000 year old witch. There were a number of other characters, including a pro-Palestinian Jew called Terry, who quoted bits about obscure Jewish festivals and said he only liked Post Vatican 2 Catholicism. Other tabs were also open - several from Wikipedia; one from Google Maps showing the Iberian peninsula; one from the Vatican website outlining the canonical penalties for rash judgment, calumny and detraction, and one on Fr Blake's blog  castigating him for being a capitalist lackey. There was also a post-it note with various other identities and passwords, which I found much later had mysteriously  attached itself to the underside of my soutane.

At this point, however, I heard footsteps, and just about made it back to my armchair and disposed of the fairtraid coffee into the plant pot before the creative Canon re-entered he room.

He was less than pleased that I had finished the printing, but was called away before he could interfere, by his housekeeper announcing the arrival of a chap called Zachary who had some business about noticeboards. I made my excuses - grabbed the printouts and left.

Now I must take Charles and Hetty out for a turn around the glebe before retiring for the night. The wonderful thing about spaniels is that they care very little about Vatican 2 (although prone to re-order any room that they are left in unsupervised) and that their only real vice is greed. TTFN

A window on Canon Lewis' views

As one would expect of the former senior archivist of the diocese, Fr Crusty presented me with a sheaf of bulldog clipped papers, from his ancient box folder. I think I bored you enough the other week with the marriage contract of Aoife, and I did express a note of caution when it was brought to my attention that the original of the Synod of Rath Breasil was a possible forgery (it having been pointed out that its yellowing pages still had a few tea leaves attached) , so I decided to canvass Canon Lewis' views on the matter - and I went forthwith to his bijou little presbytery in Trollbury St Richeldis. (I should say that while the Catholic Church was built on the edge of a 1980's gated housing estate on land sold by the Cutleys during one of their periodic financial crises, the presbytery was in fact the old Anglican Rectory, which lay in the centre of the chocolate box village - and had been sold off by the C of E during one of theirs).

Trollbury St Richeldis, where Canon Lewis is the only Labour voter

He had offered to email me all his correspondence, but Hetty had made a bit of a dogs dinner of my printer cartridge, and I was awaiting the return of Cutley Minimus from Bristol University, as he is the only chap who can deal with the matter (and it helps that he shows an aristocratic indifference to the presence of spaniel spittle).

The good Canon was very dismissive of my concerns about the departure of the Brendanite Oblates, and said that matters had been settled  in a vibrant and forward looking way, and that I need not trouble myself any further on the matter. As I entered his study he sprang to attention, and minimised the windows on his desktop, which took a little while as he seemed to have multiple pages open - all from the Damian Thompson Blog, "Holy Smoke" in that excellent newspaper "The Daily Telegraph". I must admit that I was a little curious at his interest - given that the General and Local Election results in Trollbury Rural (which were helpfully pointed out to me by several outraged parishioners in May 2010)  were as follows:

Biffo Coutts-Leigh Sotherington (Conservative) 30785
Derek Ginjag (Ratepayers against the Channel Tunnel) 20604
Marjory Leigh-Sotherington Coutts (Forty-Shilling Freeholders and Spaniel-Breeders Alliance) 10452
Sid Millispart (Labour) 1

The good canon fiddled about with his online folders, and hit the print button a few times - but after the first page or two - the printer ran out of paper. The Canon was a tad put out, and, having told me not to touch anything, he threw  his donkey-jacket over his shoulders and dashed out to get some more from the church office - which gave me ten minutes or so alone with my temptations.

For Those in Peril

Phew! I spent an uncomfortable morning smuggling the linen despoiled by the spaniels out to the laundrette in Trollford, where Mary McCarthy took pity on me and offered me a service wash with free ironing, as a work of corporal mercy. I am a great believer in social networking, and I count someone whose great-aunt was the lay seamstress in the old Magdalen Laundry as a jewel among contacts. I also popped by the shopping centre and replaced the Thorntons Truffles and sneaked them back into the pantry, having removed two pralines, and left another on the radiator for a few minutes, to create a plausible cover story .

Mrs McElhone was surprised to see that her Easter present had migrated from the airing cupboard, but I explained that I had woken in the middle of the night, and worried that the cold air would trigger the frost thermostat. I pointed to the melted chocolate - and she agreed that I had got there just in time - and thanked me profusely - shutting the pantry door firmly, as Charles and Hetty are not above sneaking in if she leaves the Yale lock on the snick.


I may have escaped explaining certain uncomfortable things to Mrs McElhone, but I fear I must offer some sort of excuse for my absences during the greater part of Lent. I suppose I had better begin with the news that arrived on my doorstep on Ash Wednesday that the Oblates of the Order of St Brendan the Seafarer were about to quit the Diocese, and could they please have their rental deposit back, having left the place in good order, with the usual dilapidations etc etc.

I was surprised to hear that this order had had plans to retrench to their chapterhouse in the Hebrides for some time. I was somewhat perplexed, in fact - so I rang Father Crusty to make enquiries.

The good priest turned up on my doorstep within half an hour with a box folder full of press cuttings about this issue, which, it appeared, had been rather a bone of contention in the north western section of the Diocese.

St Brendan's Chapel

It appeared that in 1862 a group whose apostolate was to care for the spiritual needs of seafarers had set up shop in the quiet fishing village of Trollers Quay, where the Troll estuary met the Irish Sea, and there they pressed some local craftsmen and sailors on shore leave to construct a worthy place of worship. As the local economy was geared to fishing, rather than architecture, the local geniuses decided to stick to what they knew - and a couple of boat builders got involved with the project - giving the diocese its first and only naviform church - which appeared for all the world as if a boat had been upended and plonked at one end of the picturesque harbour. The oblates were very happy with their new abode, as they were followers of St Brendan the Mariner, who sailed the Atlantic - either in a coracle or on top of a millstone, depending on which medieval chronicler you choose to believe.

All proceeded according to plan, and for a century the good oblates tended for the lost and impecunious among the seafaring community, but like so many Catholic orders they took Vatican II a little too seriously, and decided to re-form and re-order, just as the dockers at Westerport decided to go on a ten year strike to protest at the introduction of docker-proof containers - and the result was, sadly, that St Brendans lost a large slice of its income, and most of its parishioners, and the oblates had to start buying their bananas at the local Tesco.

High Camp

Dear me - Easter Tuesday - but I had better keep going, as Mrs McElhone may confiscate the laptop again at any time when she finds out that I forgot to close the airing cupboard door earlier tonight when removing a bath towel, and that, as a consequence, the spaniels  made short work of her Thorntons' Truffles and have subsequently been taken queer over all her Irish linen tablecloths on the third shelf.

I know it was weeks ago that I began this little tale, but you may remember that Fr Lonergan's church in Trollington was built by Italian prisoners of war. As we pressed on towards the sounds which were more unearthly than any I have heard before or since (with the exception of the noise made by two overfed lapdogs being sick in an airing cupboard - which  runs pretty close) the mist lifted, and we saw a collection of little huts in varying stages of disrepair.

Hut - a picture taken later, not showing the guards

One, a little distant from the rest, was in pretty good nick, and I was surprised to see that a number of Trollingtonians were standing guard around it, armed with various bits of ancient weaponry including the odd pitchfork. I was rather reminded of an ancient engraving of the '98 Rebellion which hung over my grandmother's mantelpiece.

As I approached nearer -Fr Lonergan himself emerged with a large key in hand, and locked the door behind him.

Monsignor Porter was a sorry sight as he trudged over to my side. He looked as though he would rather have been tucked up between his nylon sheets, after a Radox bath in his avocado acrylic tub (a cruel touch by the lone beadsmen).

Fr Lonergan got straight to the point - as one tends to do, at the age of 94, when one's mind is on the last four things.

He claimed to represent the political wing of the Trollbridge Catholic Conservation Association which had no connection with the Lone Beadsmen, who were a splinter group who had separated from the Provisional Wing of the TCCA back in the 70s. However - he was happy to act as honest broker, and would use his best endeavours to ensure that things would return to normal chez Porter.

He produced a handwritten contract for the Monsignor, and explained that if he saw fit to sign it, his house would be returned to its erstwhile elegant self. The Monsignor gritted what remained of his teeth and signed on the dotted line, and the Monsignor disappeared around the corner to get a mobile phone signal, having handed his keys to the Monsignor.

We entered the Nissan hut with some trepidation, to find the ACP, who were, in the main, a pathetic spectacle of the Irish clerical estate - rather as their bishops had appeared after the Apostolic Visitation recently. The Monsignor explained that there had been a temporary setback in the Great Leap Forward, but that orders had come from Rome that they were to return to their parishes, and prepare for the 50th Glorious Anniversary of Vatican 2, and the Eucharistic Congress.

Fr Lonergan followed us in and encouraged them in rather earthier tones to feck off back where they came from, and that they were a sorry set of boggers, corner boys, seaneens and gombeen men that would not have got a job clearing the pigsties in Maynooth in his day. The coach driver (who turned out to be Fr Lonergan's third cousin twice removed) chimed in that he would put them off the coach at Dun Laoghaire to make their own way home if they gave any trouble - and that their next trip would be to Lourdes, in the Jumbulance - if they were lucky. The locals escorted the sorry crew back onto their coach, pausing only to relieve Fr Alfredo and Fr Oscar of a couple of German uniforms which they had found in a box at the back of the hut, and which they were loathe to part with.

Fr Lonergan hooked up the Monsignor's car to his Skoda, and heaved it out of the ditch, and we returned  to civilisation via the Little Chef on the Trocklesfield Bypass, to find that the Vetus Ordo had been restored. I could have sworn that I saw Florence Cutley's ancient Landrover  reversing into a nearby cul-de-sac as we turned in at the gate - but it was late, and I was tired - which reminds me that I had better get some sleep before slipping out to get more chocolates tomorrow. TTFN

Scotched in the Mist

Dear me - Easter Monday, and I haven't posted since Mrs McElhone caught me breaking my blogfast and confiscated my laptop. Lots has happened since then, but it was rather unfair of me to leave you all wandering about on the moors so I had better update you on the goings on at Trollington.

The Moors

The Monsignor and I were forced to slow to a crawl, and eventually, thanks to a flock of sheep, we ended up in a rather unforgiving ditch.  I saw a gate, and a cart-track, and suggested that we head along it,in the hope that a friendly farmer might offer us his tractor to heave us out of the quagmire, and perhaps a few fresh eggs to pacify Mrs McElhone. The Monsignor took a more jaundiced view of the potential helpfulness of the theoretical farmer (something about the Kulaks being revisionists and capitalist lackeys) -  and grumbled as he picked his way through the boggy terrain in his Gucci loafers. 

Our journey became more and more like the final sad return of Fanny Robin, in Far From The Madding Crowd, but as I listened to the plop plop of the Monsignor's shoes in the cowpats, his muffled groaning appeared by some acoustic trick or other to get both louder and farther away. As I was about to comment on this, I suddenly bumped into the boot of Fr Lonergan's ancient Skoda. good heavens - what was the equally ancient prelate doing out here, in frail health, after his operation? Paying pastoral visits to sheep farmers? What a trooper! 

With a spring in my step I skipped along the path, confident that I would soon be inside the farmhouse of a welcoming Catholic family, with a beaming housewife, a cosied teapot, and a plate of fresh scones. The moaning got louder, however, and I could make out some fierce oaths and rather a lot of rattling and banging going on. I turned a corner, and there was a fifty-seater coach, with  

Lonergan's Coaches, 

Lonerganstown 

Co Wexford

Trips to Knock a Speciality

 written upon its boot.

It was empty, the keys still dangling in the ignition.

Delays and Diversions

My apologies for leaving you in suspense about the outcome of Monsignor Porter's adventure,  as I was unexpectedly called to Rome to settle a little matter which I may share with you another time. I think we left matters with the good Monsignor loitering palely withal, while the massed ranks of the ACP hared along the highways and byways of Wales intent upon destroying St Peters Trollington at the earliest opportunity. 

Naturally I turned for help to my beads, and (coincidentally, as Prof Dick Dobbin, Senior Lecturer in Comparative Religion at Herstrop would no doubt say) I remembered that Miss O'Dowd - a spinster blessed with an inexhaustible number of nephews in the Construction industry - lived in the North of our fair Diocese, near the Friars Ferry Bypass - a particularly fiendish bit of the road system, and I thought I would ring to find out whether the notorious swingbridge was closed to traffic, which would slow the priests down and give us some thinking time. 

"That was quick", quoth the dear lady, on picking up the phone, and when I replied in the interrogative, she seemed as pinkly (note to self and to whom it may concern - it was not a skyped conversation, so I cannot know for certain what colour she was) and uncharacteristically confused as had Mrs Cutley earlier in the day.

On being apprised of the situation, Miss OD claimed that although it was fairly clear on the road (as far as she could see through her nets and pebble  spectacles) that "it might get busy later on". She seemed in a hurry to get off the phone, and indeed, as Mgr Porter was already heading for the door with car keys in hand, I lost no time in following him, and we were once again doing a fair impression of Jeremy Clarkson along the Trocklesfield Bypass in order to reach Trollington before darkness descended. 

View from the public toilets 

Two pieces of luck transpired. I found later, that the ACP coach had decided to make a toilet stop in a small Welsh village, as Fr Oscar and Fr Alfredo had had one too many camparis on the ferry and were unwilling or unable to last out until they got to the Little Chef at Trollsmere Port. Just as well, really, as they were delayed for two hours, just a mile beyond Friars Ferry, where a builder's lorry shed its load just at the entrance to the swingbridge. I dread to think what might have happened had they not spent those happy hours beforehand, ensuring that they were fully drained.

It therefore transpired that the ACP and ourselves arrived at pretty much the same time, from different directions, on the moors above Trollington, but as luck would have it, a sudden mist rolled in from the direction of the setting sun, and we were lost.

Design for Living

The Decade that Taste forgot

I followed Mgr Porter as fast as I could - but bear in mind that this man had been driving Cardinals around Rome, when I was still falling off my Raleigh tricycle in the front garden. However - I was able to follow the trail of roadkill and  skidmarks, and arrived chez Porter to find a distressed cleric leaning on the gatepost unable to do more than mutter incoherently about lining the traddies up against the wall and shooting them come the revolution. I don't remember that particular instruction from Lumen Gentium - but suggested we go inside for a cup of tea.

The sight that met us was a revelation, and I would refer readers back to a previous post where I remarked upon Mgr Porter's exquisite taste in furniture. "Gosh", I said. The curtains alone spoke eloquently without help from me.

Brentford Nylon sheets, of course

It appeared that person or persons unknown had entered the property whilst Mgr Porter had been engaged in attempting to re-order Trollington, and had decided to improve his own residence along the same lines, so that it looked for all the world like Jason King's bachelor pad. On the plus side, he had acquired a rather nice stereo of the type I had lusted after as a teenager, in order to play my Roxy Music albums - and there, on the smoked perspex lid, was a letter, which I took the liberty of opening and perusing. It ran as follows:

Dear Baz

We feel it is high time that you updated your abode, to reflect the Spirit of Vatican 2.

Enjoy

The Lone Beadsmen

PS if you want your old junk back before we break it up for firewood, then LAY OFF our churches.
PPS If you use the trouser press it may well set your pants on fire, but that would be forty years overdue for all the drivel you write in the Tablet.

"Hmm," I said carefully choosing my words."Looks like you haven't a prayer, old chap. We had better tootle back to Trollington and give them the good er - awful news".

But our chum had gone pale again. "What about the ACP? They are due in Trollington any time now. We may be too late!"

Awfully sorry to leave it there, chaps and chapesses, but I have just discovered that Charles and Hetty have been under the eiderdown impersonating a pair of hot water bottles and I must sneak them downstairs before Mrs McElhone gets wind of it, or there'll be hell to pay tomorrow. TTFN

Monsignor Porter goes off the rails

I think I left you (before my slight digression into the history of St Peters) in the narthex, and I must now draw your attention to the lonely figure of the septuagenarian Mgr Porter, who, unlike my good self, can operate a satnav. I could see his little bald head going pinker and pinker until it had reached the hue of my favourite Laetare Sunday rose vestments - not that he would have appreciated the simile. As I pushed through a crowd of angrily gesticulating Trollingtonian parishioners I noted that his face had changed to a Lenten purple, and mindful of the fact that I had just heard Tony Archer having a heart attack in the milking shed as a result of an argument, I determined - despite my sympathy for the altar rail supporters, to apply some balm of Gilead and sow peace where there was discord.

Come to think of it, those altar rails are not brass, but don't tell Mgr P

"I say, Monsignor - I think I might just need to check out a few bits from the archives before we unscrew the rails, as I seem to remember Fr Crusty telling me they were retrieved from a bombed out church in Trollford, which is now the site of Mr Hussein's Camel Accessories Emporium. I'm not quite sure if there is an ownership issue here....". I thought this was a splendid delaying tactic - but the prelate's face was as black as an EF funeral as he hissed, "You are a fool of Shakespearian proportions. Just because you got away with selling my chalice - with those palpably forged documents....you won't thwart me again. I have a coachload of ACP* guerillas who are even now on the hydrofoil, and are due to disembark within the hour at Holyhead - and they are armed with copies of Sacrosanctum Consilium and hacksaws. We will re-order this abominable throwback of a church before Gabriel Burke can get his biretta on".

It appeared Fr Crusty had been a little creative with his documentation in support of the chalices - Fr Porter's friend Sr Judy had looked up the synod of Rath Breasil, in Wikipedia, and had found out that it had taken place  almost sixty years before St Finian had mislaid his chalice. This rather put me on the spot, and I was about to say something which would no doubt have made matters worse, when a motorbike courier stormed into the church and delivered an envelope to Mgr Porter. He read the contents and turned pale, and ran out of the building, got into his Ford Capri, and zoomed away. I picked up the discarded message and read it, perplexed. It said, simply "Congratulations - you have won a free makeover courtesy of Mrs Bedonebyasyoudid".

*ACP = Association of Communist Priests

The Italian Job

St Peters, Trollington, could not lay claim to an illustrious architect or wealthy patron, as could other churches in the Diocese. The Irish millworkers who came to the valley just in time for the Catholic Emancipation Act were grateful for the opportunity of hearing Mass( somewhere other than in a field, with lookouts posted to spot approaching redcoats), and so just about scraped together enough to buy an old Unitarian chapel, (whose worship leader had got lost on the moor repeatedly, and decided to return to Crandleford in a huff)  and to furnish it respectably. By the 1940s the original chapel was bursting at the seams, and a rather enterprising young priest decided to build a new church on a rocky outcrop of land he begged from one of the local mills.

Original plans for Trollbridge Cathedral

Now, the War put the kibosh on many a building project - what with the shortage of workmen, and rather rampant inflation. That could be why the people of Trollbridge, having put their hard-earned pennies towards a fabulous Byzantine Cathedral designed by Lutyens with a Dome bigger than St Peters Basilica, and having seen the magnificent foundations and crypt completed only for the entire workforce to down tools and go off to war -  woke one morning in the 1960s to find that there had been a slight change of plan - and that they were expected to worship in a concrete wigwam instead.

In Trollington, meanwhile, young Fr Lonergan solved the labour problem by corralling a large group of Italian POWs, who lived on the moors above Trollington, and were hanging about after VE Day, waiting to go home, warm their bones, and get some decent grub. Owing to bureaucracy (and possibly some rather sneaky novenas by Fr Lonergan)  they were not shipped out straight away, and to occupy their time, and give thanks to God, they gladly volunteered their labour and built an exquisite church using local stone, but with the elegance,beauty and warming love of the South. Fr Lonergan searched far and wide for items and materials which he liberated from bomb sites, and the Italians took time out from flirting with the local girls to construct a marble Altar, and a magnificent Mosaic of the Crucifixion behind it.  I would like to be able to say that people came from far and wide to admire the church, and many did indeed heave out the Morris Oxford, or Vauxhall Cavalier over the years,but they generally got lost on the moors, and ended up at a Methodist tea rooms instead. Many of the Italians stayed, and married local girls, which did wonders for the gene pool and the church population. Fr Lonergan stayed too - and while he was too conscientious not to follow direct orders from Rome in the matter of the Novus Ordo, he read them very strictly, and ignored the blandishments of the modernisers.

A Diversion via Trollington

In my haste to leave unencumbered by the spaniels, and to avoid the protestations of my doughty if put-upon housekeeper, who had just put away her mop, and was about to settle down to  Jeremy Kyle and the ironing, (fortified only by a pot of Bewley's tea, a Tunnocks wafer, and the eager if not wholly holy anticipation of a large dose of schadenfreude)I had neglected to bring my trusty Ordnance Survey map on which Mgr Porter's residence was marked  with splodge of marmalade (dating from an incident involving an argument about a reredos with Fr Crusty over breakfast in a Happy Eater on a previous expedition), and soon got hopelessly lost.

I took a wrong turning somewhere near the Trocklesfield Bypass, and in no time the trusty Yaris was climbing steadily away from the mellow redbrick farms and cottages around Trollbridge, and up in the hills, where all at once the scenery changed to moors and limestone, dotted with little Wesleyan chapels marking the footsteps of the 18th Century Anglican who got fed up with his own hierarchy, but had the politeness to leave existing parish churches unmolested, and build his own (now mainly teashops serving hikers in cagoules - but it's the thought that counts).

Trollington

At last I descended via a series of corkscrew bends, into a valley that was all but invisible to anyone even half a mile away. It was the Diocese's very own Brigadoon - the village of Trollington - which by strange coincidence was the place where the church that had incurred the good prelate's wroth was situate. Here the clocks had stopped circa 1979. There were small shops, a park, a bandstand, a cricket ground, a police station with a blue lamp,and a gaggle of public houses. Most surreal of all, there  was a factory - a working factory nestling down by the River Trollin.  After negotiating the steep incline up to the church car park I could hear the sound of arguing coming from the Narthex - even over the noise of Tom and Tony Archer disputing the wisdom of growing chilis,  on the radio, and the windows of the Yaris were (as usual) jammed shut because I had lost the user's manual telling me how to release the locks).

I ran inside but stopped in amazement for a second time, as the sun glinted through the stained glass windows, at an angle that dazzled my eyes. It disappeared behind a cloud but my eyes remained dazzled, for there - prevailing against Mgr Porter were a set of plain but lovingly polished brass altar rails.

A conversation with Mrs Cutley

Mrs Cutley would not be drawn on the use of her croquet lawn for the Jubilee Fireworks - she said she would have to check the bookings - as she keeps body soul and roof in one piece by hiring out the place for weddings, christenings and other respectable events, since her husband had been lured into becoming a Lloyds name shortly before the whole insurance business had collapsed like a sponge-cake in a hurricane.

She showed no inclination to settle the matter by retrieving the ledger in question, from her office, but she did ask what Abbot Charlie was using, now that they were chalice-less after the little adventure I related earlier. I had to admit that I had not given the matter much thought, as I was currently involved in rather a spat with the 568745 descendents of the McMurrough-Kavanaghs who had seen the hoo-hah on the interweb thingy and produced legal claims reflecting varying interpretations of agnastic kinship, concubinage, and property rights in the Mediaeval kingdom of Leinster. Mrs McElhone says this is an average amount of litigation over an Irish Will, and that everyone will forget about it in about 700 years, which I did not find too reassuring.

"Ah" said the dear chatelaine, "I nearly forgot!" She disappeared, locking the door behind her (rather unnecessary as the cavaliers will only attempt the door handles if there is chocolate on the other side, and I know that Mrs C keeps a strict Lent). She reappeared with a decent and serviceable chalice such as one might have found in any small parish which had slipped under Mgr Porter's radar. I was a little worried about its provenance, but she assured me that it was one of a number of odds and ends that she kept  "in a secure place" and looked after reverently for Fr Crusty, who would vouch for its authenticity. I thanked her profusely, and said that the monks would be thrilled, and that it would serve as an exemplar (as after I had checked a few bits and pieces with a friend at the CDF, I had decided to do a full audit of all such items in the diocese, to ensure that they were of precious metal and generally fit for purpose).

"Oh - no trouble", she said. "There are plenty more...fish in the sea" she began confidently and ended rather lamely, as if she had changed her mind about something midway through the sentence. I know it is generally held that la donna e mobile, but it is a cliche that does not seem to apply to those females within my circle.

That reminded me that it was time to boldly go (though the phrase makes even the most amateur of latinists, like myself wince) and seek out the Monsignor, while my petition to the Fisherman was still fresh in both our minds.


I promised Mrs Cutley I would try to pour oil on troubled waters with Mgr Porter, and told her I would call upon him straight away. The dear lady pointed out quite sensibly that generations of muddy dogs had left their mark on the interior of Trollbury Manor, going back to the time it was a Saxon hunting lodge built around two hefty oak trees which held up the roof of the Hall, (and against which many a wolf hound and spaniel had cocked a leg) leading to a certain insouciance on the part of her ancestors and herself about the presence of canines.

Mgr Porter's withdrawing room

Mgr Porter, however, had been brought up in a modest semi in Chestnut Crescent, Trollford - and his notions of cleanliness were bourgeois, even if his politics were not.

Over the years, he had acquired a good many nice pieces of furniture from elderly parishioners in Trollbury, which is one of the more desirable postcodes in the diocese, and his retirement bungalow had rather a decent collection of Beidermeier furniture which would not appreciate the patina of spaniel bite marks or worse. Flash photography is verboten chez Porter, in case it fades the antique velvet curtains, but I found a picture which gives you a flavour of his residence here.

I therefore hurtled back across the fields at a speed not seen since I the spaniel racing qualifying heats at Husborne Crawley last year (We will begin our training in plenty of time this year - and I am very hopeful that Hetty will not be distracted by a dead duck again, as the Referee agreed with me that the Frisbee Baptists were probably to blame, and would in future be thoroughly searched before gaining admittance. It was certainly a giveaway that they were hiding in the hedge dressed as Puritans and made a joke about predestination when the old girl veered off course. Pre-cognition, more likely).

Having decanted the dogs into Mrs McElhone's pristine kitchen, I snatched the keys to the Yaris, and left precipitately before the yelps of dismay (from all parties concerned) could weaken my resolve.

Navy Larks

I think I left you in Mrs Cutley's boot room with two panting and muddy Cavaliers, and an equally dishevelled lady of the manor, for which I must apologise.

Mrs Cutley soon recovered her customary hauteur (as did Hetty and Charlie) without feeling the need to shake herself clean all over the Hunter Wellies (unlike two spaniels who shall remain nameless). She left and returned immediately with two steaming mugs of builders' tea. Not quite the Earl Grey and Copenhagen experience that usually represents her welcoming salvo, but it was appreciated nonetheless. Before I could get a word in edgeways and tap the good lady to lend her lawn for the firework display in June, however, she made so bold as to tackle me about Mgr Porter.

Apparently he had taken the news about the chalice very badly, and was on the warpath. With Mgr Porter that usually meant a spot of aggiornamento - which is Italian for ripping a perfectly respectable church to shreds, and relocating the tabernacle on a lifebuoy somewhere to the west of St Kilda.

Cathedral minding its own business and packed to the gunnels

Some people (notably those who disdained to buy their bedding from Brentford Nylons in the 1970s) have coined the term "wreckovation" for this particular activity, and deep down I do wonder sometimes whether Sr Cain had made Pope Paul VI one of her signature omelettes, on the day he signed the instruction which effectively let a bunch of Theology graduates without so much as a CSE in bricklaying wreak havoc on 1500 years worth of Church Architecture.

Fr Crusty did tell me once that it was the Masons who were responsible, so I expect they had a passing acquantaince with the tools of the trade, though I would not like to sit underneath the great lump of cast iron shown below on a windy day. Were I the new incumbent of Milwaukee, I would be severely tempted to hold an ecumenical service for Romanian scrap metal dealers, and let nature take its course.

After the archbishop's friends Julian and Sandy have given it a  makeover

Anyway, what happens (for any of our separated brethren who might be reading this blog) is that a congregation wakes up after the sermon one Sunday and finds the above sight has turned into this, and as they stumble in a daze towards the door, they fall over the baptismal font and straight into the folk choir, scattering the liturgical dancers like leotard-clad dominoes.

Rum stuff, and as you have guessed, I am none too keen, but Mgr Porter proceeds like a Narvik class destroyer at full steam ahead, and ignoring all instructions to heave to. I decided to SOS a fisherman of my acquaintance, seeking immediate assistance. He was a decent chap who went off course a couple of times, but made it safely to harbour, and I was sure that he would have the key to the whole affair.

All property is theft

You might have gathered, from the strange tale of the Chalices, that Fr Crusty had promised to straighten things out with Monsignor Porter vis a vis the sale of Sr Myra Cain's pottery chalice, which the Monsignor had kindly donated in a fit of youthful enthusiasm, to the monks of Trollfast, on his return from Rome in the early 1960s. As diocesan archivist, I had been been privy to many of his writings upon the subject of the Pastoral Council better known to the hoi polloi as Vatican II. He had also ventured into the cellars of the episcopal palace on occasion to bring me copies of The Tablet -  with the many  letters and articles by his own good self therein  helpfully circled in green ink, and stood over me while I found a space for them on the top shelf.

Lagulavin Distillery, dear home of Fr Crusty's heart

I was puzzled as to why Father Crusty (my predecessor as archivist) had not seen fit to set up an archive as he had for the Catholic Herald, or The Universe, and asked him casually, over the Lagavulin, one Christmas, upon his seemingly uncharacteristic dereliction of archiving duty in failing to file Mgr Porter's musings away for posterity. "Ah", quoth the good prelate, whose eye was twinkling like the candle in a distant bothy seen across an Islay peat bog in the gloaming and whose accent was gradually taking on the delicate aroma of the tincture he was imbibing in the manner of an extra in Whisky Galore , "Tm a wee deal deef, and I thocht he was asking my to file it away fer posteriors."

It is beyond the scope of this blog to tell the full story of Fr Crusty's shenanigans over the years in relation to the re-ordering (or as he would term it "wreckovating") of various churches within the diocese. He has always managed to maintain what our erstwhile colonial cousins might term "plausible deniability", but it has been noted in a series of anonymous denunciations (written in green ink, sealed in a plain brown envelope and pushed under the door at odd times of the day and night) that he frequently keeps company with desperadoes such as Miss Eileen O'Dowd, (a retired spinster schoolteacher of traditionalist leanings with a nephew who runs a construction business) and a Mrs Florence Cutley, who is blessed with a large number of outbuildings attached to the demesne of Trollbury Manor. Suffice it to say that the twinkle in  Fr Crusty's eye  seldom leads o'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent as far as Mgr Porter unless he has some news to impart that would annoy the great and diligent moderniser.

I had better leave off here, as all this talk of whisky has reminded me that I have a small hot toddy to assemble on the instructions of Mrs McElhone, as I caught a chill today while conducting Hettie and Charlie through a ditch into which we had unexpectedly diverted to escape being run over by a large builders' lorry while we were on the way to see Mrs Cutley about the plans for the Jubilee celebrations. She left me standing on the doorstep for quite a while , and I could hear muffled bangings and shouting from within. When she finally appeared she looked pink with exertion, and (although it may be my imagination) a little distracted, although I can't blame her for restricting us to the boot room, as both the cavaliers were unfit for polite company or antique carpets after their experiences. TTFN

Sister Cain's hidden talents

Abbot Charlie, and Brother Derek had little option to concede defeat in the matter of the Chalice of the Bonds (as their unwanted artefact should, according to Fr Crusty's photostats, be properly called). There was the little matter of the Master to deal with, however. He strode up, waving his stick in a manner that could not quite match his overwhelmingly sinister appearance, but which certainly complemented and enhanced it. Thwarted of one chalice, he began to demand the return of the green glass thingy on behalf of the gemologist ladies I think I mentioned earlier.

Sighing heavily, the abbot opened the boot of his  little two-seater Spyder and reached in to get it. Fr Crusty came out of the Rooms, accompanied by the auctioneer, and shouted at the abbot to stop and desist - and that chalices should be deconsecrated before being used for other purposes. Actually, I remembered then that I had read something similar on Fr Mildew's blog - or it might be Fr Blake's, (we didn't do much on this sort of thing when I was a student at Herstrop, so there are a few gaps in my knowledge, though I did cram a fair amount about liberation theology and the Thoughts of Chairman Kung or someone similar). Charlie, startled, dropped the chalice, and it shattered into a thousand pieces on the tarmac. Fr Crusty,as is his wont when faced with frustrating circumstances exclaimed "Sancte Michael Archangele, Defende nos in proelio", and The Master took off like a bat out of Hell.

The auctioneer peered into the boot and lifted out the pottery chalice. "I say" said he,"This looks like a genuine Myra Cain. Look - there's her mark on the bottom."

Don't use these mushrooms in your omelette today

Nuns are strange and wonderful creatures. Some cleric or other once said that hearing their confession was like being bombarded with popcorn - however Sr Myra's confessor might have had a few rock-cake sized bruises from about 1965 onwards, because she certainly had a generous interpretation of her vows, and she quitted what was left of her Order, after raising their consciousness with the aid of a few organic vegetarian mushroom omelettes to such levels that they all got on a VW minibus and set off from Virginia Beach to cross an invisible land bridge to Atlantis where they hoped to rendezvous with Edgar Cayce, and await the Second Coming.

Sister Myra had excused herself from the trip on the grounds that she had to say hasta la vista to a gigantic invisible Iberian rabbit, (or sephardic  rabbi - the inquest notes were a little unclear), and she ended up in New York where she met a nice Catholic chap called Andy Warhol, who persuaded her to anoint herself in oils of gladness and roll around on a conveniently placed canvas (perhaps he was a member of the Neo-catechumenate - I'm not awfully sure what they get up to). She sold the resulting efforts and retired to Martha's Vineyard, where she ran a little pottery workshop until her mysterious disappearance a few years ago. Our chalice was one of her earliest works, and the auctioneer reckoned it would fetch about £50k.

You see - the Chap Upstairs generally has much better ideas in mind than anything we poor members of the Church Militant can produce unaided. Fr Crusty said he would be delighted to de-consecrate the said item, and square things with Monsignor Porter, and the monks put a brave face on things (though I noted later from the catalogue that the reserve price on St Finian's chalice was rather more whopping by a factor of 10).
So there you have it. And now I must get back to work, while I anticipate Mrs McElhone's latest Fast Day triumph. You may be surprised to hear I am working on Ash Wednesday, but Canon Lewis raised the bar last year by engaging in secular occupations all the way up to 2.50 on Good Friday, and beavered away on his magnum opus on apologetics all the way through the Royal Wedding, whilst Mrs McElhone, the cavaliers and I were sitting moist-eyed on the sofa with a box of popcorn, admiring young Kate's modest attire and sparing use of attendants.

Calicem Ad Vincula

Suffering Sedevacantists! Can it be Ash Wednesday already? For my sins, I have been kept extremely busy sorting out a bit of a PR disaster over the weekend, and have been up to my eyes in Curricula Vitae yesterday and today, interviewing for a new Communications Director. It's a long story, but first I had better return to the Dramatis Personae gathered in the Trollchester Auction Rooms and update you on the denoument of this curious tale. 


I think that where I left off, I was praying for help. I find the whole business of prayer a bit shy-making to explain to strangers, but my belief (for what it's worth - and Canon Lewis frequently remarks that it is worth considerably less than a footnote on a cornflake packet) is that when I pray for something specific, I get one of three answers - "Yes" (evidenced by a sunny day for Summer Fair); "Later",(evidenced by an initial shower, followed by a lovely fresh damp afternoon, with no old ladies fainting from heatstroke); or "We've got something better in mind"(evidenced by torrential rain ruining the outdoor folk choir performance of "Now That's What I Call Kevin Mayhew's Greatest Hits" Volume 163, saving on copyright fees, and thus ensuring the Fair turns a profit for a change, as the grateful licensee of the Cat and Fiddle does unprecedented trade in the Trollstons Old Peculiar Tent).


I turned my attention to Fr Crusty's photostats. They were as follows:


1.was a long treatise in High Gaelic on the Brehon Laws covering agnastic kinship and inheritance (called Slainte Mor or some such).

The Marriage of Aoife - I do love a Traveller Wedding

2. was a grant from Dermot McMurrough, King of Leinster to Aoife, McMurrough of all rights to personal and movable property listed as including  a debt of honour pertaining to a donkey and trap race between the said Dermot and the Bishop of Clonard in 1160 in which all the possessions of the latter wheresoever located and whensoever inherited were forfeited by the said cleric who had the misfortune to have bet the diocesan silver on a three-legged specimen of Equus africanus asinus, and presumably felt himself to be rather an two legged member of the same species as a consequence.


3. was an extract from the Synod of Rath Breasail confirming the above


4. was a marriage contract between Aoife and some chap called Richard De Clare, Second Earl of Pembroke in 1167.

At this point, the documents became a little easier to read, being in good old Latin, with marginal notes in  medieval Norman-French, and mainly concerned rights of turbary, pescary and advowsons pertaining to the Earls of Pembroke, and a series of conveyances taking us to the era where one of Aoife's remote protestant descendants had lost a packet at the gaming tables of Monte Carlo in 1830 odd, and sold off some land to the Roman Catholic Church (which they had stolen at the Reformation, as evidenced by a photostat of a report by Thomas Cromwell on the wilful non-compliance of the "Abbot of Trolefast" in the matter of refusing to re-order the old Abbey and celebrate a service facing the congregation. Cromwell then re-ordered it by taking the roofs off both the Abbey and its inhabitants in short order).

The gist of it was that  under English Irish and Welsh Law, the chalice was not Treasure Trove, and, when the Diocese bought the land the "new" Abbey was built upon in fee simple, they got the chalice as a free gift, rather like those little plastic toys I used to so look forward to in a cornflake packet.

All documentation was as watertight as the Trollstons tent, so I apologised to the auctioneer and shepherded  the rather disconsolate monks outside to the car park. Goodness me - is that the time? I haven't even burnt my old palms for tomorrow morning yet. More tomorrow. TTFN

Grappling with Synthia

A triumph for Mrs McElhone, on the Friday Fast Front. As the last mouthful of omelette fluttered gently over my tongue like golden angel feathers onto the tomb of a Virgin Martyr, and down my throat into the catacombs of my digestive system, I was compelled to utter "Truly, "Mrs Mac, I hereby dub you "Regina Ovi Coquina".

She looked a little suspicious as she wiped her hands on her pinny, and collected the plates. "That reminds me, Your Grace, Miss Bracket can't do Benediction tonight, so you'll have to fire up Synthia, or do it as plainchant".

Synthia - they don't advertise the fiendish cabling, I notice

That was a bit of a blow, as you can imagine. I simply can't face fiddling with Synthia's cabling - I prefer to leave that  to Mrs Butler from the UCM, or one of her co-madres,who seem to know more about that sort of thing. UCM-ers are a little thin on the ground at Friday Benediction, however, as it clashes with Bingo night at the United Reformed Church, and as Mrs Butler explained to me, "Canon Lewis says it's important to be ecumenical and stay true to our working class roots, while avoiding occasions of bourgeois recidivism involving dead languages".

I must admit that the switch to a Latin litany has not been universally popular, but we do get quite a large crowd of local LMS bods, and that certainly keeps the landlord of the Cat and Fiddle happy, as he forages far and wide for extra stocks of Trollston Old Peculiar, and Pat at the local micro-brewery told me he plans to expand his operations, build a conservatory, and send his son to Ampleforth next year.

"I'll do chant," said I to Mrs Mac. "When you are out buying your Euromillions ticket later, could  you pop into the chemist and buy me a giant pack of Covonias to hand round the congregation". Be prepared, I always say (although I was never allowed to join the Scouts, because my mother held strong views about Baden Powell being a freemason).

Rash Judgement.

Let's see now - where had I got up to with this interminable saga about the chalices?

Ah yes. All the interested parties were gathered in the ante-chamber, which (as those who remember Aristotle will realise), is the venue for all the real action taking place. The Auctioneer looked about as happy as Cardinal Siri after the 1958 Enclave (a favourite expression of Mgr Porter - not sure what it means). The Master was twiddling the knob on his cane and muttering something about Belle Isle. Strange time to be thinking about a tourist resort in Michigan, but as I said, he did seem a few dolly mixtures short of a quarter at the best of times, imho. My scapular began to itch terribly for some unknown reason (Note to Mrs McElhone to switch to Non-Bio - which will have the added benefit of restoring my shattered credentials with the Justice-and-Green-Peace chaps and chapesses who gave me grief for eating a KitKat on camera at the CWL knees up last week).

The Judgment of Paris (Bally hot in the Auction Rooms)

The auctioneer was scrutinising Fr Crusty's photostats with horror, and shook his head with such vigour that a cloud of dandruff descended onto his pinstriped shoulders like confetti at a Traveller wedding (Note to Fr Crusty that he is not to make a big scene at Travellers' nuptials about whether they have been supping Cava in the stretch limo within the Communion Fast period, as last year's First Communion cancellations were a sore point with the church cleaners, though the lady from Channel 4 seemed quite happy, and wrote to me last week saying the cameraman's operation had gone well).

"I'm sorry - you will have to sort this one out between yourselves" he said, and all eyes turned to me. Rather a Judgement of Paris moment, except with chalices rather than golden apples, and Fr Crusty, Abbot Charlie, and  The Master standing in for Pallas Athene, Hera and Aphrodite, in no particular order. I wracked my brains trying to think which choice would result in Ultimate Wisdom, and which one was potentially trouble like Helen of Troy (to be avoided at all costs if I'm not to end up under siege from newspaper reporters). Couldn't remember for the life of me what Hera had promised, but it gave me the idea of asking for help from a female who really knows what's what, and so I offered up a plea silently for help.

More later - Mrs McElhone is insisting I appear with hands washed at the lunch table, because a man can wait for an omelette, but an omelette can't wait for a man. TTFN

A Trollchester Auction

The Master

Phew! Quite a day today, all told. Now I am tucked up in bed with some cocoa, Herman the German, and my laptop, and I expect you are all waiting to find out if Abbot Charlie got enough to buy his pews at the auction in Trollchester today. Having prayed all the way on the train for inspiration, I got to the Auction Rooms and surveyed the chamber, wondering what sort of person buys this sort of thing. There was a tall bearded chap looking rather like the Master in Dr Who (not the Life on Mars Johnny or I Claudius - I mean the old fellow who was the Third Doctor's adversary - played with elan by Roger Delgado). Slightly sinister piece of work, with a purple cloak, a skull-topped cane, and the sort of eyebrows that would give Damian Thompson a hissy fit.

There was a large preponderance of chaps in Gannex raincoats buttoned up to the collar, with their heads obscured by catalogues which they were reading myopically and intently. They looked vaguely familiar, I have to say. One particular old chap was the absolute spit of Fr Crusty. In fact when I pushed my glasses well up onto my nose, I saw it was indeed  our dear old Dean, and strode over to greet him. "Sssh" he whispered in his quavery old tenor voice - "I'm here incognito". That gave me quite a shock, as I have seen this Incognito chappie on Damian's blog, and he seems to get blasted by the moderators at every turn - goodness knows what vile blasphemieshe must be uttering devant les enfants terribles to merit that sort of treatment. I made a note to speak to him rather harshly over an amontillado at the next deanery bash, but he interrupted me. "I'm here to save the priceless Chalice of St Finian from desecration and destruction". 

Apparently Charlie's choice of chalice was rather unfortunate. St Finian shone like a good deed in a naughty Dark Age. He was recruited by St Madoc, in 500 and something and whatever sort of teacher training they did in seminary in those days, it would certainly not go astray in our own dear Herstrop College. He filled the fields of Clonard with lashings of monks and priests, and in 560 or thereabouts he decided to come back over here in his coracle, and show the Welsh and Scots how it was done. Unfortunately he got rather lost in our neck of the woods and possibly forgot to pack his travelling chalice in his rucksack while being chased north by the pagan Saxons. Easily done - I can't tell you the number of umbrellas I have lost this way. 

Anyway, Fr Crusty had a folder full of photostats proving ownership, and a gleam in his eye. The bidding had started, and was getting heated. The Master was  bidding against the men in raincoats, and they were all bidding against each other. As things hotted up, coats were undone, and, I realised too late, so were the owners. For beneath the musty mackintoshes were a collection of dog collars seldom seen in such profusion outside a Eucharistic Congress. Goodness - this was going to bankrupt the Diocese. 

Then Fr Crusty stood up and shouted in the tone of voice that he usually kept for contraceptors and Eucharistic Ministers who turn up in sandals "'In the name of the Law of England and Wales I declare to all present that the object being Lot 66, described as a Cup is being put to auction without the consent of the owners, said object being in the ownership of The Diocese of Trollbridge. I being Fr Crusty from Richham Magna claim ownership to the said object." Obviously this caused no small confusion in the ranks, so I  grabbed Fr Crusty, and the chalice - and the Auctioneer and various of the unsuccessful bidders followed into the ante-room. 

I'll save what followed for tomorrow's post, as I got a little carried away typing, and spilt my cocoa all over poor Herman. He bore it stoically, but I had better go and sponge him down, as ancient teddies, like ancient chalices deserve respectful treatment and a spot of tlc. TTFN

Something's driving me pottery

Chalice 1 - Pottery thingy

Spoke to Abbot Charlie at Trollfast this morning. It took me a while to get through. I kept getting  the gardener, and then the beekeeper. Dreadfully bad buzzing noise from the hives or the lawnmower or similar. Eventually I got Mrs Cutley to ring from her daughter's mobile, and finally got Charlie, much to his surprise and mine own. I think the gardener and the beekeeper may be related, because they sound awfully similar to the Abbot. It rather threw me, I must admit, because I remembered that there are only two monks left at the Abbey, which is why they are "downsizing" to a rather nice 6 bedroom architect designed glass and concrete pile on the London Road, which is handy for Budgens, apparently. Anyway, Charlie explained that three chalices were not really required, so they had been convinced by the lay committee that advised them on finances to flog off one of them to pay for a set of comfy pews from this place. http://www.heals.co.uk/furniture/armchairs/icat/armchairs Jolly pricy I understand, and they had already promised their old ones to some cove from Brighton called Fr Blake (chap who does all his own DIY, by the look of the blog) who needed them for some down and out mendicant friars he had met at his soup kitchen. http://marymagdalen.blogspot.com/2012/02/some-needy-monks.html. 

Chalice2 - Green Thingy

So, to cut a long story short, they had had a show of hands, and voted which chalice to keep. They were mindful of the fact that Chalice 1 was a gift from Monsignor Porter, on his return from Rome in 1964, and which had been personally thrown by one of his dear friends there, a Sr Cain. ("Not far enough" said Mrs Cutley when she saw it, but her metiers are flower arrangements and organising the strawberry pavlovas for the Summer Fair, so not much of an expert.)

Next there was a green glass thingy, with an unusual design. I thought it might be have been an an attempt by an etcher with dyscalculia to make a Star of David, but Fr tells me it is actually a timeshare chalice which is kept specially for a group of 13 ladies who meet to discuss gemology and candlemaking, and to do free veterinary work on local cats, once every (lunar) month. He didn't want to get into ownership arguments given all the fracas in Ramsgate recently, so, wise old bird that he is, he suggested that he had been correct in selecting Chalice 3 for disposal.

Chalice 3 - Old thingy dug up from ground

When he showed me a black and white picture of this (I dug this one out later), I must admit I thought that it had been dug up from a field. In fact this is exactly what had happened back in 1840-odd. While old AWN Pugin was beavering away in the North Transept, young Edward and Agnes were digging about in the foundations during the hols, and unearthed it. Louisa, their mater, buffed it up with some Goddards or whatever they used in the mid 1800s, had the chaps from the British Museum give it the once-over, grabbed it back and smuggled it out under her cape, and presented it to the monks (then about 120 strong, so it was a handy size). 

Anyway, I have decided to have a word with the chap upstairs, and attend the auction later this afternoon, and see what transpires. TTFN.

A Message of Welcome

Unaccustomed as I am to the machinations of interweb posting, I  thought it would be a jolly good idea to keep you all posted on what is going on. I must admit I was rather surprised last month, when I learnt I was to be given this job. As some of you know, I was previously the Diocesan Archivist, and in my spare time I had the run of a rather pretty little parish in Whitney Parva. I had just finished filing away some documents (the minutes of the Catenian Silver Jubilee Committee - awfully interesting stuff - I was up at Oxford at the time so missed it, but it certainly took me back to the days when Canon Lewis was a dead ringer for Barry Manilow).

 I digress. (Rather a bad habit of mine actually). I had just dusted down a little votive table, and was clicking open my tupperware box to see what culinary delights Mrs McElhone, my housekeeper, had provided for luncheon, when there was a swishing noise from behind the bookshelves, and there was the Nuncio's special emissary with a box folder and a bottle of Bolly. 

To cut a long story short, he announced the rather gobsmacking news that I had been chosen to be co-adjutor Bishop. I was rather taken aback, truth be told, as I thought there were a lot of chaps much better qualified than myself, and I said so. Canon Lewis, for instance is keen as mustard - on all sorts of committees, and got degrees in Theology of Sociology or one of those new-fangled subjects, whereas I just whiled away my time at Christchurch getting a few bits and pieces to do with dead languages. Still, there you are. Rum cove, this new Pope, but pretty sound imho, though the good Canon has reservations.

Anyway, must dash, as I am wading through rather a lot of paperwork to do with the sale of redundant artefacts at the moment. The Abbot of Trollfast is relocating his lads to a new place, and is holding a skip sale, but some people are giving me grief about it. Must investigate. TTFN