Home Rule for Cornwall?

The view from Trelissick

We had four nights in Cornwall this week - my summer holiday. The weather was wonderful, and Falmouth, where we stayed, was great. But so much art around the place! We went to the town's art gallery, but it was hosting a party for hundreds of infants and their carers, so you could not get near the exhibits for nappies and (fairly) yummy mummies. They had on the walls of the staircase, though, childrens' pictures inspired by the Tall Ships (they' d been in Falmouth the previous week). My, some of those kids' paintings were terrific.

Silent Witness

Equally awesome was the show at a favourite gallery, Lemon Street in Truro. The potter displaying his work there is Jason Wason. Here is one of his pieces - but you will find other pictures on the Lemon Street website. His studio is in that mysterious far west bit of Cornwall towards Land's End and clearly he is inspired by ancient cultures. The colour on some of his pieces is very subtle, reds and blacks and gold. They are mostly monumental, large and with look of great age and permanence to them.

Trelissick House

We also visited Trelissick. It is in the care of the National Trust. When we last visited the gardens some years ago there was talk of restoring the kitchen garden - apparently they are still talking. But at least the House (a small part of it) is open. It had been built by the Copeland family, and when the contents were sold last year the Trust was able to buy back a few pieces- including some of the important Copeland porcelain. So there is a large dessert service made by Spode and given as a wedding present to one of the Copelands in the early 19th Century.


The best part of going to Cornwall, though, is seeing old friends. We had lunch with Robin Thomas and his sister in Truro. Robin is a former student of mine at S Stephen's House, now retired but still assisting at St George's. On the way home we stopped  off for Coffee at Alverton Manor - strange name for a hotel formed from the one-time Convent of Anglican Sisters (of the Epiphany). The buildings must be listed, so the Chapel had been converted into a 'great hall' and very dismal it looks. The window on the left is one of three which survives at the entrance to the Wedding Hall. We'd arranged to meet Robbie and Sara Low, who had been in to Truro for dental appointments.

Shrouded Chapel and shrouded chairs posing as a Wedding Venue: O Tempora, O Mores.

Appearances can deceive

They became Catholics some while before the Ordinariate was born, with the result that Robbie was Ordained much later than most of us in the Ordinariate.... he went the long way round and is now a priest of the Diocese of Plymouth. Many will remember when Robbie and Sarah - with others such as Geoffrey Kirk - produced a memorable monthly magazine for Anglo-Catholics called New Directions. There is still a publication which goes by the same name, but it bears little relation to the witty and lively magazine of those far-off days. Just as the Hotel is not the same thing as a Convent, despite outward appearances.

Though buildings may disappoint, old friends do not: and we chatted away merrily over coffee for an hour or so with the Lows, putting the world (and especially the Church - in all its manifestations) to rights.

Robbie and Sara in full flood.

Now it is time to prepare for tomorrow, Sunday - when I discovered on our return that Fr Darryl has a Baptism (with about fifty relations) fixed for the Ordinariate Mass.... so that will be fun.

As for the Title of this piece - many years ago, on one of those dire days for Junior Clergy which Archdeacons used to arrange, we were asked what we thought would be in the news forty years on. I ventured "Home Rule for Cornwall", Alas, it looks as though I might have been prophetic. As a Devonian I have to deplore the new habit of putting street signs in what must be an attempt at Cornish. The last Cornish speaker, Dolly Pentreath, was laid to rest two hundred and thirty seven years ago. She must be rotating gently in her tomb at these attempts at resuscitating an utterly dead tongue - it's quite bad enough than our grandson has to waste his time at school wrestling with Welsh.

Celebrations

First there was our nephew and his bride of four weeks, from their new home in London. Then his parents (my wife's sister and her husband) who were married 40 years ago this year. Then us, soon to pass the 50 year mark. So all the family spent last weekend in Bourton on the Water, where we had rented a large house. It was a very merry party, with our daughter and her husband coming from South Wales with our grandson, our son joining us from Lancaster (he took the train to Wolverhapton and cycled the 60+ miles from there) and our best man came from Bristol - by car.

Bourton is so much visited that even the fish and chip shops have notices in Japanese. Fortunately the house was a little back  from the main road behind a high wall, so the tourist din scarcely reached us. It was, I think, only my second weekend away from our Ordinariate Group this year, so on Sunday Jane and I were able to worship together in Our Lady Help of Christians. Pevsner spends two pages describing the (Anglican) parish church and its architectural riches. The Catholic parish church would not require so much print: but it is clearly greatly loved.

 

The hymns were familiar from Anglican days, though accompanied on a karaoke machine. The priest was a vistor like us, holding the fort while the Parish Priest was on holiday. Mass concluded with the Angelus. The place was comfortably full - I  overheard one person say on leaving "I expect there are visitors" - but though there were, no one made any attempt to welcome any of them or ask who they were. I  don't think visitors get away ungreeted at our Ordinariate masses - but there, we are a small concern,  so it is easier to know everyone.

 

 

 

Then again, we were greeted at the Peace: and the service sheet said "Welcome to all our visitors! Our churches have induction loop faciilites. Use the T setting on your hearing aid." So that was some comfort - or would have been if we had hearing aids.

 

In the afternoon some of us visted a National Trust house at Chastleton. We were met at the entrance to the car park by a picket of locals protesting against Sunday opening of the House. The Trust, they claimed, had promised there would be no weekend opening, and that numbers would be kept very small. Now they are inundated with thousands of sightseers, and they feel betrayed. But whether it is a village with a National Trust property, or a settlement on the route of the proposed High Speed Rail Link, money is always the winner.

 

The Church at the gates of Chastleton House

 

So it was with a slightly guilty conscience that we queued for the house to open. The former manor house had been the home of the Catesbys. One of the Guides suggested it had been sold to fund the purchase of gunpowder for the plot to blow up Parliament - of which plot, apparently, she disapproved. The Jones family which built the present house in the early years of James I were Royalists, who suffered greatly during  the Commonwealth. Among the items the Trust acquired with the house were some splendid Jacobite glasses and decanters - the volunteer steward rather missed the point when he called them "Jacobean".  So perhaps the Joneses count as proto-Anglo-Catholics.

 

Cracked fragement of an Annunciation window in Chastleton Church

 

The high point of the weekend was a celebratory meal just a few miles out of Bourton. We toasted everyone, and were toasted ourselves. Helpfully our brother-in-law had organised taxis to get us all safely back. Then on Sunday evening and Monday in ones and twos we drifted off, back to normality from a memorable couple of days together. As Jane's sister had said, we must make the most of every opportunity or we shall only meet up at funerals. Not so long now to my eightieth, if I'm spared ...

 

 

 

 

Some weekend!

It began early on Sunday morning with a call from Fr Brian, my colleague in our Ordinariate Mission. Fr John Lee of St Joseph's Christchurch had been admitted hospital overnight; Fr B must stand in for him. So we set off a little earlier than usual to Bournemouth for our 9.30am Mass. There we heard the good news that our Ordinand, Darryl Jordan, is to be ordained deacon later this month. We were given lunch by Fr Brian and Barbel in Southbourne (a lovely meal, and no need to dash back to Lymington) then in the afternoon he and I conducted evensong and benediction.

Just before 4pm Jane and I left Southbourne and headed off for Oxford. We hit dreadful summer weekend traffic, but arrived in good time for a very important party.  I did some good things, and some less good things, during eight years as Principal of St Stephen's House, but one of the very best was to appoint Ian Boxall as a New Testament Tutor. He has been there ever since, and has established himself as a major contributor to the Theology Faculty in Oxford, while also endearing himself to generations of ordinands through his pastoral care and tireless teaching - especially of the theologically less able. Sunday evening was an opportunity to say 'Good-bye' to Ian, as he moves to the USA to teach in the Catholic University in Washington D.C. Currently there are still negotiations over his Visa (apparently the American Immigration Service knows about Oxford, Mississippi, but not Oxford England) and he is having to prove his academic credentials.

The Pricipal, Canon Robin Ward, with the Revd Lucy Gardiner

It was so good catching up with old friends, and the cloister garden on a truly balmy July evening made the perfect setting. Lucy Gardiner was a member of staff in my days (though at that time without a clerical collar) and it was a delight to see her and her very grown-up son. My immediate successor, Fr Jeremy Sheehy, was also there - almost his first time back from his parish of Swinton in Manchester.

Fr Jeremy with Jane, one-time Flying Buttress

 

The great and the good (well, mostly good) of Oxford were gathered for this very happy occasion.

The guest list reflectd Ian's wide circle of colleagues and friends.



Somehow the above conjunction reminded me of wartime song about 'coming in on a wing and a prayer' - ah, and the war in question was that of '39 - '45...

Once we had disbanded Jane and I walked for Old time's sake down to Magdalen Bridge, where of course there was another party going on - in the grounds of Magdalen School.

 

 

 The Ashmolean is closed on Monday (as I suspected) so we drove on towards home and called at the

Vyne, the great Hampshire home first ofthe Sandys family (who managed to keep a great house through Henry VII's reign - they might have taught Wolsey a trick at Hampton Court) and then of the Chutes. The first ofthat clan bought the house in the seventeenth Century, was Speaker of the Commons in the time of Richard Cromwell, and wisely died just before the Restoration. The house was largely remodelled (particularly by his grandson, John Chute) and was given to the National Trust by the lastof the line. We had visited some years ago and found it disappointing because the volunteer steward has seemed so uninterested.

 

Magdalen tower at twilight

 

 

Jane in the garden at the Vyne

 

It is quite different now - real enthusiasm from them all, and a desire to hand on their knowledge to visitors. A lovely afternoon. Now we are home again and ready for anything - and Darryl's deaconing (a word from our Anglican Patrimony) is to be in London on the last Saturday of this month. Please pray for him, and for Fr John Lee and his speedy recovery.

 

 

 

R & R

Ruskin's View above the River Lune at Kirby Lonsdale

A breather after the busy-ness of Holy Week & Easter. On Monday we went by train to Lancaster to catch up with our son - now halfway through his doctoral course at the University. We visited Kirby Lonsdale, where the weather was VERY Lake District - sunshine, followed by hailshowers - you might just see that in this picture of the Churchyard.



The next day a drive up to Windermere was even more amazing - at one stage a rainbow appeared almost at our feet.



Holehird gardens are a revelation. Run entirely by volunteers of the Lakeland Horticultural Society, there give spectacular views of the Lake and hills beyond.


Then a visit to Townend, a National Trust Property on the other side of the Lake. We seemed to see and do a great deal in the two days we were in Lancashire - and Cumbria.



Since then, there has been a visit to Oxford - but I'll save that for another blog.

Nearer God's Heart?

When life was getting a little fraught a few months ago, one of the PEVs advised me to "stick to the garden". He feared I might breach some protocol of which I was unaware, and plainly he thought the garden was safe blogging territory. So here, a bit late but in dutiful obedience, is a garden blog. Today Jane and I went to Mottisfont, the National Trust's great rose garden near Romsey. It is already wonderful, and in the next two or three weeks will be overwhelming. Meanwhile, in case you cannot get to Mottisfont, [and you certainly should if you can] I thought a few images from my own modest plot might cheer you up.


I enjoy beachcombing, and the pink globe in this picture is a fisherman's float washed up on a local beach - and contrasting happily with, I think, the Hybrid Musk Rose Felicia.

Yellow roses are among my favourites. Canary Bird and Banksia Lutea are already over, but this is the great Arthur Bell, the so-called climbing variant which is really just a very tall shrub rose; but you can train the branches down onto supports, and then it happily produces a second crop latger in the season. The scent is typically crisp, as seems to be true for most yellow roses.


Some people seem to think a garage is a place for a car: what a waste! Ours is full of gardening essentials, and in front of it are pots with everything in them from eight-foot trees (a pine or two and a young birch) to alpines. Above, though you will see Hydrangea Petiolaris guarding the garage entrance.


Our plot is not exclusively roses: here near the front door is the dogwood, Cornus Mas; better this year than I can remember.



The white rose which is so prevalent in our garden is all from a cutting of a Hybrid Musk rose, I think called Moonlight. Sadly, it is unscented: but that is more than made up for by Zigeuner Knabe, the deep purple rose in this picture, with a heavenly perfume. And on the right a Rowan (no relation) from a marvellous nursery near here, Spinners. The Rowan in question is Chinese Lace, and if you click on the picture to enlarge it you might be able to make out some of its deeply cut leaves (lower right)