A Cathedral, a church and an Abbey

I have neglected my blog off late and haven’t added any posts for some time, in spite of an exciting time in Gloucester in August where I sang Evensong for a week in the Cathedral with ECS. Always something to look forward to and something I enjoy immensely. The magnificent building, the music, singing with friends, all of that makes for happiness.

Gloucester Cathedral 

The beautiful cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral

The leisure time too was great. On our one day off in the middle of the week many of us went to explore the surrounding countryside, the Cotswolds and its picturesque villages and beautiful market towns. Tewkesbury was part of our programme, and of that of several other singers. The Abbey here is even more awe inspiring than Gloucester cathedral. There is so much history, and the town seems far better preserved and not spoilt like Gloucester which is a pearl surrounded by grotty outskirts. Unusual for the Cotswolds, where most towns are so interesting and clean.

 Tewkesbury Abbey

 Tewkesbury Abbey

 Below: The pipe organ in the Abbey

On our day off, I also try to visit small country churches which I spot en route. The following story is about an encounter which took place when I and a friend were on our way to Tewkesbury. 

Country Church

When I see the four pinnacles of a church tower hidden among a cluster of trees, I can’t help myself and take the next turning. This is unknown territory for me, the land between the Cotswolds and the Severn Valley. The church is lying in the midst of undulating fields of golden stubble. This year the harvest has been early. The stubbles haven’t been burnt yet, giving us this amazing deep-pile yellow carpet, a contrast with the weathered grey stone of this country church, covered in silver lichen. We walk around it, among the sagging gravestones, sinking down at times where the soil has collapsed over the old graves. Bumblebees zoom around, extracting honey from the abundance of wild flowers. Apart from that it is very quiet, a stillness which is unknown in my part of the world.

          As so often happens, the church is locked. But there is a tiny notice, telling us where we can collect the key. While my companion explores and studies the gravestones, I take the car and go back along the lane to a row of cottages. This is a country church, in the middle of the fields, perhaps serving the surrounding farms. There is no village here. The cottage which I think is the correct one has a sheet of paper stuck to the door window. In bold and capital letters it says:

DO NOT RING THE BELL!!! I AM ASLEEP AFTER MY SHIFT. AND I AM A GRUMPY MAN. WHEN YOU WAKE ME, I WILL BE VERY GRUMPY INDEED!!!

Obviously this isn’t the cottage I am looking for. I ring the bell at the next one, which isn’t the one I am looking for either. But at least the couple answering the door can point me to the right one.

          The cottage is separated from the lane by a deep garden. It is a surprise when I walk through the simple wooden gate, as if I have entered the quintessential cottage garden. A rambling variety of flowers, a riot of colour, an immaculate lawn and at the end a small and friendly looking cottage. I ring the bell and have to wait so long that I almost give up. But when I walk away the door opens and there is this old lady peeping suspiciously around the half open door. She is wearing a skimpy vest. Her bare arms are thin and tanned. A mass of silver curls frame her tiny and unwrinkled face. She looks a bit startled, and when I ask her for the key of the church, she wants to know why. I tell her I am a church crawler, interested in ancient country churches, and would like to have a look inside. She hands me the key and tells me to put it through the letterbox once I am done. When I compliment her on her lovely garden, she begins to talk.

          ‘Do you know how long I have lived here?’

          Of course I don’t and she doesn’t really expect an answer. ‘Sixty-seven years, since my marriage,’ she says. ‘And do you know how old I am?’ This is a tricky question. She seems quite plucky and able to live in this rather isolated spot, tending a big garden.

          ‘Well in your eighties, I guess.’

          ‘I am ninety!’ she says triumphantly, ‘Ninety!!’

Of course I tell her she looks quite a bit younger.

          ‘I have lived here with my husband. But you know, he got a heart attack. And then somehow or other he got dementia.’

          ‘Doesn’t he live here anymore?’

          ‘He has moved into a care home, some four months ago, in the nearest town. I go and see him every day, but it is still a long way. It takes time.’

          ‘Haven’t you got children?’

          ‘Oh yes, a son and a daughter. The son lives nearby. He collects my husband who then sits in the garden all day, watching the flowers and the birds.’ She points to a wooden structure, an arbour, covered with roses and climbers, around a garden seat. The back wall is turned towards the lane, the bench facing the garden and the cottage. ‘He is happy here, sits there all day. But it is becoming more difficult.’ Her eyes are red-rimmed, tears clouding her vision. She embraces me. I try to comfort her, but what can I do? ‘And you know what is worse? The other day when I wanted to take him out, he refused to go. And he shouted at me! He has never shouted at me in all those sixty-seven years. This was the first time he ever shouted at me.’

          She buries her face in my shoulder. ‘I am so sorry,’ I say lamely, ‘You shouldn’t take it personally.’

          ‘I know, I know, but he never ever shouted at me before. He was never like that. I don’t know if I can stay here on my own any longer.’

          ‘Can’t your son and daughter help you?’

          ‘It is so sad, they are not on speaking terms. My son helps me, my daughter refuses contact. Life is so short, if they only realised. It is so sad. And neither of them has children. I have no grandchildren.’

          I feel useless, pat her on her back, try to cheer her a bit.

          ‘Will you come in for a coffee? Have you got time?’

          My friend is waiting at the church. He must think I have lost my way or been abducted in this remote corner of England. I feel lousy, but tell her gently that I really have to go, that I am not alone, that somebody is waiting for me. She dries her tears, gives me a hug again and then let go of me. ‘Don’t bother to ring the bell, just put the key through the letterbox.’

          And that is what I try to do when we have seen what we wanted to see. The flap of the letterbox is stiff and doesn’t give easily. So I do ring her bell again. When she sees me, she hugs me again, doesn’t want to let go.  When I finally walk down her garden path and turn around, the door is shut. Quietly I close the garden gate.