Leaves

... from box-elder, of course. Collected in France in 1995, just after we were married. I recently found them in a box file of memorabilia from that trip.

Winchester Cathedral...

... very far from bringing me down, you continue to cheer me up, viewed from the kitchen window, with flowers the colour and scent of Nivea cold cream, which simply haven't stopped blooming, come rain, wind,frost, drought...

... and very jaunty red hips.

Spem in alium, Westron wynde

There is no image in my collection that I can match with the sublime, vertiginous richness and depth of Tallis's "Spem in alium". The polyphony contains forty parts; no-one knows how he even achieved the notation of it with the materials of the time, or indeed how he was able to conceive of it at all.
John Taverner's (the original, with an 'r') "Western wind mass" is of a more attenuated beauty. It is based on the melody of the anonymous "Westron wynde" lyric from the 16th century.

"Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow,

The small raine down can raine.

Chryste, that my love were in my armes

And I in my bedde againe."

Spare, enigmatic, timeless. A world of longing and loneliness in that. Perhaps. I always read it that way, anyway.

These sounds and words can move me deeply, bypassing the intellect, accessing feeling. But, when I started writing this, I was considering how hard I have to work sometimes to feel a seemingly normal level of compassion toward other people. Anger, or pride, or perhaps fear (but of what? fear that I might one day require compassion extended toward me?), or a kind of lethargy of spirit, a sense of unreality about others, when only my ego seems reliably real, seem to get in the way. I thought of Kenneth Branagh's depiction of the Nazi Heydrich in the film "Conspiracy", who, having designed, organised, and sealed the fate of those who were to be murdered in the Final Solution, puts on a record of a Schubert quintet, weeping at its beauty, beauty, he says, that "will tear your heart out!"

But because we can't always feel things we should at the moments when we should, doesn't mean we needn't hunger and thirst after them as good things. There's a bit in "The Screwtape Letters" (and I can't quote it accurately because the book's upstairs in a box somewhere...), where the devil Screwtape urges his nephew to take advantage of the human creatures' failing in prayer, because when they pray for something, compassion for example, they expect instantly to feel compassionate, and when they don't assume that the prayer hasn't worked.

Yet compassion will come, did come. Only wait, corral the tigers of wrath, stroke them with care, placate them with titbits but don't let them loose, cut through the wadding of lethargic fearfulness with simple action. It comes unbidden, dropping slow, at times of cooled serenity and reflection, or like a whizzing wind in moments of warmth and sudden openness and fellow-feeling.

Credo

"The most beautiful and deepest experience a man (sic) can have is the sense of the mysterious. It is the underlying principle of religion as well as all serious endeavour in art and science... He who never had this experience seems to me, if not dead, then at least blind. The sense that behind anything that can be experienced there is a something that our mind cannot grasp and whose beauty and sublimity reaches us only indirectly and as feeble reflection, this is religiousness. In this sense I am religious. To me it suffices to wonder at these secrets and to attempt humbly to grasp with my mind a mere image of the lofty structure of all that is."

Albert Einstein, 1932.

(OK, so you've probably heard it before but I only came across it recently...)

Boxing Day

" Mangos, papaya,
Chestnuts from the fire,
The food is so good
You will want to stay!"

( Rosemary Clooney - George's aunt, don't you know!- "Mangos")

Small instances of grace

Not much time this morning, as my early start has mostly been used up in cutting up and portioning out chocolate covered flapjacks, which were initially developed for the family of Oscar, who has to be egg-free, but have become the product of choice from my kitchen at this time of year for most of my adult acquaintance also. I shall later distribute them around the countryside, Little Grey Rabbit style (- except I don't think LGR drove a beaten-up old CitroenBX...).
After a crummy couple of days with many checks and reverses and small abrasions, many self-inflicted - to my self-esteem, and a failure, despite liberal doses of aspirin, vitamin C and L52, to resist this season's current viral infection, I came home yesterday to find lovely comments peppering my blog. This cheered me beyond measure. So thanks Rachel, thanks Pol.
Furthermore, on coming down this morning, the fire was still glowing embers. While nothing impressive in terms of the laws of physics, to me this is always a small grace which needs must be honoured with the application of paper screws, tinder, but strictly no matches or fire lighters, and now I have flames for company too.

Perfect conceit

" What's wrong with being arrogant when I know I'm right? "

( Prof. Peter Atkins, Channel 4, defending his atheism.)

Winter light

Little saints

I don't much like French churches, at least not the big ones. I'll make some exception for Quimper cathedral, and they tell me the reconstruction at Nantes is impressive. I've never been to Chartres, and Notre Dame can't fail to impress if you can see anything beyond the crowds of Da Vinci Code believers whose coaches outside pump out corrosive gases which eat up the facade and turn the sky of Paris mucky brown by mid-morning. We once found a small, very old, Roman church in the middle of Lyon which was beautiful as a goldfinch's nest inside, but so many are, well, just soulless. I miss an English parish church, though I've never been a churchgoer.

Moncontour church, near us, was built by Spanish settlers who came here following the Wars of Religion, about 400 years ago. People here have names like Helio, Caro, Carlo, Phillipo. It has an interesting Hispanic-style bell tower which adds much to the distinctive skyline of the town.

But within it's mostly tawdry, shabby, mawkish old baroque tat, of the kind that it seems the Catholic church has felt it ought to foist on the people in a desperate Counter-Reformation attempt to titillate an overwrought response to revive their faith. Mostly in France it seems there was neither the will nor the means to maintain the stuff, and the result is a sorry sight.

What I do like though, are the earthy, heartfelt little country chapels and small churches hereabouts, and my favourite is the chapel of Notre Dame du Hault, at Tredaniel. It's not the oldest or the most rare and beautiful, but it's the one that has most endeared itself to me. It's chief raison d'être is, or perhaps rather was, the Seven Healing Saints. The history of both chapel and saints is obscure; it was part of a priory with a hospital, la Madeleine, before the Revolution, but it has an allée couverte next to it...

... and there is sacred healing well in the woods close by. I haven't a picture of that as I am uneasy about venturing there, since encountering a very small but very feisty adder in the middle of the path leading to it, where my dog had just passed in her usual large-pawed, nose down, oblivious, lollopping manner. My wariness is irrational, the snakes will be sleeping now. Adders, it seems, have strong druidical significance for healing and transformation; they can slide deep down through cracks and crevices into the dark places, rubbing off their skins on the way, their venom is salutary. Many non-Judaeo-Christian cultures venerate snakes. But I'm nervous of them nevertheless, if only on Molly's behalf.

There is a suggestion that the cult of these Saints is strongly Celtic, if not pre-Christian then stemming from the hermit evangelists who paddled across the Channel in their coracles from Cornwall and Wales, and whose identities became merged with local folk spirits, legends and sacred places.

The little saints as they are represented are of polychrome wood, I think from perhaps the 17th or 18th century. They are unarguably quaint, in danger of appearing like folk-religious garden gnomes. This primitive quality led to an uneasy attitude to them on the part of both the established church, and of the secular authorities on what constituted good art and worthy cultural treasures. But religious officialdom's discomfort about them stemmed also from the fact that they were more popular, more prayed to and venerated, than the officially sanctioned icons: the Virgin whose name the chapel bears, and of course Jesus. The votive plaques thanking the saints for their healing intervention include some quite recent ones, even a couple in English. The picture below for some reason features only six of the seven, the seventh, the only female, St Eugenie, is not shown.

The ills that they healed were the commonplace ones of simple country people living hard lives without much access to medical care: stomach pains, headaches, eye problems, but with a strong emphasis on mental, psychological and emotional problems too, ' fear and folly '. St Eugenie, I've been told, was often appealed to by women who were sexually unhappy. The dog accompanying one (not shown) may be a guide dog for a blind man, or may be a wolf, symbolising rage subdued, or may be a wolf who killed and ate the guide dog and was, by the grace of God, rendered subdued and contrite by the saint and obliged to take the dog's place. It looks like a fairly innocuous pooch to me, but is almost certainly not the original.

Everything about the chapel and the saints, their origins, history and identity, even their names, is uncertain, fluid, susceptible to morphing and contradiction, full of story and hearsay. The story of its foundation goes that a Breton was travelling the roads in the area, which long had the reputation of being the haunt of brigands, outlaws, robbers, Chouans, and those generally outside of the law and society. He was set upon, beaten, robbed, hanged and left for dead, even his fine red coat taken. On the point of death an angel cut him down, and the Virgin appeared to him with instructions to found a chapel at the site, which he did with the help of the local people. The fairly modern stained glass window tells the tale.

Aesthetically the window is nothing special, but I have found it a rewarding focus of meditation. It speaks to me of re-integration of the self, of last-ditch hope of rescue, salvation, renewal, grace. The Little Breton is lost and vulnerable, alone and alienated The murderous brigands can be a perception of a hostile world, the ill-will and cruelty of others, or they can be inner demons seeking to destroy you. Yet in the final resolution, others, outsiders to the self, are shown as a source of support, solidarity, devotion. The red coat is pride, joy, self-esteem, self-protection, a sense of warmth; it is stripped and taken, but then finally restored.

The other characters who people the place are also polychrome wood, again, I believe, 17th or 18th century, of the extended Holy Family at different points in their lives: Virgin and child, in foremost position, with a small figure of the Little Breton kneeling before them, St Anne with the child Mary, and Joseph with the child Jesus.

The Virgin has a rather stolid face, but lovely wavy brown carved hair down below her waist. She has a fine blue cloak with gold stars. The baby Jesus has a dear little white flannel nightgown.



St Anne, whose name graces many a French Catholic primary school, has something of Baroque womanhood about her, large, long thighs, a bland oval face, but she is solid, kind and dignified. The child Mary is a delight; a fierce, skinny, hyperactive little tomboy, challenging and eager with her scroll, hungry for literacy. This model, seen frequently, of the woman teaching the girl, not housewifely duties but reading and writing, is one I like. It was perhaps a reflection of the grass-roots movement of orders of sisters, such as La Retraite of Breton origin (who run Emmaus House in Bristol, in the UK ) who made it their mission to educate and improve the lot of the girls and women of the countryside.

Joseph and the boy Jesus are less interesting, except perhaps for the showy rendering of Joseph's draperies. The child has something of the ruddy-cheeked, square-set, laughing Jesus of the early church, but to me he looks spoiled, chubby and petulant. I like his little basket of woodworking tools, mind.


The obligatory grisly, pallid, standard issue crucified Christ is leaning against a wall at the back of the church, looking rather redundant.

There is also a curious rugged relief carving in granite of an indistinct and somewhat infantile looking angel carrying an enormous book, which feels very old and very mysterious. It didn't photograph successfully.

I found a post on Brother Bartleby's blog which seems to me to describe the role of the chapel and its genii loci. He says: "... theologians come up with tidy religions, yet the everyday folk are simply trying to survive in their constantly changing material and spiritual environment, and more often than not this includes a theology that is in flux."( All is flux, nothing stays still.)

Despite the popularity of the little saints, and their inclusion in many guides and other books on the region, little effort was made to safeguard them. The originals were stolen some twenty years ago, but fortunately a local antiquarian and woodcarver had made faithful copies, which were installed in their place. These too were stolen two or three years ago ( with the exeption of St Eugenie, who must have been better secured). Only recently has the local commune seen fit to even explain their absence with a notice to the numbers of visitors in cars and camper vans from all over Europe who stop at the chapel. The powers that be, sacred or secular, may not have valued them; they were too pagan, too maverick for the theological correctness of the established church, too crude and odd for the artistic arbiters, and too irrational and superstitious for the secular, intellectual spirit of modern France. But obviously someone somewhere did. Their absence poses interesting questions on the nature of objects and focus of prayer, meditation, worship and spirit. Can they still be petitioned and prayed to if their images are not there? Will they still heal? Will they work willingly for the person who obtained them dishonestly?

As well as St Eugenie, the Holy Family, the Little Breton, and St Houarniaule 's dog, remain. For the moment.

Thank you

Thank you all for a wonderful birthday. For a truly magnificent curry, for Rossini's Petite Messe Solonelle ( now playing ), for Venetian and Czech wedding beads, for cards and e-mails, for phone calls and hoots and laughter in the background as I tried to listen to them. For the joy of human love.



For the light and darkness of St Lucy's Day, and a moment of humbling.

God bless.

Water and rock, Dives and Lazarus.

' I heard the voice of Jesus say

" Behold I freely give

the living water, thirsty one;

stoop down and drink, and live."

I came to Jesus and I drank

of that life giving stream;

my thirst was quenched, my soul revived,

and now I live in him.'

Regrettably, I can't make it real, quite. But there's times I wish I could. As much for others as for myself.

' Dives and Lazarus ' is one of the most beautiful melodies. In riches of spirit, I am Dives, complacently gorging myself, ignorant and uncomprehending of the sufferings of Lazarus. How does one redistibute such wealth?

Thinking of you, rr. And others. ' I had not thought death had undone so many.'

Capucin

Now it looks like a photo again, which of course it is, a macro of a nasturtium, cropped and photoshopped into looking like a watercolour, which, when enlarged, it really does. For reasons I won't go into my Photo Shop is in French, which further confounds its, to my mind, already Byzantine complexity, but while twiddling my thumbs waiting for our garagiste to return battered BX to our door, his 10 minutes having typically elongated itself, I twiddled about with this.

I was at once childishly pleased with the trick, and also rather depressed. Why do watercolour painting, I challenged my spouse, when Photo Shop can do it for you? But of course, as we concluded, there is no process worth speaking of - barring my passing satisfaction at getting anywhere at all with my francophone version of the programme. And the result, however clever you and Adobe may be, is always dictated by Photo Shop. And, of course, you'll never make a mistake, which just ain't right.

Last week's walk

This week the weather has closed in, high winds, as I've said, and copious rain. But last week we took a walk hereabouts in beautiful late afternoon sunshine, the ground just soft enough to imprint.



In the orchard on the corner, a rather histrionic flock of guinea fowl berated us...



... and we went on to greet our dear friends, two beautiful, gentle, pregnant Breton ladies, who always come to the fence for me to blow up their noses and kiss their soft pink muzzles.




Molly doesn't mind them, she was brought up with horses, but was happy when we went on into a field with soft, clean, new grass, where she ran and rolled and barked like a mad dog!

No one does Tallis like the Tallis Scholars

I just tried the cheapy Naxos disc of Mass in 4 voices and motets and found it grated horribly, was too rapid and harsh. Normally I am not overly discerning of different renditions of music, but at his moment my faculties must be more sensitive. The second disc of the Essential Tallis Scholars is all Tallis and other Early English. I must order a recording of 'Spem in Alium' which I've been meaning to treat myself to for ages. Hope in All Things.

The whole house is rattling - no small thing when the walls are granite a metre thick - with gales off the bonny bay of Biscay-o, as is much of north west Europe I think. Since our first winter here, when we had taken the roof off and barely got it back on properly, and the whole fabric of the place was altogether ropey, I haven't cared for windy weather, so I'd rather be up and doing and masking the sound with music and activity. Tom's deafness is a blessing at times like this and he sleeps the sleep of the just upstairs. I am putting it out of my mind that if one of Victor's trees does finally take the plunge and come crashing down on our roof bringing the intervening electricity cables with it, it will be on our bedroom roof, where he is and I am not.

'Cowards die many times before their deaths'. I die few deaths myself, but I have to say this often to myself to stop Tom and Molly dying over and over in my imagination. Yesterday's parting with Betsy was not so bad as long as I didn't let my thoughts go down the route of seeing my darling girl curled up in that basket. Tim was an angel and Emilie was brave. Tom made himself go and measure how big we needed to make the hole and came back with the familiar clenched expression of outrage - ' Death is a fucking insult ! '.

But the rant was momentary, and we set to with the digging while Emilie took the other dogs for a walk, and we chatted and laughed as we worked, which Emilie said heartened her as she heard it coming back. She and Tom gently picked Betsy up out of the basket and wrapped her up, which I think took a bit of courage but then wasn't so bad, and I took Emilie off to put the kettle on. Apparently the others spontaneously observed a few moments stillness and silence, then Tim said 'Goodbye darling.' and they filled it in.

In fact if I could relax, there is something quite magical about being here with the wind and the rain and the Tallis Scholars and my solitude. I'm quite sure that chestnuts seldom fall but only split.

Later, or rather earlier...

Starting a new regime, I get up earlier when Mol first stirs and come down for some time to myself, then take tea up, after which Tom comes down and does his meditations and I catch up with a snooze. I like the kind of dozing state that comes then, just skimming the surface of sleep.
I've got some Russian liturgical music playing, which is just right, and M. seems quite happy to curl up peacefully beside my chair having beaten the bounds of the garden and eaten a spot of breakfast.
We're a little more settled to our grim task today having visited Emilie last night. She rang Tim also, our own particularly faithful gardener, who unhesitatingly agreed to come and help wield a spade, which lifted our spirits in the matter. Tim is a young father of a family, a dear, gentle and incredibly hard-working soul, who has made himself indispensible to a lot of people.
What's more,I found a lovely comment on the blog this morning from someone unknown to me, a guy in Maryland. When I saw there was a comment I was pleased but assumed it would be from my brother who I'd told about the blog, but finding a new friend who found me on their own is rather nice! So, thanks Moe, I'll get back to you soon.

Betsy no more

Betsy has just died. Our friend Emilie has just called to tell us this, and ask if Tom can help bury her. Betsy is/was a retired greyhound. I knew her back legs were going but this is a shock. Emilie is overbright and her voice cracking. Tom doesn't hesitate, and we are heading round there now with a good bottle of red, but the burying must wait till morning. He has put his back out, but we have two spades. He starts talking as though he'll be on his own about the bleak task, though I thought we'd already been talking about a co-operative effort. He always assumes he'll be on his own when the chips are down. Death always makes him angry. I stop myself thinking ' what if it were Molly?'.