England, Entry 4

Herein is found my fourth diary entry in England, available only to my paid subscribers. Thanks for reading, and I appreciate the notes I have received. Keep ‘em coming!

Apologies for the delay between this entry and the previous one. It was due to trouble I had with — you guessed it — technology. Being “international” in terms of access to mobile networks has meant that outside of place where I can log-in for wi-fi, I have had no internet access. That, plus the travel from Lancing to Lydbury North, Shropsire, kinda tucked this old man out!

Part of that fatigue came as well from trying and — until only yesterday — failing miserably at connecting my cell phone to an international data plan. Twyla will attest that it was a great frustration for me. AND IT WASN’T MY FAULT! I followed all the steps, did everything right, and still nothing. I even spent two hours on the phone (via wi-fi calling) with T-Mobile, who ended up being no help. But I finally had a break-through yesterday, able after many unsuccessful attempts to “top-up” the Sim Card account I got from a local “shop” in Lancing (meaning, a convenience story).

ANYWAY …

Sunday began with Matins (as one does) and Mass at Fr Edgar’s church. We had assisted in the Liturgy all week, but this was the first Sunday Liturgy. It was beautiful, with Fr Edgar delivering a very fine sermon. In between Matins and Mass was about forty-five minutes, so Twyla and I took a jaunt in the cemetary of the parish church, especially loving the many grave crosses that each were amazing:

After Mass, it began to rain, just as we were leaving the church to walk back to the Edgar’s house, so that Fr Edgar could drive us to the rail station in Lancing. I got drenched, which — a lot more than a mere “British rain”! — but as that was the only rain we got during our stay in Lancing, our spirits were undampened.

Let it was off for the mostly rail travel to our arrival in Shropshire. This was our itinerary:

If you can fight through the headache of all this data, the basic story is departing our first station, in Lancing, at 12:43 pm, going through London which required changing to the “Tube” underground subway between Victoria and Euston (which felt like salmon swimming upstream!), and then a longish train to Crewe, a short one to Shrewsbury, and then a “replacement bus” to Craven Arms station because the regular rail is under repairs. We did all that, and then had a taxi pre-arranged to take us the final 15 minutes from Craven Arms to Walcott Hall, our final destination. All in all, the trip took 7.5 hours. But our excitement at arriving there kept our spirits high despite the length.

Waiting for the replacement bus in Shrewsbury, we had time to find a bank machine because the taxi we reserved only took cash. Then we realized that we better have dinner, if we can find something quick, because we did not have any food provisions for that night at Walcott Hall. Thankfully, we found a decent pizzeria, and had the whole pie outside Shrewsbury station where buses arrive and depart. And in a pretty driving rain, taboot!

The bus was uneventful, although it dropped Twyla and I off at a spot past where we were supposed to be dropped, where the taxi was waiting. We decided to hoof it back to the correct spot, which took five minutes. The driver was there, and he drove us to Walcot Hall without trouble, but with quite a lot of interesting conversation, which we appreciated. His name was Rez, and more on him in a moment.

We got into our flat and into our room, which has a full bed and two single beds, on the third floor. We unpacked, and hit the hay, having had a fairly strenuous day. Thus endeth Sunday.

Monday morning, we woke around 6:30 am. As Twyla’s workshop that day began at 10 am, we wanted to take advantage of the time to walk the grounds of Walcot Hall. There’s a lot of grounds, and a lot to see! Manorial buildings, yurt tents, gardens, ponds, animals, old trees, valleys and small mountains in the distance, an Orthodox-looking wooden chapel, a Caboose, and more. We only snapped a few pics, to give you a taste:

It is pretty much like this every way the eyes turn to look. And what I noticed quickly in our walk, as well as the several other walks we have taken of the grounds, is the near-complete absence of human-generated noise. I am talking about cars, trucks, trains, airplanes, helicopters, even farm equipment. It is all birds, sheep, and the elements. Walking the grounds, which takes anywhere from 20 minutes to two hours depending on path taken, is physically taxing, but soulfully enriching.

After we returned from the walk, which included a stop into the local “shop” (American: convenience store), which was small but delightful, with fresh lettuce growing outside in wheel-barrows filled with soil (!!!), we returned to our flat and made breakfast: toast, fried eggs, and English back-bacon (unsmoked). Plus tea, of course. And it was during our breakfast that Aidan Hart, the workshop teacher, popped into the common room kitchen where we were. What a nice moment: Twyla and him, and he and I, exchanged hugs and hellos. So warm, and we had just met (although had emailed a bunch prior to the workshop).

We finished our breakfast, got Twyla off to the first session of Monday, and then…..

Well, this was a heavy one.

Something I had shared with a select few people was that, but by the grace of God, I would be able to attend the funeral of Monica Thornton. She was the wife of Fr Martin Thornton, about whom I wrote my master’s thesis, and whose books I gained permission (back in 2014) from Monica Thornton to reissue. Fr Thornton’s theology, and then the project to carry on his work and teach others about his work, has been a pillar of my priestly ministry.

I had only found out she was close to death about a month before our trip. Again, by only the grace of God, I was able to reconnect with Monica’s daughter Magdalen Smith, whom I had met also in 2014 at our house in Wilmslow, England. (That was the month-long pilgrimage and research trip I did in which I met with many people in England and Wales to discuss Fr Thornton’s theology. These people included Rowan Williams, Benedicta Ward, George Westhaver, Allison Milbank, Monica Thornton, and Magdalen Smith.) She shared with me the difficult situation that her mother was in. And after Monica (nearly 88) died on Saint Aidan’s Day (31 Aug.), she shared with me the date and location of the funeral. And wonder of wonders, it was only 30 miles away from where we were staying in Shropshire, in Walcot Hall!

What’s more, Monica had been an iconographer herself, and a very good one. Back in 2014, when I first learned of her iconography, she gave me a number of postcards with color-prints of her painting. I treasured these ever since, and my family used them in our daily Matins and Evensong chanting at home. These are some of those Icons printed on the cards she gave me:

And, to add more wonder to this wonder of wonders situation for me, SHE HAD STUDIED ICONOGRAPHY WITH AIDAN HART. With whom my daughter was about to study!

I was able to reserve a taxi to take me to the location of the funeral: S. John the Baptist, Ditton Priors. I arrived, and was blessed to be able to reconnect with Magdalen and her family: her husband Paul, and their two children Eve and Aidan. I had met them all back in 2014, and they were aware I had been in conversation with Magdalen. Seeing Magdalen herself was moving. Upon greeting and hugging, I said I was going to cry, and she said to not, else she would have to do the same. We do not know each other well, but we have had enough time together to forge a bond, and she very much respects the life’s work I have given over to carrying on her father’s very important theological writing.

And then Magdalen said she had something to give me:

It was an Icon painted by her mother. It is 12 inches square, and absolutely radiant. The Icon is called “Mandylion,” also called “Not Made With Hands.” It is an ancient Icon within Orthodox tradition, and it is on parallel tracks with the western Icon tradition of Saint Veronica (“vero-ikon,” or “true icon”). You can read about the Mandylion Icon here.

To say I was moved is barely to do things justice. Holding an Icon of Monica Thornton, who had studied with Aidan Hart who is now the teacher of my daughter, and who is the wife of my theological hero, and to have it as a remembrance of her blessed death and passing into the next heavenly realms of life, and an Icon that itself is beautiful, prayerful, and “homely” in the sense of comforting, personal, friendly, and intimate, one I can pass on to others after I die — goodness! all I can say is Thanks be to God.

More to come . . .