& Your coming in and going out ……

Please pray for……

Friends of Essex Churches Ride & Stride……

Harvest Thanksgiving ……

For your Diaries……

Ronald Blythe returns from his travels to find the white cat waiting

TO SALISBURY, to be briefly with the dear ones there, Alison and Judy. One should have pockets of friends here, there, and everywhere. The weather rainy, with small allowances of sun; the countryside between stations empty, unpeopled. An hour with the composer Alec Roth in George Herbert’s rectory, a few min­utes at his altar across the road. The minuscule relics, a tile that says GH 1632, a door that he opened and closed. Then to Wilton, to talk about him to the Prayer Book Society. Then a circular glimpse of the Earl of Pembroke’s palace, with Marcus Aurelius high on his horse at the entrance.

Back to Bottengoms. The Saturday Underground shining with clubbers and lovers. The night pulls in near Wokuig, so that when at last I arrive at my orchard, its only illumination is the white cat, fuming below a pear tree.

On Monday, a curious happening. At a grand dinner to raise funds for the Campaign to Protect Rural England, the guest on my left says that her name is Teresa Salisbury. Or was, before she married. When I tell her that I have just come from Salis­bury, she tells me about an English teacher at Keele University who taught her George Herbert, and that if she ever came to church it would be because of him. A line or two of him hangs hi her head: she quotes, uncertainly, “The Collar”, while all around us 100 guests roar their way through the courses.

We are hi a great Tudor room. Tudor songs are sung by a choir. This huge, hospitable space was no more than the brick gatehouse to a mansion that would never be built, its young lord dying before his vast enterprise could be com­pleted.

Holiday homes are raffled. The day departs through a tall window. In the nearby church, in one of my most loved wall-paintings, St Christopher will be for ever carrying his Lord across an Essex stream while on its bank a lad, unaware of this, will be for ever fishing.

My pre-dinner speech (I thought it was to be after-dinner) extols the Essex marshes, and the wild tulips at Panfield, but most of all John Ray, the botanist, son of the Black Notley blacksmith, and England’s Linnaeus. Tom drives me home via Lord Marney’s leaning oaks. Sometimes, conversion comes through a sliver of Herbert — a cutting from his complex acceptance of “my Joy, my Love, my Heart”, no more.

Keith will soon be here to paint the house. He is working his way round the village. I will be his autumn task. White windows and walls the colour of the pots that they dig up on the archaeological site. He wUl unhook the roof-high climbers and fix a knocker to the door. No expense shall be spared. The brick sills upon which the whole structure balances will be covered with pitch; the slate plaque to John Nash RA and his wife Christine will be wiped; the grapevine will be slimmed down. And who will see it? A rider-by. A walker-past. A caller now and then. Certainly no one in a bus. Another Tom in his aeroplane, godlike above my trees, will look down on me. This is only right.

Lesley Leggett, our master bell-ringer, has gone his way. No more his changes, his peals, his flying tunes, his mathematical worship. For countless Sundays he rung among the brass knights. I see him in his place.

.

Your coming in and going out ……

Please pray for……

Benefice Farm Walk, Tea & Open-air Service…

Friends of Essex Churches Ride & Stride……

Tour of the Holy Land……

Ronald Blythe is glad to see the scythe cut through the weeds

MY NEIGHBOUR Jonathan Doe, “Hedgecutting Specialist”, is paying his destructive visit. And thank goodness, for the ancient farm-track is all but obliterated by growth. Tangles of weed had begun to hold hands over it, and sagging boughs to canopy above it. But now, thanks to the “murderer”—i.e. Jonathan’s cutter — a most probably Saxon road appears, broad and enticing. Who would not walk to the river?

Once a year, this time in the midst of harvest, the growth parts like the Red Sea, and travellers to the house can bump down to me in their cars without a scratch. On one side, the flax, once a pure blue and now a sullen green, and, opposite, the grazing pastures where Jean’s horses feed now become distinctive lands. Baby partridges and rabbits scuttle between the two, mad for cover.

Behind the farmhouse, owing to spring clearance, a forest of Hima­layan balsam, ten feet high, sways with insects. Nettles thrive. Birds call — including a hidden blackcap with his operatic song. Shall I leave this weed paradise for another week? I finger the blade of Roger’s lovely scythe, and try not to feel like Ma­dame Defarge. The blackcap sings, “Not yet! Not yet!” Jonathan says, “Have you noticed how the evenings are pulling in?” Darkness falls at nine o’clock. But the mornings stay early, and the Grove geese fly over at 7 a.m. sharp.

     To my joy, I find a Henry James novel that I haven’t read, The Ambassadors, and sit outside in the sun, my whole being slowed down by his prose. The friends from small­town America are spreading their wings in Paris. Young and not so young, they learn to fly. But not too quickly, thank heaven; for it would be unendurable for a Henry James novel not to last. The white cat joins me, pushing her snowy head on to the page. And thus we sit as we forget the floods and the cuts for an hour or two every afternoon, not to mention the demands of the Man Booker Prize. A delight fills me as I realise that my shelves are fat with old paperbacks waiting to surprise me.

     Christopher and I go to Snape to hear the National Youth Orchestra, and to look across the marshes to Iken. The orchestra is exuberant, enchanting, and numerous, layers of players receding out of sight. Next stop the Albert Hall. We park by the Aide where, in my day, as they say, the lighters bore the malt away on the tide. And now these musicians, these audiences, this rustling of the reeds, this flat view that St Botolph meditated on. And, for me, these ghosts in the brick opera-box — Ben, Peter, and Imo — so empty now.

     A buoyant Russian conductor puts the boys and girls through their paces, and receives not much less than adoration, and we clap him like mad.   The next morning, in church, we sing John Bunyan’s answer to the horrors of the world, his defiance of all that it throws against us, its “dis­mal stories”. Today’s journalists see that we never go without these, al­though their very plenitude some­how hardens our hearts. I feel that I should feel more, and even pray that I will feel more. And write cheques. And insert the latest tragedies into the petitions on a Sunday. But I am not like, say, Dr Karen Woo. Few of us are. 

Ronald Blythe dreams of Newman, and a regimental dance

I HAVE been re-reading John Henry Newman. What a peerless writer. It is his prose and poetry that qualify him for sainthood. He wrote his own epitaph — Ex umbris et imaginibus in veritatem —”From shadows and symbols into the truth”. Thus he joins St Paul and his dark glass, and the author of The Cloud of Unknowing. He was hi his early 60s when he wrote The Dream ofGerontius, maybe thinking that he could not go on much longer. But he went into the bright darkness at nearly 90.

Just imagine going to church and hearing the young clergyman in the pulpit preaching: “O Lord, support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then, Lord, in thy mercy, grant us a safe lodging, a holy rest, and peace at the last.”

In The Dream, Gerontius is told that it is his “very energy of thought” which kept him going, as we would say, when he longed to be with God. In our petitionary prayers, I have taken to including those whose energy of thought has vanished, and who lie in the Alzheimer’s corridors of the care home. Theirs is a very different cloud of unknowing. “Who are you?” they say to their sons. Newman said that “the world is content with setting right the surface of things”; so keep a lively eye on politicians.

     Up the road, in Colchester, the Officers’ Club has burnt down. Whoosh! All gone. It stood on a fascinating site in this Roman-Saxon town, and the archaeologists are wringing their hands in public and sharpening then- spades in private. What a loss: what luck!

I think of the sprung dance-floor, the regimental silver, the laughter, the drink, the slender subalterns in their mess kit dancing to “Roses of Picardy” or “Begin the beguine”, according to which war one happened to be fighting. And, between the wars, the crinkly old memsahibs from the Raj doling out bridge cards. And now all gone, all gone. Actually, the regimental balls and dinners took place over the graves of Benedictine monks. Not that their bones would have minded, I sense, their souls singing to another music.

Neighbours on the high ground talk of drought and burnt grass.

Those of us who live in the hollows stay wet and green. Also, my dragonflies have taken off from the horse-ponds, as they do each August. These darting jewels fly low. The Dragonflies of Essex, which my friend Ted Benton gave me, is kept handy. Dragonflies breed in both moving-water and still-water sites, and are all over the place at Bottengoms Farm.

Ted’s description of dragonfly weddings may not do for the Church Times, although a sample of his naturalist writing must be read. One form of dragonfly mating, he says, is like an illustration from the Kama Sutra, and “is generally known as the wheel position… They may remain in the wheel position for a few minutes or up to half an hour, depending on species. If disturbed, they usually remain coupled and fly off to find an alternative hid ing place.”

They are creatures of water, land, and air, and gorgeous to behold, darting and chasing, settling and vanishing. And not unlike us.

& Your coming in and going out ……

Please pray for…

Be Prepared: Intercessions Workshop……

Benefice Farm Walk, Tea & Open-air Service……

Friends of Essex Churches Ride & Stride…….

Ronald Blythe enjoys his proximity to two cathedrals

IN DIOCESAN geography, I stand on the river-line between “my” two cathedrals — St James’s, at Bury St Edmunds, and St Mary the Virgin, St Peter, and St Cedd, at Chelmsford. Often, on Sunday mornings, as I announce the first hymn at our village matins, I hear their joint singing and see then- familiar faces. How fine this equidistant worship is; not even Amos could object to its grandeur.

This Sunday at Wormingford it is “Disposer supreme, and Judge of the earth”, and a procession of two. The south door is open wide on to burnt grass, and bees haunt the warm stones. A score of mostly male voices do justice to a cathedral-size hymn.

It is the combined work of a 17th-century society poet and a 19th-century Tractarian. Jean-Baptiste de Santeuil was asked to make the countrified Paris hymn-book more fitting for the gentry to sing, and Isaac Williams, Keble’s friend, and the translator of “Disposer supreme”, restored its holiness and its univer­sality.

Williams became Newman’s curate. They said that his relation­ship to him “had long been a curious mixture of the most affectionate attachment and intimacy, with grow­ing distrust and sense of divergence”. Williams wrote three of the Tracts for the Times. We score or so of “frail earthen vessels, and things of no worth” rise to the occasion and sing — if I may say so — extraordinarily well.

The long, successive summer days are blissful. At the moment — it  is

7 a.m. — birds are swinging on the mullein spikes like steeplejacks. All

the windows are wide. The white cat lies upside down. The white horse rolls over and over. The newspapers sprawl unread. The early strangers on the farm track pause and point. What shall I do today? Nothing. On the radio the talk is, as ever, of billions. Thus it can be ignored, for who can understand billions?

On television, the young leaders take podium and plane steps two at a time, wear beautiful suits, and stern smiles. All will not be well, they say. But it will this July day, never fear. It is a day for the philosophy of Thomas Traherne, not that of the market. What few days he had, and my own so numerous, so profuse. He would by no means make even half a cen­tury. His old men in the Hereford streets would be wonders to him. For Traherne, it was sacrilege to live other than fully. He reminds us:

That all we see is ours, and every

one Possessor of the whole; that every

man Is like a God Incarnate on the

throne, Even like the first for whom the

world began.

Traherne is the great antidote to billions, the language of BP, and of the cutters. It is mostly double Dutch to most of us anyway. Vast figures are announced new every morning to our incomprehension. Faith deals in pence for the most part — except for the Quota, of course. Cathedrals charge, which they should not. To do so is faithless.

It is more usual for me to look forward in my column but so much has happened over the last month that I want to look back ….

On Saturday 10^th July, we held another Fun Day at the church with a Dog Show, judged by Jodie Rutland MRCVS, parachuting teddies off the tower using the ingenious device invented by John Jackson and operated with great skill by Tim, David and Richard, rides to the ‘dig’ where the archaeologists were having an open day, tombola and other competitions, organ playing under the supervision of Alan Bird and an organ recital by Tom Cogan, a display of parish records supervised by Rose Bird, a flower stall organized by Jan Crisp and refreshments organized by Carol Bush.   There was even the opportunity to play croquet but I didn’t see anyone doing so.    A great time was had by all.

The 30th anniversary of my ordination (June 29th) passed quietly while Linda and I were on holiday and I thought no more about it until Sunday 11^th July when I dashed over to Wormingford after taking the Family Service at Little Horkesley to make a presentation to Pam Jackson to mark her nine years as churchwarden terminated only by her impending marriage to John Harrod of Wiltshire.   I was surprised that so many parishioners from all three parishes in our benefice had turned out for this occasion but soon realized why when the tables were turned and Mike Crisp, on behalf of the three parishes, made a presentation to me of a silver tray complete with pepperette, salt cellar and spoon, mustard pot and spoon and a card with so many lovely greetings and to Linda with a bouquet of lilies and roses.

We were overwhelmed – thank you all so much – it means so much to be a part of your lives and to have you all as part of ours. We will toast you all at our special dinner also paid for by your great generosity

Pam and John were married on Saturday 17^th and joined by so many villagers relatives and friends that, in the end, there was standing room only.   Pam and John were absolutely delighted that the choir from Little Horkesley and the Mersea Island Chorus were able to join us to sing Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring during the signing of the registers and to lead the singing of the hymns.   The bride looked lovely in blue and the groom handsome in grey; the flowers were stunning.   To everyone’s delight, Pam took part in ringing a short peal of the bells before processing out of church.   John’s bus and hundreds of cyclists caused the first traffic jam in Church Road since the harvesters interrupted our Sunday morning service three years ago but, once the cyclists, had gone on their way, Tony was able to drive past all the parked cars and all was well.

On Saturday 24^th we held the Annual Benefice Forum at Little Horkesley (mainly because they have a loo!) but, as I write this, this is still to happen so more of that next month

God Bless,

Henry

A prayer for you to use in August when many are on holiday…

Heavenly Father, we thank you for the times in our lives when we are able to have a change from our normal activities so that we may rest or play.   May we return safely where this involves a journey and always return refreshed in body mind or spirit and strengthened for our  daily work and service for you.   We ask this in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord. AMEN

Noah’s Ark……

Learn everything you need to know about life from Noah’s Ark……

• Plan ahead: it wasn’t raining when Noah built the Ark.
• Stay fit – when you’re 600 years old, someone may ask you to do something really big.
• Don’t miss the boat.
• Remember, the Ark was built by amateurs; the Titanic by professionals.
• Remember that we are all in the same boat.
• Don’t listen to critics; just get on with the job that needs to be done.
• Build your future on high ground.
• For safety’s sake, travel in pairs.
• Speed isn’t always an advantage: the snails were on board with the cheetahs.
• When you’re stressed, float a while. 
• No matter the storm, when you are with God, there’s always a rainbow waiting.

…but the woodpecker might have to go!

Congratulations ……

To the joint Wormingford and Thorrington team of bell ringers who won the Dick Furminger Trophy on Saturday 17^th July against very strong competition.   The Wormingford ringers were Barry Gibbons, Evelyn Reeve and Mary Coe.   The usual winners, Kirby, had to settle for 2^nd place.

& Your coming in and going out ……

Congratulations….

Supper at Holts raised £1,000 for parish charities

Please pray for…

Be Prepared: Intercessions Workshop……

Benefice Farm Walk, Tea & Open-air Service……

Friends of Essex Churches Ride & Stride…….

Please note …….

Ronald Blythe is an appreciative guest at a summer wedding

JULY. The hillside horses flesh their tales, the white cat bakes on the wall, her eyes emerald slits. The oaks haven’t the energy to rustle. All is burning and still. Using Roger Deacon’s inestimable gift, a light­weight scythe, I have demolished a patch of rough before it seeds. The blue of the big field has turned a heavy green. Invisible larks sing without a stop.

It is Saturday — weddings day. The ancient church shimmers in the heat. The bells ring dizzily. The bride arrives. It is our Pam, on her brother’s arm. They are neither young nor old. Just timeless. Ditto the groom. The choir, also neither young nor old, but comfortably settled in the space between these verities, sings “Jesu, joy of man’s desiring”, and we all sing, “Guard us, guide us, keep us, feed us.” It is heartfelt and unimaginably beautiful, with the interior sunshine playing on the bride’s slender diadem.

Afterwards, some of us board her brother’s restored 1947 bus. Next stop, the Crown. And then, late at night, with Japanese lanterns hang­ing in the trees and the thatched barns straight out of a Samuel Palmer, a Ruby Wedding party, and all the old friends from near and far at table.

On Sunday, I preach on Tune. A scattering of dear ones. It is hardly a tactful subject, I realise, halfway through. But possibly they are think­ing of sherry. One must hope for the best. Pam and her husband will now be in the Lake District in the rain. And may be watching it splashing down on Wordsworth’s grave, the poet who was “Surprised by joy— impatient as the wind”. At this moment, thousands of women priests are at their altars to the common-sense of mankind and the glory of God.

But I must concentrate, although the heatwave plays tricks with wor­ship. “Are you listening at the back there?” Possibly you are in a summer dream that is acceptable to heaven. Who can tell? I think of the dragon-flies helicoptering over my ponds, the blazing St John’s wort, die chil­dren bumping down the farm track on their bikes.

However, Time. My notes look up at me, and in the fierce light are sometimes too bright to read. The cool nave is expectant; for this is its

property, to hope for answers. But what is the question? Everyone — myself, the tall columns, the trapped insects, the hymn books — has for­gotten.

The Preacher, who has seen it all, done it all, replies as best he can; that is, quite wonderfully. There is a time to make love, and a time not to make love, a tune to gather stones, a time to throw them away. He said that, in the multitude of dreams, there are many vanities, and that it is a pleas­ant thing for the eyes to see the sun.

This beautiful book should be required for Anglican Synods and Vatican Councils — for each one of us. The Preacher had not only done it all, but read it all, and he, exhaus­ted by, shall we say, theology, went in search of the truth or the words given “by one shepherd”. “Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his com­mandments, for this is the whole duty of man.”

It is not yet midday when we drive off in glittering cars.