Settling in where saints have walked

We walked along the beach to the river that flows out at the far end of Oxwich Bay today. Then we drove out to hunt for a grocery store to get some things we had forgotten to pack, for our two week stay. After supper I started writing a new short story about a modern troubador.
This morning's weather was warm and sunny  again with interesting clouds. First, we walked to St Illtud's Parish church a couple of hundred yards beyond the Oxwich Bay hotel.
It's a 12th century church on the site of a 6th century hermitage, with a churchyard that is two thirds of a circle. The coast path runs straight alongside the church on the remaining side above the shore. It may have been established at the time Illtud's monastic school in Llantwit Major began to operate. It's  forty three miles by road now, then it was at least two days walking, so it was quicker, more direct to sail across twenty five miles of coastal waters. The church was closed but there's a Eucharist there this Sunday so we will attend.
The coastal path to Oxwich Point from the church involves long flights of steps, ascending and descending nearly a hundred metres. Getting to the top alone was tough going which drained me frightfully, so we retraced our steps and walked along the beach instead, and had a picnic lunch on the edge of the dunes.
The beach is quite free of bottles and cans, but in one section, perhaps as a product of complex sea currents, the sand contains thousands of pieces of thin coloured nylon twine, from one to twenty centimetres long, of the kind used used in fishing nets. There was also a mound of broken net washed in by the tide. In a short stretch of shore, where the sea current may be strongest, I collected four handfuls of broken lengths of net  twine, the breakdown product from a large piece of net abandoned to the sea.
It's a toxic product of modern fishing practice. Why can't the industry revert over time to biodegradable hemp twine, as originally used?
The short story I started to write is developing into a novella. Ideas and words just flow, I've written four thousand already. Goodness knows where this all comes from. I'm quite excited by this creative growth spurt.
  

Caldey revisited

We were blessed with a bright sunny day to take one of the open ferry boats shuttling day visitors to and from Caldey Island every twenty minutes. It's very much a fair weather crossing, and the very fact has blighted the economy of the island for centuries. It's fertile and can produce high quality dairy products, but generating an income from this depends on consistency in getting milk to mainland market. For this reason, it's had to rely on tourism more than agriculture to provide an income for the colony of 8-12 Cistercian monks who live and worship there. Not every monk has the gifts and abilities to work as a productive farmer. Times have changed, even in the seeming timelessness of a eight hundred year old religious order.

It's over forty two years since we last came to Caldey from St Paul's in Bristol with Kath and Rachel, plus Jan Jill Katie and Karina for a few days of respite from inner city ministry. There are a few metalled strips of road now and a more substantial landing stage. The woodland looks well managed and the conifers around the village are now mighty mature trees. The village green boasts a teashop, selling drinks and sandwiches, but all eating happens al fresco as there's no shelter apart from the trees. It stands to reason. If the weather is poor, no visitors. If the weather is fine, shelter isn't needed.

We arrived in time to hear the bell being rung for Sext, and went up to the Abbey church to attend the office. It's the same simple liturgy in the same simple house of monastic prayer as it was four decades ago. Time stood still for us, momentarily.

We then went and visited the island's church of St David, adjacent to the Abbey, where generations of islanders and monks are buried in neighbouring plots of ground. The stories of some of them and the history of the cemetery, as formalised by the early 20th century Benedictine settlers, is recounted on a panel in the church porch. It's a lovely simple building. I don't know how often Mass is said there for non monastic residents, but it's a quiet place of welcome for all who pass by.

The same can also be said for St Illtud's Priory church, which is part of a complex of farm buildings a quarter of a mile away from the village green. The farm now houses the Caldey chocolate factory. Among the outbuildings that used to house cattle is the derelict remnant of a small Priory house dating back to the middle ages, and attached to it, a chapel which may be 12-13 century, with hints of a 6th century sanctuary preceding it. Unusually the chapel has a cobblestone floor, monastic choir stalls and quite a long chancel. St Samson was the first prior of Caldey, a pupil of St Illtud at Llantwit Major. So this chapel is dedicated in honour of Samson's spiritual father.

While I was there a family group of eight Spanish people arrived, lit candles and left prayer messages. Later I noticed them lying in the shade together on the village green taking a siesta, happily at home in this little corner of the paradisium claustralis.

On our way back to the boat we went and took a perk at St Philomena's guest house, which I didn't remember though we stayed there. I did remember the small watchtower oratory chapel on the hill behind it, however, dedicated to Our Lady Queen of Peace. I think this was where I was permitted to say Mass during our stay. But funnily, it's not as vivid a memory as staying in a place so close to nature that lives and breathes the worship of God, each day, always.

We dined out in the evening, but not where we expected. We set out sights on an Italian restaurant overlooking the harbour, but it was fully booked. We made our way back into the main street to look for an alternative, climbing steps through a narrow alley flanked by ancient houses. One of them was a mediaeval merchant's dwelling, owned by the National Trust, and next door to it a restaurant cum pub called The Plantaginet, equally old, with dining rooms on three floors. As we wanted to eat early they were able to fit us in. And they did us proud! I had grilled Tuna, Clare and Ann had Hake.
A memorable meal at the end of a nostalgic day.
 

It was lovely to return and see changes for the better but also the unchanging nature of the island's very reason for being a holy place.