Saturday, June 18, 2016

(4) In the Northumbrian Kingdoms

Looking north from Hadrian's Wall (with ever-present clouds)
I was intent on including the north of England--the old Northumbrian kingdoms--in my itinerary, primarily for two reasons:  a) Northumbrian history is characterized by a certain rough romanticism, for this is the land of Kings Edwin, Oswald and Oswin, as well as Saints Aidan, Cuthbert,  Bede, Cedd and Hild; and b) it is the land of my forebears.  For a time, Northumbria could be said to be the leading light in Britain, the most literate and civilized place in western Europe (though at that period, the bar was not set particularly high).  In my view, the synthesis of Saxon culture grafted onto Britain reached its peak in Northumbria, only later to be overshadowed by Mercia, and eventually incorporated into a Wessexian "England."  But Northumbria's story is one of valor and tragedy, of nobility and treachery, of courage and deception.  I intended to see the crosses of Ruthwell, Bewcastle, and Lilla, the the Holy Island of Lindesfarne, Yeavering Bell--the Holy Mountain of the Saxons, the battlefield of Heavenfield, the cathedrals at Hexham and Durham, the churches at Escomb, St. Gregory's Minster and Pickering, as well as Edington on the Whiteadder Water, the very spot where my ancestors lived for at least 160 years.  My story begins here, with my own Northumbrian kin.  The tale is of interest, not so much for its particulars, but rather for how it all came together.  (If this sort of thing bores you, it will not hurt my feelings for you to skip over the following five italicized paragraphs.)

In 1719, my 7th great-grandfather David Cowan(e) and his grown sons arrived in the Pequea Valley of now Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.  The sons worked adjoining farms totaling 900 acres and prospered quickly, suggesting that they arrived with some wherewithal.  By 1750, large numbers of the growing family (including my William Cowan, a grandson of the emigrant David) starting peeling-off to the frontier, primarily the Piedmont of North Carolina.  There, they built 2-story stone houses facing south, like they had done in Pennsylvania and in Scotland before.  The particulars of their immigrant history were quickly shed, other than the knowledge that the family was "Scottish" in origin.  Many years ago, I let myself be swept-up into the Victorian myth-making of Scottish clans and tartans, trying to link my family to the Clan Colquhoun of Loch Lomond.  Over time, however, realism trumped romanticism, as the real history of my family began to come into sharper focus.


Edington Mains (my ancestors lived in cottages opposite)


Some of the family remained in the Pequea Valley.  The youngest son of my emigrant brother John Cowan inherited his father's farm and the stone farmhouse.  He married a first cousin from an uncle's neighboring farm.  I don't much hold to any notion of "progress" and discount triumphalism in the narratives of both families and nations.  Family stories are necessarily ones of decline, and salvaging, and rebuilding, just as it is in nations.  The tales that ascend from height to greater height are as false as the lies nations tell themselves.  And so, this family's stewardship of the land was troubled, and by the early years of the 19th century, their only surviving son lived on only 26 acres of the original farm.  His 11 children, however, all grew up within sight of their ancestor's 1720s stone farmhouse.  One of these children became a doctor, who lived a long life and practiced in an adjoining county.  He never married.  When quite old (in the 1880s), Dr. William Lightner Cowan wrote down in brief form the family history.  He sent one copy to a niece in Ashville, North Carolina and another to a nephew in San Francisco.  The unmarried niece assumed the mantle of  family historian of the next generation, adding to his chronicle the oral tradition that this Scottish family specifically came from the Cheviot Hills.  About 120 years later, copies of the letters fell into my hands.  I noted that the Cheviot Hills are not actually in Scotland, but in Northumberland, adjoining the Scottish Borders region.  But this clue told me that I should probably focus my search on the Scottish Lowlands.  
Parish church, Chirnside

One peculiar characteristic of my particular Cowan family is that they were not Presbyterian, or at least not until they had to be.  David Cowan and one of his sons helped organize the St. John's Pequea Church in 1729, where family members were very active in this parish for a number of generations.  They lived in an area that was predominately Scots-Irish Presbyterian, with many local Calvinist churches.  The Anglicans were much thinner on the ground.  In other words, it would have been easy to be Presbyterian, whereas it took real effort to be Anglican in their part of Pennsylvania.  Family members in North Carolina attempted to establish a diocese there, as well.  Fierce opposition by their Scots-Irish Presbyterian neighbors prevented that from happening.  Eventually, the family somewhat grudgingly settled-in to Presbyterianism in the South, although some of the lines (not mine) reverted to Episcopalianism once they had attained a certain level of affluence.  This is significant, because as adherents of the established church, it implies that the family could be traced in British parish records, whereas as if they had been Scots-Irish Covenanters, no records would exist.  Every extant birth, death and marriage record is available, and searchable online.  
Statue of Joseph Cowen, Newcastle

A search of the records for the U.K. revealed only one match--the parish of Chirnside, a few miles north of the English border, in the foothills of the Cheviot Hills, in old Berwickshire.  The church records only went back to the 1650s, but that was enough to find my particular family.  Research in the Latin archives in Edinburgh, as well as in the private archives at Duns Castle, fleshed out the bare bones of the parish records.  The family first appeared in area records in 1562, with my 11th-great grandfather.  They were small yeoman farmers who owned their own land.  In the late 1500s and early 1600s, they, along with other area families, were squeezed out by the landed gentry, in this case the family of Ramsay and Dalhoussie. They still lived in the same place, but now they were tenants of Lord and Lady Edington.  The Cowans seemed to have some standing with the residents of Duns Castle, however.  My ancestors often acted as agents for the family, and sometimes served as constables for the parish.  Other family members, however, blanketed the official records with typical Scottish litigiousness.  

In recent years, advances in genetic science have revolutionized what many families can know about their ancestry.  For whatever reason, Cowan family members have been eager participants in the project.  Ours is not a particularly common name, so most everyone thought that we were all related one way or another.  YDNA samplings prove this not to be the case at all, and my particular Cowan family is no more related to others of the name than any two people would be who meet on the street.  Interestingly, we share a genetic link to a family from the town of Ryton, in Durham, just west of Newcastle.  They spell their name as either Cowen or Cowings.  But the genetic markers indicate that we shared a common ancestor in the early to mid 1500s.  This family produced a famous British politician from the Victorian era, Joseph Cowen (1829-1900).  His roots were thoroughly working class and two generations were spokesmen for the workers movement in Newcastle.  But the father also built a successful brick-making factory, which allowed Joseph Cowen the younger to pursue a career as a Liberal politician in Parliament, and as a newspaper owner.  A grateful city of Newcastle erected a statue to him shortly after his death.  In his biography, his particular family story is outlined.  The family believed that they emigrated to Ryton from Lindesfarne after the dissolution of the monasteries (ca. 1539).  They came there, as Catholics, because of the protection they would receive from the Catholic Tempest family.  And so, if there is truth to this tale, then it is my story as well.  It would seem that the Cowans left Lindesfarne after Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries in the late 1530s.  One branch moved south to Ryton in Durham.  Another, apparently moved about 20 miles northwest into Berwickshire.  I also note that the parish church in Chirnside was non-juror during the "Glorious Revolution," which means that they refused to renounce their oath to James II.  The bottom line seems to be that my heritage is not so very Scottish at all, with my roots more accurately anchored in Saxonish Northumbria. (Of course, I do have plenty of Scottish ancestry if I want to claim it:  my ancestors went three times to the same Stewart well in marriage.)  

My first stop in the north of England and the Border regions was the magnificent Ruthwell Cross in Dumfriesshire.  With the remaining section standing over 17 ft. in height, the Saxon stone dates to about 700 AD, as they were consolidating their control over the area.  The cross does not commemorate an individual or event, but is rather a preaching cross.  The east and west panels depict a great number of scenes from the life of Christ, with accompanying Scripture in Latin.  The north and south panels, however, are covered with the decorative Saxon vines and branches, filled with animal life.  Around them are runes, a selection from the Germanic epic, "The Dream of the Rood."  From G. Ronald Murphy, in "Tree of Salvation:  Yggdrasil and the Cross in the North"--"The tree on which Christ was crucified was the tree of life, but, not so much the tree of life from the Garden of Eden, of which we have no poetic description and only the briefest mention in Genesis, nor even Eden's tree of the knowledge of good and evil, but rather the magic and rune-bearing cosmic tree of Northern poetry."  And, "a more startlingly emotional contrast to the sobriety of the Latin panel descriptions could scarcely be imagined.  Do living people not recognize what was done on the wooden pole for their lives?  Yggdrasil recognized him.  The animals realized who he was.  The eagle above the Tree is looking down, and sees...And so we come to a joint theme that binds the whole sculpture together:  recognition, realization."  The section of the "Dream of the Rood" included on the cross is, as follows:
The Ruthwell Cross

Almighty God took off his gear and clothes
When He wanted to climb onto the gallows,
Courageous in the sight of all men.
I did not dare bow,
I had to stand fast.
I lifted up the powerful king,
Heaven's lord.  I did not dare bend or bow.
People mocked the tow of us together.
I was drenched with the blood
that poured out of this Man's side when he sent off his spirit.
Christ was on the pole;
Even so, noblemen were hurrying there from far away,
to the One alone.  I beheld it all.
I was sorely troubled with sorrows.
To these men I bowed down, to their hands.
Wounded with arrowheads
They laid Him down, weary in limb.
They stood for HIm at the head of his corpse;
They beheld there Heaven's Chieftain.  And he rested himself
there a while.

I found it hard not to be moved by the Ruthwell Cross--a 1,300 year old statement of faith and loyalty to "Heaven's Chieftain," and a bold testament of the intertwining of Christian belief into native cultures.  But this sublime work of art had no place in the hard, dour dogmatism of Calvinistic Scotland.  Their Assembly, meeting in 1640 passed an "Act anent to demolishing of Idolatrous Monuments," decreeing that in divers parts of the same, many Idolatrous Monuments, erected and made for Religious Worship, are yet extant--such as crucifixes, Images of Christ, Mary and the saints departed--ordaines the said monuments to be taken down, demolished, and destroyed, and that with all convenient diligence...   And so, the Cross--then approached 1,000 years old--was to be destroyed.  The parish vicar held off destruction for two years, but was finally forced to oversee the process.  He insured, however, that the cross was carefully broken and laid to rest in the clay floor of the parish church.  In the somewhat less severe year of 1823, the Ruthwell Cross was rediscovered and eventually returned to its place within the church.  The vicar of that day found a way around the still-virulent British anti-Catholicism, reckoning that it wasn't really idolatrous since it was erected under the auspices of the "Celtic" Church and not that of the Roman Church.  Such mental gymnastics allowed for the re-erecting of the Ruthwell Cross as we see it today.  
Artist's depiction of Bewcastle Cross
Remains of the Bewcastle Cross



The Ruthwell parish church is noted as the oldest church still being used as such in the south of Scotland today.  The way things are going, it may be the only one used for such purposes before long.  By this time, I had visited a great number of churches in the U.K., a few of which I found to be quite memorable (Brookwood, the Church of St. Cadog, the Church at Pennant Melangel, for example).  But after eleven years as an Orthodox believer, I am still struck by that which was once commonplace to me, namely, the lack of any sense of a "sacred space."  Ruthwell is decidedly low-church Presbyterian in tone.  The table--where it seems communion is served--is in the center of the church, near the Ruthwell Cross.  But there is nothing particular to set it apart in much of any way, and the back side of the table is visible while viewing the Cross, and one could clearly see the cleanser and other cleaning supplies stored underneath.  It was almost as if they were trying to underscore the utilitarianism of it all, and to impress the fact that there was "nothing irrational or supernatural going on here."  
Literally or figuratively, Scotland is far from Rome

I cut across country to see the Bewcastle Cross, which is considered to be the compliment of the Ruthwell Cross, erected to honor King Aldfrith, whose reign began in 685 AD.  The setting in the remote Bewcastle churchyard is spectacular, but a hard, driving rain made any in depth inspection of the Cross impossible.  At the end of my time in Northumbria, I had hoped to visit the Lilla Cross.  Lilla was a subject of King Edwin of Deira (southern Northumbria).  An assassin sought to stab Edwin, and Lilla jumped between them and took the deadly blow himself.  This act led the king to promise his Christian wife that he would convert to her faith.  He eventually did, but took his own sweet time in doing so.  This ancient stone cross commemorates that event in the life of Northumbria.  I spent considerable time spotting the cross on British topographical maps and aerials, as it is deep in the Yorkshire moors.  Again, weather conspired against me, and I had to mark this destination off my list.  

The next day, I ventured north into the Cheviot Hills of Northumberland and Durham, as well as the Scottish borders.  I drove along the top of what had been Hadrian's Wall for some time.  I had crossed the wall twice before, many years earlier, but was able for the first time to get a real sense of what the structure entailed.  I stopped off at the church of St. Oswald, built near the battlefield of Heavenfield, where King Oswald believed his prayer for divine assistance was answered.  The church sits is a shady churchyard, atop a hill amidst a pasture.  I parked on the road and walked across the meadow to the church.  The present structure is not ancient, though they are well aware of their historical associations with St. Oswald.  An Orthodox church in Norwich had given them an icon of St. Oswald, along with an explanation (which they had mounted) of what an icon was, exactly, in an Orthodox understanding.  The church had the icon on a stand, in a nook of the church, with a candle in front--trying to accommodate the occasional veneration of this Saxon saint within a decidedly Calvinistic venue.
Icon of St. Oswald in St. Oswald Kirk

Of course I visited Lindesfarne--the Holy Island--on my way up, as the incoming tides would cover the causeway and make it a true island about mid-afternoon.  This is a small place with just about enough room for the village.  A large car park handles the steady stream of tourists who descend on the island in the morning hours.  The island is truly historic, and with its associations with Sts. Aidan and Cuthbert, is definitely a place of pilgrimage.  And yet, perhaps because of the crowds, it did not rate high among my experiences in the U.K.  The priory (the ruins of the 13th-century church of St. Peter) is managed by English Heritage.  As it stands, however, I could see everything I needed to see by standing on the outside, without purchasing a ticket to view the inside of the ruins.  The more important stop, however, was the Church of St. Mary the Virgin.  The present structure dates to about the same time as the priory, but it was built on the ancient foundations of the church that St. Aidan founded.  This church seems to be more than just a historical way-station, with evidence of a real parish life, despite the steady inflow of tourists.  
Yeavering Bell

From Lindesfarne, it was just a little over 20 miles to the village of Edington, where my family lived hundreds of years ago.  I stood in the field that they tilled, and viewed the site of their former cottages.  I visited the churchyard where they are no doubt buried (though no monuments survive from that early a date).  I can now say that I have been there and have something of a feel for the region.  But perhaps it was the lousy weather, but I did not feel much of a connection with the area.  In fact, I felt very American, and not a little thankful that they boarded that ship in 1719.  On my return to Durham, I visited Yeavering Bell, the rounded hill in the Cheviots that the early Saxons considered holy.  One of their capitals lay at its base--so confident were they that they never fortified the site.  Again, weather prevented further exploration.
The Saxon Church at Escomb

I visited two cathedrals in the North country:  Hexham and Durham.  Cathedrals, as such, were not really on my itinerary as I did all that sort of thing back in 1994 and 1996.  And frankly, they do not impress me as they do some.  True, they are architectural wonders and should be appreciated on that level.  But in my mind, they are often cold and sterile, with their austere vaulted ceilings trying to reach to the heavens.  In my biased experience, even the largest Orthodox temple, with its domes and rounded ceilings, envelops you, aiming not for awe and grandeur, but for a real sense of intimacy, with the heavens laid out above and creation all around you.  This is, of course, only my simple layman's observation.  The two I visited were immense, particularly Durham.  They are so large, that there are often many things going on within at the same time.  They are forced to market themselves as half tourist site and half holy place simply due to the incredible cost of maintaining these piles.  In Hexham, I visited the Saxon crypt, the only remains of the Saxon era church of St. Wilfred, which predated the Norman cathedral. The crypt is a quiet refuge beneath the main sanctuary--in times past, a site of pilgrimage.
St. Wilfred's Crypt, Hexham

At Durham, I venerated the relics of St. Cuthbert, in a special chamber behind the main altar.  Despite the bustle of ticket booths and tours, and the meandering independent visitors, the tomb of St. Cuthbert is an oasis of secluded quietude.  Instinctively perhaps, tourists are silent and contemplative there, or like me, venerating this saint on the rugs laid out in front of the tomb.  I wanted to also visit the grave of the Venerable Bede, in another part of the church complex. A service was in progress,however, so I was unable to do so.  
Martyrdom of St. Edmund, Pickering

I also purposely skipped the ruins of Whitby Abbey.  While this location looms large in the history of Saxon Northumbria, the ruins are from a much later era.  Also, the entire site is managed by English Heritage, requiring an admission ticket--something I instinctively balk at if I am visiting a place of pilgrimage.  Their website plays up the Bram Stoker/Dracula connection as well, marketing the ability to "converse with people from Whitby's past such as Abbess Hild, a monk, and Bram Stoker, through entertaining and interactive touchscreens."  Thank you, no.
Come The Day, these will see it out of the corner of their eyes ;)

I had more fruitful engagement with some of the old Saxon churches in the area:  Bywell St. Andrews, St. Peter's at Monkwearmouth, the Saxon church as Escomb, Pickering, the Church of St. Mary at Lastingham and St. Gregory's Minster outside Kirbymoorside.  The small Saxon church at Escomb is perhaps the most perfectly preserved church from the Saxon era, dating to the late 600s.  St. Gregory's Minster, near Kirbymoorside, was another favorite.  I talked briefly--if it can be called that--with one of the volunteers.  He was clearly on the far side of 80 and as deaf as a post.  The church showed signs of an active parish life and he informed me that there were 18 members in the choir, though no doubt he had not actually heard them in years.  The churchyard was as neat and tidy as the church itself, with a newer graveyard across the road.  The stones were all facing east, awaiting the Resurrection, except in one corner, where the stones for those cremated were all facing north.  I know--it's a little thing, but not without, I think, some significance.  The Church at St. Mary's at Lastingham is on the site of an ancient Saxon monastery where St. Cedd, brother to St. Chad, labored.  His tomb and shrine is in the Saxon crypt below the somewhat newer church above.
Shrine of St. Cedd, St. Mary's Church, Lastingham

I went to the church at Pickering for a different reason.  The church only dates to the 13th-century or so.  Pickering is a larger town than you might think, and the church is wedged-in close in the old town.  It is a bit down-at-the-hills, obviously far larger than any need for it today.  Yet inside is one of the great unheralded treasures of England.  During the Reformation, admidst the general de-sanctification of the churches, interior walls were whitewashed to cover "idolatrous" wall paintings.  In an 1852 renovation of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul, the artwork was uncovered.  The reverend of the parish was shocked.  "As a work of art [they are] fairly ridiculous, would excite feelings of curiosity, and distract the congregation."  He had them quickly re-covered in a thick yellow wash.  The discovery was not forgotten, however, and a subsequent vicar had more appreciation for what was underneath. The paintings were uncovered again and crudely "restored" by the mid 1890s.  The most famous scene is that of the Martyrdom of St. Edmund, but there are other extensive scenes, such as a treatment of the life of St. Catherine and the Beheading of John the Baptist. 
Beheading of John the Baptist, Pickering

 It is these upper walls of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in Pickering, along with the recently discovered paintings on the Church of St. Cadog in Llancarfan, Wales, that offer a glimpse into medieval English worship spaces, and leave the viewer with a melancholy realization of all that was lost in the iconoclastic frenzy of the English Reformation and Civil War.  They are the poorer for it, and as this particular history has worked its way out and into modernity, I cannot help but place much blame there for the hollowness at the core of Britain (and we their former colony) today. 

Tuesday, June 07, 2016

(3) In the Welsh Kingdoms


At Pennant Melangel

Wales proved to be the most surprising region of my travels through the U.K.  I had not attempted any systematic study of the Welsh until recent months.  I had some vague notions of a coal mines and poverty, largely from a few films half remembered.  And maybe there is that, but I didn't see it, spending the better part of 4 days crisscrossing the region.  True, there is a lot of industrialization in the far south of Wales, but no more so than you would expect from coastal areas along major shipping routes.  In terms of natural beauty, Wales takes second place to none on the island.  Without gushing about it, the Welsh countryside--south, north and central--is simply stunning.  And, the roads are wider and traffic a bit calmer, which means that you can actually savor the beauty, maybe even pull off the side of the road and walk about--imagine that!  I include the Welsh borderlands--Shropshire and Herefordshire--in this general commendation, as well.


St. Cadog
I realize that I sometimes draw sweeping generalizations from limited observations.  That said, I would have to say that yes, the Welsh are different from the English.  From what I saw, I would say that they are maybe more boisterous, a bit louder, and more direct--none of this English standing on ceremony.  Of all the places I visited in the U.K., Wales is the one region that I would definitely contemplate a return visit.

As in Wessex and Cornwall, my itinerary in Wales had to be trimmed due to rain, my miscalculation of realistic traveling times in the U.K, and my own absent-mindedness (on my first day in Wales, I had to first double back and retrieve the luggage I left behind in Cornwall--adding 140 miles to that day's travels.) The main casualties were the elimination of the Church of St. Tewdric (Arthur's grandfather), the Cathedral at Cardiff, and most importantly, my trek to the spot where King Arthur may be buried (not in Glastonbury).  Theories about King Arthur are something of a cottage industry in the U.K.  The places that play it up the most (Glastonbury and Tintangel) are probably the sites with the least connection to the actual historical figure.  For despite the stories and medieval myth-making that came later, there is at the heart of it, a real man, Athrwys.  Like I say, there are plenty of theories to pick from, but the one that I believe has the most historical legs to it is this one.  I had actually built my entire Welsh itinerary around visiting Mynydd-y-Gaer.  But due to running hours late, by the time I finally reached the site, it late in the day, steadily raining, and I realized that I would not be able to drive as close to the site as I had anticipated.  I was still a ways from my inn for the night, so I took a deep breath and chalked it up as something that was not meant to be.
At St. Cadog's Church

The fascinating thing about Athrwys is that he is right in the mix of the early Welsh saints and missionaries to Cornwall and Brittany.  I have it all charted out (but that is at home), but I do remember that he was a close kinsman of King Brychan, and of course, all of King Brychan's children.  There are stories of Athrwys visiting his kinsman, Nectan, at St. Nectan's Glen in Cornwall.  He is a kinsman of St. Cadog (of more later), and of St. Govan (Gawain).  So, the pursuit of Arthur (Athrwys) was really not at all removed from the main scope of my inquiries--the early Welsh saints.  
At. St. Cadog's Church

The highlight of my time in southern Wales (in the Vale of Glamorgan), was the Church of St. Cadog (or Cadoc) in the village of Llancarfan.  The present church dates to about 1200, but was built on a monastic foundation laid by St. Cadog, grandson of King Brychan, in the sixth century.  Llancarfan is as pretty a village as can be found on the island.  The church, unlike many, shows signs of active parish life, and interestingly enough, seemed to be of an extremely "high" nature.  If not known as being part of the Anglican communion, it showed every sign of being a Catholic church, with holy water outside the door, a sign saying that the Blessed Sacrament was reserved here, and a statue of the Virgin Mary, so placed for devotion.  
At St. Cadog's Church

The unique thing about this church, however, was the discovery several years ago of some incredible "wall paintings" underneath the limewashed walls.  The British are very careful, for some reason, not to call it "iconography."  Now admittedly, it is not of the same quality, or as stylized as Orthodox iconography, but at the end of the day, that is what it is.  As the church literature itself maintains, "encouraged by waves of Protestant reforms, the Puritan in us whitewashed away the decorative narratives of culture and belief."  The impression of English churches, even if you like the soaring Gothic nature of many of them, is that they are, well, austere and stark.  Llancarfan (and other churches) show that it was not always thus.  The old English church was colorful, with walls covered in iconography.  Candles would have been lit everywhere, with shrines to various saints filling in the sides of the churches.  With the Reformation of the 1530s, and the Puritanism of the 1640s, the walls were whitewashed, the shrines busted-up, and the devotion to the saints prohibited.  So, what we think as a typically English style of worship is a relatively new thing, not 500 years old--and the way things are going, it may not reach 500 years.
Pembrokeshire coast, above St. Govan's

At St. Brychan's Church, Nevern
I next visited the Church of St. Illtud in Llantwit Major.  This is one of the site of the oldest center of learning in the British isles.  St. Illtud was a disciple of St. Cadog who founded the first monastic school in Britain.  The church is one of the longest in the U.K., built in phases from about 1100 to 1300.  But I did not come to see the building, but rather their display of early Celtic stone crosses and pillars--primarily the "Samson Stone" of St. Samson.
Shrine of St. Melangel

I stayed one night on the Pembrokeshire coast--this to be close to St. Govan's.  This saint (also known as Gawain in the Arthurian legends) was a member of King Brychan's extensive connections, and retired here as a hermit.  His hermitage is wedged between the rocks, underneath the cliffs in Pembroke.  It's a lonely site, but I suppose that's what being a hermit is all about.  I skipped St. David's Cathedral, knowing it would press me for time as I was venturing into central and northern Wales.  But before I left southern Wales, I did stop at Nevern, the see the ancient stones in the churchyard there.  One dates to the 6th-century, and the Celtic cross stone to the 9th-century.
St. Melangel's grave

My stop in central Wales was the Church at Pennant Melangel, hidden at the end of the prettiest valley in the U.K.  There are Orthodox churches in the U.K, and there's a monastery or two on the island.  But outside of these sites, I would say the most Orthodox place on the island is this remote church--a true place of pilgrimage.  The pieces of the shrine to St. Melangel--smashed in the Reformation--has been carefully reconstructed.  The grave of St. Melangel has been discovered in what was once the altar of the church.  The church has a number of icons, and it is clear that they know what to do with them.  They are obviously placed where they can be venerated.  There is some interest in the U.K. these days in things "spiritual."  So, you have those who go on pilgrimage, but are not exactly sure why, as evidenced by the leaving of feathers and other odd items on St. Melangel's grave.  The void is real and the yearning is real.  My prayer is that this may grow into something real.  I would recommend this as a pilgrimage site to any Orthodox Christian.
St. Melangel

I visited two of the three holy wells I had intended to see in northern Wales.  My favorite was the well of St. Dyfnog, in St. Dyfnog's Church in Llanrhaeadr.  The 13th-century church is noted for its "Jesse Window," a stained glass depicting the ancestry of Jesus.  Amazingly enough, even this was too much for the Calvinists.  During the English Civil War, the window was dismantled and hidden-away, only to be dug-up and re-installed in 1823, I believe.  The interior of the church also contains a carved golden pelican. The religious symbolism is that a pelican will pick at it's own breast to bleed and feed its young.  The porch once contained a carved image of St. Dyfnog, but of course, this was hacked out as well.  All this behavior puts me in mind of the countless churches or former churches visited in the Balkans, Turkey and Georgia where the Turks would deface the images.  Both Puritan and Turk wore the same ideological and fundamentalist blinders.  But the inside of the church did not interest me much.  I'm not overly impressed with stained glass, and the rest of the church was as stark as most.  What I wanted to see was at the end of a trail that snaked through the churchyard and up a wooded ravine.  Several hundred feet beyond was the Holy Well, the spring of St. Dyfnog.  Here he established a hermitage, and it became a pilgrimage site from the very earliest days.  I said my prayers here, not in the church.
St. Dyfnog's Holy Well
The well of St. Winifride was my last stop.  This is the most famous holy well in Wales--if not the entire U.K.  For a variety of reasons, it was my least favorite.  It has always been a site of Catholic pilgrimage, even during the darkest days of England's anti-Catholicism.  Elizabeth I wanted to appoint a commission to investigate the purported healing properties of the well.   The pilgrims kept coming anyway.  In 1687, King James II and his wife, Mary of Modena, made a pilgrimage to St. Winifride's.  She had given birth to and buried 10 children, the last 3 years earlier.  She bathed in the well and they prayed for a son.  The next year, for better or for worse, she gave birth to the James, "the Old Pretender."  The site is maintained by the Catholic Church.  They do a good job of presenting the hagiography of St. Winefride, and clear-up some of the latter accretions to her story (such as the fact that her brother avenged her death by killing her assailant, which is more believable that the earth swallowing him up.)  You have to go through their gift shop, however, full of treacly, sentimental sweet Catholic kitsch.  In all fairness, I would make the same statement about the Orthodox gift shop I recently visited at Curtea de Arges, Romania.  There was nothing in there about St. Winifride, specifically.  The slick, generic marketing of the site was just a little off-putting is all I am saying.

My visit to Wales would not be complete without telling of my flat tire in Llannefydd.  Frankly, I had met too much oncoming traffic on country lanes just barely wide enough for one vehicle, with my response being to hug the edge of the hedge on the left.  After a while, that took a toll on my left front tire.  I limped into the church parking lot at Llannefydd, where I was to stay that night.  I have changed many a tire in my day, and so I got out the spare and jack and equipment and commenced the process.  After I had jacked-up the car, I noticed that my lug wrench did not fit the lug nuts on the tire.  I was frustrated beyond measure.  I walked down to the Hawk and Buckle where I was to stay that night.  There was good crowd in the pub.  I talked to the young girl working the bar (the owner's daughter) and asked to borrow a lug wrench, in the hope that it would fit.  With the borrowed lug wrench in hand, I trudged back to the site of my misfortune.  As it turns out, that lug wrench was the wrong size, as well.  About that time, two small cars swerved into the parking lot, and six of the lads from the pub noisily piled out, speaking in Welsh, no less.  They were all over my situation.  One squatted down next to me and I showed him my problem.  He reached into the tire-changing paraphanalia and pulled out a tweezer-looking thing.  He then reached in and pulled off a little plastic cover over every nut--after which removed, would render my lug wrench exactly the right size!  He was going to go ahead and change the tire from there, but I wouldn't let him.  No doubt they had a good laugh later on over my ineptitude.  I offered to buy a round of drinks at the Hawk and Buckle, but they had to get on.  Just as suddenly and noisily, they sped off out of the village.  I could live with people like that. 


St. Winifride's Well




Wednesday, June 01, 2016

(2) In Cornwall


St. Piran of Cornwall
St. Piran's Cross
Cornwall (the old kingdom of Dumnonia) was a particular destination on this journey.  I had never been further than Devon, and had heard good things about the region. I enjoyed my stay there, but it was not exactly what I intended.  A look at the map clearly shows that Cornwall is not on the way to anywhere.  There is basically one or two ways in, and the same routes out.  And so, the problems encountered in old Wessex hold doubly true of Cornwall.  The traffic is just as intense, and if anything, the roads are even narrower.  That, coupled with the cold, wet weather, eliminated several of my "must-sees" in the region.  That said, Cornwall is every bit as picturesque as any other region in England.  
The Tristan Stone in Foway, Cornwall

The Welsh loom large in the Christian hagiography of Cornwall.  Both Cornish and Welshmen were Celtic peoples, somewhat holed-up in the west of the island by those worrisome Angles, Saxons, and Jutes.  It was mainly Welsh missionaries (though some from Ireland, as well) who finally, completely Christianized Dumnonia.  Many of these were children of the near mythic King Brychan of Wales.  He was the first cousin of the man most likely to be King Arthur (but more on that in a later post).  Brychan had a great number of children who became missionaries.  The varying numbers sometimes defy credulity, and it seems it became popular to ascribe saints as children of Brychan.  But no matter, I believe the basic story line holds (and why should we not trust it?)  And so, any number of sites are associated with his progeny:  St. Kew, St. Clether, St. Cleer, St. Nectans, Morwenstow, St. Keyne, to name just a few.

The particular expression of Christianity in this extremity of Britain expressed itself in a profusion of stone crosses (usually round in the Cornish style) and holy wells.  Cornwall also has the greatest number of villages and towns starting with "Saint".  No one denies that some of these crosses and wells pre-dated the Christian era.  Pagan, even neolithic menhirs were converted into stone crosses ("Old Tom") below, being an excellent example.  Sometimes the stones marked graves, other times they marked events, and still others designated boundaries.  The wells, whether they existed prior to the arrival of the saint, or sprung forth miraculously, were always associated in a particular way with an individual saint, and each had their own healing properties.
Old Tom

A recent poll confirms that the decades-long slow decline of professed Christianity in England has turned into a precipitous drop.  Cornwall appears to be no exception to the overall figures.  From my admittedly superficial understanding of the particulars here, I believe that the region went strongly in the Nonconformist direction after the revolutions of the 1540s and the 1640s.  Methodist chapels became the preference, if there was one at all.  So, at least some of the old churches look a bit down at the heals these days.  And the Protestant chapels that once were are thin on the ground these days.  I used to say (and did in fact say in the prospectus for this series) that England was full of churches.  It is not, really.  Yes, every village and town will have the old church, and maybe, just maybe, a chapel.  But that is it.  The old village church is probably just hanging-on, with maintenance and upkeep being the overarching concern of its increasingly elderly parishioners.  Pleas to the visiting tourists become ever more strident.  A similarly-sized town in the U.S. would have any number of competing Protestant sects (not that that is necessarily a good thing), and perhaps even a Catholic church.  England is, for better or worse, stuck with their drafty and stark old Gothic churches, and fewer and fewer seem committed to staying that course.
What's left of Celtic Cross, St. Neot's Church

And so, my intention of finding some of those "thin places" in Cornwall did not meet with great success.  Hopefully, I will be proven more wrong than right.  One of my first stops was the 1,500 year old "Tristan Stone," which originally marked the grave of the hero of the epic "Tristan and Isolde."  The stone's inscription refers to "Trystan" and "Marcus Cunomorus" (King Mark).  The stone has been moved several times in its history, so poor lovelorn Tristan's actual burial place is lost to history.  The stone current sets close to the road (as does everything in England), next to a Texaco station.  a local builder has requested permission to develop the site, and in the process, move the stone once more.  This has some in the village a bit riled.  "Such desecration is the equivalent of Napoleon shooting at the Sphinx for target practice...it's an infringement of the cultural integrity of Cornway; it is cultural violence."  There might be a bit of hyperbole here, but I am in whole-hearted sympathy.  
Frs. Niketas and Raphael, St. Piran's Orthodox Church

Another similar stone is known as "Old Tom", marking the high point in the region.  This menhir is ancient, and the cross carved into it is hardly legible today.  Nearby, King Doniert's stone marks the burial place of the last king of Cornwall before being absorbed by Wessex (England.)  I visited the church of St. Neot, who was strangely not a child of King Brychan.  According to his hagiography, Neot was a close kinsman of King Alfred the Great, who visited him at this site.  The 15th-century church contains a noted stain glass window depicting the life of St. Neot, but the building was locked-up tight when I arrived.  I admired a few old Cornish crosses int the graveyard, though.  With literally no place to park a car in the village, I gave up on trying to find St. Neot's well.  I did however, visit St. Cleer's well, right in the village of the same name.  
On the path to St. Nectan's Glen

I had made an appointment to meet Fr. Raphael and Fr. Nicetas of the Orthodox Church of the Archangel Michael and St. Piran.  The two priests opened the church for me and we were able to visit briefly.  We talked of our differing situations, but each of us in our own way in areas not particularly given to Orthodoxy.  They currently use what was once a tiny Methodist chapel, wedged between a barn and the very edge of the road.  They have land, and hope to build where they have more room.  They said they have little traction among the English.  Most of their parishioners are Greeks and Romanians and Ukrainians and Russians and other Orthodox scattered around this tip of England.  Our situation is just the opposite.  They asked for prayers for their church, and I intend to do that very thing.  
Church of St. Morwenna, Morwenstow

St. Piran is the patron saint of Cornwall, an early missionary from Ireland.  The site I wanted to visit most of all in Cornwall was St. Piran's Cross and the nearby ruins of St. Piran's Church.  The cross is thought to be the oldest in Cornwall.  Through the years, the church became buried under shifting sand dunes.  When the church was moved a bit further inland, it too suffered the same fate.  I had the spot pinpointed on the map, but the best access to the site was blocked by a caravan park.  I would have walked in from the road, had it not been raining pretty heavily.  And so, I had to cross this one off my list.  I did however, visit a much newer St. Piran's Church, as well as a St. Piran's Well.
At Morwenstow

I walked most of the way up to St. Nectan's Glen, where St. Nectan lived as a hermit where a waterfall fell into the glen.  He has a large church dedicated to him just outside of western Cornwall in Devon.  Due to time constraints, and the ever-present rain, I also eliminated St. Clether's Well in the village of St. Clether.  I really regret not being able to make the walk back to this well.   St. Keyne's well is located right next to the road, so I was able to visit the well, even in the rain.  All three--Nectan, Clether and Keyne--were children of King Brychan of Glamorgan.  St. Keyne's well has an interesting tradition:  For married couples, it is believed that the one who drinks from the well first will wear the pants in the family.  I could make a joke about this, but I've always done pretty much what I wanted to do, and everybody knows it.
Site of St. Morwenna's Well

My most moving experience in Cornwall was visiting Morwenstow, and the Church of St. Morwenna, along the northwest coast. Inside the church, they have recently uncovered some "wall paintings" (otherwise known as "iconography") under 300 years of whitewash. The female figure is thought to represent St. Morwenna.  But this tired old church, at the end of long trail masquerading as an actual road, was locked tight.  I walked on across a field to the bluff overlooking the Atlantic.  The wind was blowing pretty fierce and the waves were crashing--it seemed right out of one of those 1940s adaptations of a Daphne du Maurier novel.  I walked down the cliff a ways to the site of St. Morwenna's Well, now overgrown with gorse.  The fog was really rolling-in, so I started back, the church tower just barely visible in the mist.  Back in the churchyard, I noticed a strange monument.  I discovered it was a copy of the masthead of the ship "Caledonia," which busted-up and sank on the rocks below the bluff.  The reverend of the St. Morwenna's saw that the drowned sailors were taken up the bluff and given a Christian burial in his churchyard.  For many years, the actual masthead of the ship served as their monument, but in recent years it has been placed inside the church and this copy put in its place.  Morwenstow was probably the most atmospheric and moving place I visited in Cornwall.  I wouldn't mind going back one day.
Monument to drowned sailors, Morwenstow





Tuesday, May 24, 2016

(1) In Wessex

St. Edward the Martyr (notice the snake in the drinking horn)
The prospectus for this series of posts can be found here.  

If you are fortunate in your travels, then things will not go as planned.  But don't fret it, and by all means, continue to plot your course.  I certainly do.  Just don't expect things to fall into place that way.  The unexpected is usually more interesting, and if nothing else, a needed reminder that we are not in control of everything, or really much of anything at all.  In this case, driving on the left in the U.K. is not a problem; nor is the steering wheel being on the right.  And I actually like roundabouts.  What I had forgotten, or perhaps not experienced to this degree twenty years ago, is the sheer intensity of the traffic in the south and southwest of the U.K.  (Driving in Wales and the North, however, is much less stressful.)  Simply put, there are too many people driving too many cars on too narrow roadways.  

Rural England is as picturesque as you would imagine.  You really cannot savor the bucolic countryside, however, for you must watch for oncoming traffic, on a road only marginally wide enough for one vehicle, with another automobile right on your tail, and with no place to pull over for a view or a picture.  You just have to keep whizzing along.  And going through the middle of most every village drops your average time down to the 30 to 40 mph range.  Finally, it rains here.  A lot.  I arrived on Tuesday and first saw the sun on Sunday.  And so, I was forced to drastically prune my intensive itinerary from the very beginning.

As I outlined in the prospectus, my goal was to visit sites associated with the Britain--both Celtic and Saxon--that predated the Norman invasion of 1066.  For old Wessex, I believed my journey must start at the immense Brookwood Cemetery near Woking, on the western fringes of Greater London.  This will take a bit of explanation.  By the early 1850s, a booming London no longer had room to bury its dead.  Investors purchased a large acreage west of the city for the "London Necropolis." For that time, it was the largest cemetery in the world (and still the largest in the U. K.), complete with its own rail line into London.  Every day the train brought coffins and mourners from the city out to Brookwood.  The North Station serviced "Nonconformists" who were buried in the unconsecrated section, while the South Station serviced Anglicans.  For about 80 years, the train pulled out of Waterloo Station every day bound for Brookwood, which became the final earthly destination for paupers and for respectable Victorians alike.  By the 1920s, the cemetery was starting to fall out of favor, and the Nazi destruction of the railway in 1941 hastened its demise.  In time, the owners took bankruptcy.  

Under new ownership, Brookwood is still a going concern, but nothing like it was in its heyday.  The cemetery resembles a slightly overgrown open forest, dotted with thousands of monuments.  Today it caters to what can only be called niche markets.  There are sections for most every ethnic group.  For example, if you are Latvian Catholic, there is a section set aside for you.  A very colorful Ismaili section is to the left of the main entrance.  And on it goes.  My goal was the Orthodox Christian section of the cemetery, adjacent to what had been the South Station and Mortuary Chapel.  For it is here, in an odd twist of history, that one finds the relics of King Edward, a Saxon king of the 10th century. 

This monarch, more properly known as St. Edward the Martyr to Catholics and the Orthodox, was the oldest son of King Edgar the Peacemaker and his first wife Ethelflaeda, elected king by the Witan upon his father's death, despite being a youth of only thirteen.    England had been enjoying a period of relative strength following Alfred's consolidation of power under the House of Wessex.  Strong kings followed--Edward the Elder, Athelstan, Edgar--and now expectations rode high on the young king.  Edward was an upright and godly young man, well-regarded and on friendly terms with Bishop Dunstan and the monastic party.  While out hunting one day, he called on his step-mother Aelfthrith at Corfe Castle.  She met him at the gates, offering him a drink of wine, while giving the signal to one of her servants to stab him in the back.    Aelfthrith saw that her son Aethelred (as in the Unready) was elected king in Edward's place.  Aelfthrith had has body spirited away and buried without ceremony.

Edward suffered a cruel, unjust and untimely death, but he does not at first glance seem to be a likely saint.  Almost immediately, miracles were associated with him burial place.  The common people started referencing him as both Saint and Martyr.  Within two years, Bishop Dunstan had his remains removed to Shaftsbury Abbey, where his shrine soon became a popular pilgrimage site.  
Blessing the Irenes

Edward's martyrdom is a useful lesson in how quickly things can go horribly wrong for both people and peoples, for this one calculated act of treachery has rippled down through England's history. The half-brother, Aethelred the Unready, proved to be a particularly ineffectual ruler, at a particularly inauspicious time.  And this usurper in time took a Norman wife, who gave birth to their son, Edward "the Confessor."   The latter--the James Buchanan of Saxon kings--diddled away the kingdom, for all practical purposes passing it off to his Norman cousin.  In some ways, St. Edward the Martyr has become a symbol of all that what lost by the Norman conquest.

Almost 600 years later, the shrine of St. Edward was demolished with all the others during the English Deformation.  Shaftsbury Abbey, line all the others, was given to one of Henry's cronies.  In the 1930s, the owner of the property, himself an amateur archaeologist, discovered the relics of St. Edward, underneath the site of the ruined shrine.  He sought a permanent home for the bones and offered to give them to any church if they would meet three conditions:  1.  that they be recognize as relics, 2. that a shrine be established for them, and 3. that his feast day be observed.  He chose the Russian Orthodox Church in Exile, as they were the only church that agreed to all of the terms, as well as the fact that it was thought they would be most similar to the church Edward would have known.  The church received title to the old South Station and Mortuary Chapel at Brookwood.  The Victorian chapel became an Orthodox church and shrine to St. Edward.  The section adjoining became an Orthodox graveyard.  

And so, my project really began at the Shrine of St. Edward the Martyr, and the veneration of his relics there.  The monks have done a good job in adapting the Victorian era chapel into a warm and familiar Orthodox temple.  The interior is all stone and timber, making painted iconography difficult, even if there had been the money for it.  Instead, the interior is covered with hundreds of small icons, none larger than 8" by 10", many of them no doubt gifted to the monastery.  I arrived about midway through the Liturgy, and standing in the nave, with the countless icons all around me, I had a very real sense of being "surrounded by a cloud of witnesses."  It was the feast day of St. Irene and St. Ephrem the New of Nea Makri.  The shrine to St. Edward, containing the chest with his relics, is on the north side of the nave.   
St. Edward the Martyr Orthodox Church

The four monastics were as friendly as could be.  The priest had a typically dry English humor.  As it was the feast day of St. Irene, they invited me to follow them to "the tombs" (the graveyard) where a blessing would be chanted over those with that name.  It was raining, but no matter.  As it turned out, there were six Irinas to be blessed.  Glancing at the tombstones, I noticed that two of them were princesses.  I did not recognize one, but I did recognize the princely family of Galitzen, or Golitsyn or Galitzine for the other.    I asked the deacon about her, and it turns out she was granddaughter of the last tsarist prime minister of Russia, shot by the Soviets in 1925 at age 75.  She lived in humble circumstances in London.  I also noted another name--Trollope.  I inquired, and sure enough, he was the great-great grandson of the author.  The monks sell these Orthodox burial plots, which helps support their monastery.  They also dig the graves with a backhoe parked nearby.  I was invited inside for coffee and breakfast.  I really needed to push on, but did stay for the coffee.  Fr. Sabas and I talked of
Shrine of St. Edward the Martyr
many things--the Norman conquest, the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the English Civil War and the ensuing secularization of the nation, how we both thought Trollope a better write than Dickens, the Puritan influence on the American character, the American Revolution and the utter and complete travesty that was Mel Gibson's "The Patriot," etc. And while I know that many Orthodox make way too much of it, he did say that in his estimation, the English church before the Normans was the closest to Orthodoxy among Western Christendom.  Before I left, he loaded me down with icon cards, as well as an enormous book on Orthodox religious art through the centuries.  As many Orthodox readers already know, these monks have aligned themselves with what we would characterize as a schismatic group--as I'm sure they would also characterize us.  The subject never came up, and that is how it should be.


I had next planned to visit the Abbey Church of St. Mary and St. Aethelflaed at Romsey, the only one not demolished by Henry VIII.  The townspeople had already purchased it for their parish church.  Romsey is a 12th-century Normal structure, but the lower walls are Saxon, and it contains 2 remarkable stone crucifixion carvings from that earlier period.  One, a gift from King Edgar, is thought to exhibit Byzantine influences as well as seemingly incorporating elements of the Saxon Tree of Life (Yggdrasil).  The Abbey has interesting historical connections, as well.  The abbey was originally founded by King Edward the Elder for his daughter Aelflaed.  Later, King Edgar refounded it for his daughter Aethelflaed, the half-sister of King Edward the Martyr.  The siblings have a brother, Edmund, buried at Romsey.  But as it turned out, I was running behind schedule, it was raining, and I missed my exit.  So I had to pass on Romsey Abbey.  
10th-century Saxon at Romsey Abbey


I pushed on to Wareham in Dorset, where I visited the Church of St. Martin-on-the-Walls, dating from the year 1030.  The small church was easy to find--literally being on the old wall around the city.  From the outside, the church has changed little in almost 1,000 years.  It is not the main church in the city, but after being reconsecrated in the 1930s, occasional services are conducted there.  About the time I arrived, a volunteer arrived and unlocked the church so I could enter.  I hesitate to complain, for she did let me inside.  But she is typical of a certain type of English woman of a certain age--thin, unadorned, straight shoulder-length hair, and nervously chatty.  I know she was trying to be informative, and I do appreciate that, but it was more the tone that annoyed me.  I suppose I have spent too much time in Georgia.  In the Caucasus, there is reverence inside churches, even those not in regular use.  Such are holy places and one does not enter them casually.  I have seen ruins of Georgian churches, both in that country and in Turkey, where visitors have lit small candles in the jagged, ruined walls, for even in that condition, the places are holy.  My English volunteer was rattling on about it as casually as one would an old barn or blacksmith shop.  I know that you cannot extrapolate from one experience and draw conclusions about an entire society (although that has never stopped me before), but I do believe her attitude is broadly typical of the English today.  They are proud of these historical structures, but they are just that, and only that--structures.  

Church of St. Martin on-the-Wall, Wareham


Like most English churches after the Reformation, the inside is whitewashed and sterile.  Preservationists had, however, exposed what lay underneath on the north side of the apse.  A faded mosaic depicted scenes from the life of St. Martin.  Where the whitewash to be removed throughout, who knows what might be revealed.  I recognize it for what it was--iconography (though crudely done in comparison to Georgian, much less other Orthodox cultures).  The English seem more comfortable with the term "wall paintings."
"Wall Paintings," Church of St. Martin

The volunteer pointed out another mural, painted in the 1600s, I believe, depicting the coats of arms of a number of English monarchs.  Above them was the word, Yahweh, which to press the point that the churches authority was rooted in the God of the Old Testament, and not, as the volunteer explained with a wrinkle in her nose, of that awful Roman Catholicism.  This later painting interested me not much at all.

Finally, the church of St. Martin contains an effigy of T. E. Lawrence.  He has always been a great favorite of mine after reading The Seven Pillars of Wisdom many years ago.  The volunteer gave a rambling account of how the effigy came to be here--as Lawrence is actually buried in a country churchyard not far away.  By this time we had two other visitors, and I exited with the excuse of going to take some exterior pictures.  I had seen enough.
Effigy of T. E. Lawrence

From there, I continued on west into Devon, where I stopped at the Church of St. Candida (St. Wite) at Whitchurch Canonicorum.  This was not a Saxon church, but a later Norman structure. Its significance, however, is that it contains a complete shrine over the relics of St. Wite.  This church was a popular pilgrimage site for centuries.  During the Dissolution of the Monasteries under Henry VIII, these shrines to the saints were busted-up and destroyed all over England.  What was left of this sort of thing was demolished a 100 years later under Oliver Cromwell's regime.  The scope of destruction is hard to imagine, and is generally glossed-over in the triumphalist view of English Reformation history.  But over 90% of England's art was destroyed in a fevered frenzy of iconoclasm.  As efficient as the Cromwells were, both Thomas and Oliver, they somehow missed the shrine to St. Wite.  And so it alone remains.  I have never understood those who feel compelled to destroy a thing of beauty, whether it is a work of art, a tree, a hillside, an old building.  I just don't.  The church was locked up, so I was not able to view the shrine.  The churchyard contained several interesting Saxon crosses, however, and I spied a small statue of St. Wite just under the roof line.
St. Wite


I left old Wessex, and entered Dumnonia (Cornwall).  A couple of days later, I entered Wessex again, where I hoped to visit the grave of Evelyn Waugh, and the monument to Alfred the Great at Athelney.  The latter is a monument to Alfred's time there during England's dire struggle against the Danes.  Evelyn Waugh is not necessarily a favorite author of mine.  He did, however, write Black Mischief, one of the funniest novels I have ever read.  And there is a line from his Sword of Honour trilogy that has always stayed with me.  If I remember correctly, the female character Virginia was calling upon Guy's uncle, Peregrine Crouchback.  His butler ushered her into the library to await the elder Crouchback with the admonition (to the best of my memory), "There is plenty in here to interest one.  That is, if one is interested in things."  I have remembered that line of dialogue, for even at that time, I realized that it somewhat encapsulated my view of life.   

I had to abandon both of these goals, however, when I left my luggage at an inn in north Cornwall.  The innkeeper called me when I was seventy miles down the road.  I doubled back, and the loss of close to three hours eliminated these stops.  In my initial foray into Wessex, however, I was able to do a drive-by on the Giant of Cerne Abbas.  This neolithic novelty at least proves that the English were not always reserved and unassuming.
The Cerne Abbas Giant