Four years ago we visited Cyprus and one of the highlights of our holiday — on this troubled but relatively peaceful island — was a visit to a disused monastery in the Troodhos mountains. This 15th century monastery, which we reached by a series of seemingly uncharted tracks, lay in splendid isolation at the bottom of a stunningly beautiful valley—and it was wonderful to see oleanders blooming out of the dry stony ground, and pomegranate trees and olive trees shimmering in the heat (some of the latter being so old that they were growing at the time of the Peninsular Wars, and apparently for centuries before that). The landscape made me question, ‘Was the call to a religious life inspired — to some extent at least — through the channel of an aesthetic reaction to nature?’ Certainly, it would be a very dry mind that remained impervious to this wonder, and I do not find it too hard to imagine some monks —perhaps all? — being sustained by an almost Wordsworthian relationship to their mountain landscape. Later on that day we passed through a village where we happened to see two priests, both resplendent and looking to be men of great integrity underpinned by rare good humour. This impression was corroborated by our guide and jeep driver who knew both men, and I found myself wondering if such men are not almost entirely confined to the eastern Mediterranean — as habitat, if I can so express it. Well, I think that they probably are, but when we see things native to a particular part of the world we do not jib because we cannot find them at home. And, like the hoopoe bird — that striking, fashion–conscious, show–off — which we saw on another day, we should be grateful for their existence, even if we cannot see them every day.
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Postlude on simplicity
Our abandoned monastery was not itself without beauty, with a fine dome and its solid stonework mostly preserved. Inside there was an icon stasis (stand) imported from another source (and missing two apostles due to lack of width). Yet somehow the icons seemed to intrude on the space — much like the woodwork and stained glass with which the Victorians dressed up the English churches. Icons are inseparable from the Orthodox Church — yet how much more holy the unadorned spaces seem! As with St Swithins parish church at Launcells in Cornwall — the interior of which was described by Sir John Betjemen as ‘the least spoiled…in Cornwall.’ It was not until I saw St Swithins, some ten years ago, that I realised the extent of the ‘dark spirit’ of Victorian restorations. It was a revelation to me, and I cannot but think that it would be wonderful if these ‘restorations’ were reversed — out with the heavy woodwork and the stained glass! Let the churches breath, and once again become uncluttered spaces. I imagine that the simplicity would be breathtaking.
Another church with a blessedly simple interior is East Guldeford, as described on this website: http://www.villagenet.co.uk/rotherlevels/villages/eastguldeford.php East Guldeford is the westernmost church on Romney Marsh, and is in the diocese of Chichester. All the other churches on the Marsh are in the diocese of Canterbury. The reason for this apparent anomaly is that East Sussex extends just far enough into the Marsh to include Guldeford. It is, therefore, the westernmost church in Sussex. But why, I wondered, was it included in a West Sussex diocese? Well, because East Sussex boasts not a single cathedral!
The Marsh Warblers choir singing in St Mary at East Guldeford Church
Looking east onto Romney Marsh from East Guldeford. This photo
was taken c.1981. At that time the brickwork was much eroded
and in poor repair. I do not know what its current state is.
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