Ingredients: 4 tablespoons olive oil
3 medium leeks, sliced
2 medium onions, diced
1 cup cup parsnips, sliced
1 cup carrots, sliced
1 cup potatoes, sliced into chunks
1 cup turnips, peeled and sliced into chunks
1 cup celery, diced
4 cups vegetable stock
2 cups Guinness
1 cup pearl barley
1/2 cup fresh parsley, chopped
A few sprigs of fresh rosemary, fresh thyme and fresh marjoram (or 1/4 teaspoon of each dried)
Salt and pepper
Way to go:
In a large soup pot, saute leeks in olive oil until translucent.
Add the remaining vegetables and cook for a few minutes.
Add broth, Guinness, barley and parsley.
Tie together sprigs of herbs with cooking string and add (or add dried herbs).
Bring to a boil, then reduce heat.
Simmer for an hour, or until vegetables are tender, adding water if necessary.
Remove herb bundle.
Season with salt and pepper, and serve with bread. Serves as many as your patience and your appetite will allow. Slainte!
"May your troubles be as few and as far apart as my Grandmother's teeth"
"To a great extent the level of any civilisation is the level of its womanhood. When a man loves a woman, he has to become worthy of her. The higher her virtue, the more her character, the more devoted she is to truth, justice, goodness, the more a man has to aspire to be worthy of her. The history of civilisation could actually be written in terms of the level of its women."
(Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen)
Hmm. I was eager to view the third of Richard Alwyn's films about Catholics last Thursday night, focusing on Catholic women and their role in the church today. I am female after all, cradle-Catholic with a convent school education and I've also become a member of the Catholic Women's League in recent months. I know quite a few Catholic women who are gloriously strong and warm, in their faith and all areas of their lives. Too often, non-Catholic friends of mine (naming no names but mostly male) have poked fun at media perceptions of Catholic birds: repressed and edgy ex-convent types; WI rejects in knitted cloche hats, knitting yet more cloche hats and enthusing about jam; and Mrs Doyle... Ach go on; we all know the stereotypes. I quite liked the gently inquisitive approach of Alwyn's first film, about priests. I hoped the last of his trilogy would offer insight into the huge role that women play in the Catholic Church, accepted but rarely understood.
In fact, when I first watched the film last week, I was disappointed. I felt I shouldn't put fingertip to keyboard until I'd put my own expectations away and watched it again. First time round, my impression was that Alwyn had sat back and allowed the participants' insecurities and doubts to the fore, before toying with them. There was an initial feeling that most of the women he interviewed had come to the Catholic Church or revived their faith after disappointment or tragedy in their lives: it filled voids but with what? I was on the point of irritation with Rose, "second-in-command" in administration at Westminster Cathedral. Rose had converted to Catholicism at the age of twenty to enable her marriage; years later, she was divorced and immersing herself in the rituals and machinations of the faith. Yet she hadn't grasped the essential Eucharistic difference between Catholicism and the Church of England, Transubstantiation. Alwyn's questioning seemed quietly smug. I wasn't too sure about her pouring holy water onto the plants either, although they seemed to be thriving at least. She seemed hazy about the corporeal assumption of the Virgin Mary: "Well, she must've died in some respect mustn't she?" I feared that my pre-occupation with poor, inoffensive Rose clouded my judgement of the rest of the film. Last night, after a sunny day in Brighton and armed with some fig rolls and lemon and ginger tea, I sat down to watch it all again.
I'm rather glad that I gave the film a second chance. Alwyn had spent a few weeks last summer sitting out around Westminster Cathedral and the visual results are stunning. The Cathedral, Britain's Catholic HQ and the Mother Church, looked gorgeous whether lit or dimmed, empty or bustling. The Cathedral was probably the enigmatic star of the show, which went a long way in explaining why some of the women featured couldn't articulate what the Cathedral meant to them or why they felt drawn to visit, some everyday. The film opened with the assertion that the Catholic Church is famously patriarchal by tradition and definition, yet historically has always had this strong and formidable female presence in the pews and behind the scenes. The Church herself is a "she", traditionally referred to as such. Alwyn spoke to a female archivist at the Cathedral who referred to Our Lady as the co-redemptrix of the faith. She showed him the plans of the Lady Chapel, explaining that the Catholic acknowledgement and devotion to the Mother of God distinguishes the faith from other Christian churches. She saw Mary's unswerving acceptance that she would bear the Son of God as strong feminine capability rather than passivity or even submission, as suggested by Alwyn.
Jenny on the Information Desk seemed to have had the archetypal claustrophobic experience at her convent school in the 1940s and 50s. She spoke about the warnings to "stay pure to stay Catholic", of indoctrination and blind faith. She even suggested that some girls at that time may have married as soon as they could simply to have sex. Fortunately, I don't have similar memories of my convent school years. Yet this lady was still with the Catholic Church, still drawing some support from it; even planning a trip to Lourdes.
There was a doctor who said she couldn't reconcile her experience and knowledge with the attitude of the church on contraception and the management of AIDS in Africa. Yet she valued the moral grounding she attributed to her Catholicism: of doing to others as you would have them do to you. Sitting on the steps of the Cathedral on a sunny afternoon as tourists and office workers stepped in and out around her, she spoke of her Catholicism making sense of the chaos. There was the elderly recovering stroke victim who planned to come to Westminster from Harrow everyday, now that she had more confidence to travel. She said she had been in palaces and remained unphased by the grandeur and opulence, yet the beauty and love she experienced in the Cathedral moved her to tears. Having lapsed as a young girl, she had notched up 60 years of hedonism, largely in the fashion business. She felt no guilt at the time of her excesses, but no unconditional happiness either. She felt guilt now, but described the seven months since returning to the church as "glorious". Her face was a picture of serenity and unexpected joy; I felt her revival of faith was essential to her ongoing physical recovery.
My impatience with Rose the first time round prevented me from fully appreciating the enthusiasm of two younger women, included early in the film. The young mum with her two toddlers attended mass at her local - the Cathedral - every Sunday and would attend every day if her schedule allowed. She was unabashed about her love for the Catholic Church, describing herself as having "Catholic bones". She announced cheerfully that she went to mass regularly because she really enjoyed it. Also the blonde former Buddhist, sat cross-legged on the Cathedral steps, who smiled shyly as she spoke about her conversion: she'd wanted to be a Catholic because of the beauty and sense she found in the Eucharist.
And what of Rose? I felt I'd been dismissive of Rose; although I do believe that the film-maker had exposed a lack of formal instruction and exploited both her eagerness to please and her discomfort with such attention. Rose clearly loves the Catholic Church: it fulfils her to offer her time and support; ultimately, why should I look for further validity or motive for focusing on her in this film? I began to find her stoic affection for the Cathedral and her priests infectious: she talked of priests on holiday who turned up to concelebrate with "nothing with 'em; no alb, nothing!" I would have welcomed the inclusion of one or two women who had remained in strong Catholic marriages and had chosen to send their daughters to convent school because of happy memories. And teenage girls themselves, perhaps in the midst of a Catholic education. And nuns? I would certainly like to have seen the odd visiting member of the Catholic Women's League - and we're actually not that odd, by the way. I think I was initially disappointed because the film seemed to lack female dynamism; I do believe that women are a force to be reckoned with within the Catholic Church. I understand why the church will never ordain women: it certainly doesn't follow that women are forever disdained by the Mother Church.
I was fortunate enough to be present at two Golden Wedding Anniversary blessings this weekend, which might have been inspiring enough. Then, the second of the blessing masses, on Sunday, included "Be Thou My Vision"; quite definitely my favourite of all hymns. It's often sung as a funereal hymn, but it's gentle affirmations also lend it well to weddings and other celebrations. It's long been on my own wedding and funeral play lists: the former is now looking less likely than the latter! The melody and particularly some of the words have been running round my head since Sunday mass. Having arrived home at Brighton station today I heard a busker singing it in Trafalgar Street. He had a pleasant voice and could certainly carry the tune. I waited for him to finish - he knew ALL the verses - so that I could tell him it was my favourite hymn. Before I could do so, a very well-heeled lady lent forward with a £10 note and sheepishly asked if he had any change. He clearly didn't have as much as she needed to take back, so she then tried to push the note into his hand anyway. I was amazed when he pressed the note back at her and said "Don't worry darlin', I've got enough for today. Have a good evening." Ironically, the lines that had been running round my head all day are: "Riches I heed not nor man's empty praise: Thou mine inheritance, now and always..." I did wonder how many of those who stopped under the railway arches to listen to this forty-something, tangle-haired man, with his Alsatian and two remaining cans of Guinness, know the background to this very old Celtic hymn. It's generally attributed to Saint Dallan Forgaill, or Forchella, who died in 598. He was an early Christian Irish poet, and the hymn was originally a poem written in Irish Gaelic, called "Rop Tu Mo Baile." Ironically, the author of "Be Thou My Vision" was nicknamed "The little blind one" when he lost his sight, apparently due to intense study. There have been many translations from the original Irish, but probably the most enduring and widely known within the Catholic Church is the most beautiful and the most stirringly simple, translated by journalist and Old Irish scholar Eleanor Hull in 1912:
"Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,
Naught be all else to me, save that thou art;
Thou my best thought by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.
Be thou my wisdom, thou my true word,
I ever with thee and thou with me Lord;
Thou my great Father, I thy true son.
Thou in me dwelling, and I with thee one.
Be thou my breastplate, sword for the fight,
Be thou my dignity, thou my delight;
Thou my soul's shelter, thou my high tower,
Raise thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.
Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise:
Thou mine inheritance now and always;
Thou and thou only first in my heart;
High King of Heaven, my treasure thou art.
High King of heaven, my victory won,
May I reach heaven's joys, O Bright Heaven's sun!;
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my vision, O Ruler of all."
I love Alison Krauss' version of this hymn for it's purity, as I love Alison's bluegrass voice; but Terry's version this afternoon was, literally, priceless.
"When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things" (1 Corinthians 13:11)
The second film in Richard Alwyn's trilogy about Catholics centred on children, opening with the Jesuit proverb "Show me the child of seven and I'll show you the man". Indeed, Alwyn spent several months last year in the Lancashire parish of Chipping, watching and listening as a small group of six and seven year olds journeyed towards their First Holy Communion. St Mary's Roman Catholic Primary School houses only 33 pupils, at the heart of a small community, set against a backdrop of the stunning Bowland Fells. This close knit area has a rich Catholic history, including Catholic resistance against Henry VIII. The film concentrated on the six pupils preparing to receive the sacrament for the first time, following in an insightful yet unobtrusive way as the spirit of Catholicism was instilled in young hearts and minds. The selfstyled school-friendly parish priest seemed genuinely honoured for children to address him as Father; he pointed out how nice it must also be for the children who have no fathers of their own, in these days of splintered families. He had a quiet joviality about him, gadding about on his mobility scooter and mixing celebratory Easter pink gins for the film crew. He remembered his own First Communion, in 1943, "vividly"; recalling names of schoolfriends, teachers and nuns. Father believed he had understood Transubstantiation at the age of six, because Faith was something "awesome" to him. My friends' children describe Harry Potter and Gruffalo as awesome and readily accept the existence of magic and fantastic and magical beings. Sustaining the belief can be much trickier. So it was nice to see the emphasis also placed on the essential familiarity of God: the children started their morning prayers with "Good morning God", before thanking Him for the various little things that had made them happy that day. It was endearing to hear what these little children were hoping to sacrifice for Lent, from cleaning the whole house to giving up "everything to do with" a favourite comic character for six weeks. Somewhat more aspirational than the most commonly heard adult repetitions: "I'm giving up biscuits / smoking (again)".
Some of the older children were more challenging, asking the parish priest if God could could ever forgive Satan, if Satan could ever say "sorry"; what happens if someone stops believing in God and starts believing in the devil? The burden of finding the right words and the right tone without stamping out natural inquisitiveness and openness showed on the priest's kindly face. The team of catechists included three local mums. Taking the children through the signs of the cross was achieved as delicately yet as graphically as possible for such little ones; the intent wonder on their faces was at least temporarily tinged with sadness and even horror. The film brought back memories of my own catechism and First Communion. A combination of my parents' sentimental faith and the devotion of the nuns who ran my primary school made it something to look forward to: I knew something special was happening which could make my life different. I suppose many adult Catholics underestimate forget the huge role of catechists and parish priests as children approach the sacraments. I would have liked to see a little more of the family involvement in and understanding of preparations.
Undeniably amusing at times - the soup for the Lenten Lunch looked like "sick" apparently - I thought the film was perfectly pitched and full of poignant charm. However, it might have made for an interesting contrast to see children approaching the sacrament from a non-rural, inner city and multi-faith background. Although the parish priest seemed indomitably cheerful, painful incomprehension crossed his face when Michael Alwyn asked him about the impact of child abuse scandals on the Catholic church. He finally cited that the devil attacks where he can injure most. This film beautifully illustrated the special, formative trust between children and their Catholic teachers and priests.
St David, patron saint of Wales, is said to have died on 1st March, 589, and the date has traditionally become his feast day. However, it wasn't until the eighteenth century that St David's Day was declared a national day of celebration in Wales. Ostensibly, surprisingly little is known about him, although his birth and existence are historically verified. As a child, I simply associated him with daffodils and my favourite auntie, Barbara, who's birthday was 1st March! Over the years, I often saw St David depicted standing on a hill, holding a dove or a leek: more of which later. In fact, Dewi Sant, as he's known in Wales, was born into an aristocratic family in West Wales. His father was a prince called Sant, son of the King of Cardigan; his mother Non was a chieftain's daughter and possibly a niece of King Arthur. His mother was a devout lady who became St Non; his beloved teacher would also be canonised as St Paulinus.
St David helped to spread Christianity among the pagan Celtic tribes of Western Britain. He originally founded a large monastery in West Wales and eventually rose to be Archbishop for the Welsh nation, but chose to remain with his community at Menevia. This region has been renamed St Davids; his shrine there became a place of great pilgrimage. There is a legend that tells of the saint preaching to huge crowds where many were unable to see him: the ground is said to have risen up until St David was standing on a hillock, for all to see and hear. When you start to scratch around, there are many such legends of St David, even surrounding the circumstances of his birth. St Patrick is said to have been prepared for St David's birth 30 years before, having been visited by an angel who foretold his rise to greatness.
Baby David's baptism water is said to have cured a man's blindness. Sadly, the child wasn't the blessing of a love-filled marriage. He was born after his father had seduced Non, who ran away to give birth alone by the seashore. Legend has it that her labour was so intense that she grasped at the rocks, leaving marks to this day; a lightning bolt then split the rocks apart. Unfortunately, no-one seems quite sure which marks on which rocks bear witness to St David's dramatic but lonely birth. It is known that his mother Non decided to become a nun while her son was still a child.
The young David was schooled at the local monastery, Hen Fynyw, near to present day Aberaeron, and was taught by the blind monk Paulinus. He's said to have cured his teacher of his blindness by making the sign of the cross over his face. Recognising the boy's holiness, Paulinus sent him forth as a missionary across still-pagan Britain.
In the course of his travels, St David founded twelve monasteries. He prescribed a life of austerity for himself and his monks, which made him unpopular at times. Again, legend tells that some of his own monks were so disgruntled that they attempted to poison his bread. However, St Scuthyn travelled from Ireland on the back of a sea-monster (remember this was long, long before P and O ferries) to warn him. St David blessed the poisoned bread, ate it; and was unharmed.
His monks certainly worked hard, rising at dawn and working the land as well as in the monasteries. They ploughed the fields themselves, as he wouldn't allow them to make animals work for them: he believed that each man should be his own ox. As they worked, they continued to pray, but there lives were committed to silence. The monks ate only vegetables and bread, drinking milk and water. St David himself had lived on vegetables and herbs for many years and would do so until he died: hence the depiction of the saint with the leek, national emblem of Wales and also of growth and harvest. His meagre vegetarian diet did little to stunt his growth: legend holds that he was physically tall and strong, living over 100 years. It is generally accepted that he died in 589 in his monastery at St Davids, where he's buried. The Cathedral of St David would later be built there.
However austere his teachings, he was obviously a charismatic man who became known as a prophet and worker of miracles; he shaped the spirituality of his people, time and place. His popular depiction with a dove symbolises the eloquence of the Holy Spirit as he preached Christianity. His much celebrated last words to his monks are beautifully simplistic, also resonating in the modern world: "Be joyful, and keep your faith and your creed. Do the little things that you have seen me do and heard about". Today, "Do the little things" ("Gwnewch y pethau bychain") is a well-known and much used phrase in Welsh, and an inspiration to many.
Dewi Sant was canonised in 1120 by Pope Callactus, when 1st March was included in the Church Calendar. His feast has become a time of celebration and partying in Wales. In St David's Hall, Cardiff, there is an annual concert featuring male voice choirs from across the world. Throughout Wales, parades and often food festivals take place. Despite the fact that the saint himself abstained from drinking and advised others to do the same, a number of Welsh breweries make special St. David’s Day ales. Likewise, a Welsh stew, Cawl, containing both lamb and leeks, is traditionally consumed on St. David’s Day. Ah well. In honour of the great man's vegetarianism, I include a recipe for more celebratory comfort food:
Leek Welsh Rarebit
Ingredients:
1 Ciabatta loaf
2 Medium leeks, washed and finely shredded
2oz/50g butter
1 oz/25g all purpose/plain flour
1 tsp mustard powder
1¼ pt/150ml milk
4 oz/110g goats’ cheese, preferably Welsh
Sea salt and ground black pepper
(Serves four, or two very hungry vegetarians)
Directions:
Cut Ciabatta into thick slices, and place in hot oven for 5 – 8 minutes to crisp and lightly brown.
Melt the butter in a medium pan and sweat the leeks for 2 -3 minutes to soften, not brown.
Stir in the flour and mustard powder.
Gradually stir in the milk and simmer to make a thick sauce.
Stir in the goats’ cheese until melted. Season well.
Spoon rarebit onto the toasted Ciabatta.
Brown under the grill until bubbling.
Serve immediately, eat and enjoy.
Dduw bendithia!
"Cwm Rhonda (Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer)" Cor Rehoboth Choir - Pensylvania
It seems all Brightonians are born with a Max Miller-ish take on humour: look for it and you'll find it everywhere; don't look for it and it'll probably trip you up. Since I moved here, I've learnt that Max kept two notebooks for jokes: a white one for clean ones and a blue one for "adult" ones. Coming back on a train from London last night, I encountered a "junior" Maxie. I am already missing my chocolate, I admit. I'm being very careful and am turning away the tiniest choc-chip in a cookie. So I found myself fascinated by a small girl on the train who had peeled a large, family sized bar of caramel chocolate and was just munching down it, as though it was a banana. No breaking it into the separate sections, and certainly no sharing it with her slightly older brother. She was about six and she eyeballed me intently as she sat munching. I used to peel back large bars of chocolate and bite into them in exactly the same way when I was younger. Alright, until Ash Wednesday last week to be precise. She suddenly thrust the half demolished bar at me and said "You!" Her Mum laughed and said Clara NEVER shares her chocolate and must want me to have it. I explained that I couldn't, eventually telling the mum that it was because it was Lent. I'd no idea the little boy was listening, but he suddenly piped up "It's not lent - she won't want your bit back after you've had it!" Just to emphasise his cleverness, he finished off with "Boom boom!" No, I didn't eat any. Yes, lovely Clara did manage to smudge some on my face anyway.
