A Guardian’s Grandson
The ten-year-old grandson of one of the Guardians recalls his
family's stays in Walsingham, including the night that Fr Patten died
Well, my recollections of our visits to the Shrine have been clouded by time but….
A typical holiday/pilgrimage/Guardians' Chapter would begin with the tedious journey from the
other side of the country. The treat that tempered the tedium was the stop for lunch at a rather
grand hotel. I went there recently and my grandfather would not be impressed with it any more
than some of the other changes which he would note were he to undertake a similar journey
today!
We would arrive at the Shrine, usually in the late afternoon, where the complexities of parking the
car would be the first of many bits of bureaucracy that would have to be dealt with. We entered
through the large double gates and were usually provided with an effusive welcome from the
Sister in charge of the hospice. We were always expected, and if we had not arrived by the time
supper was finished in the Refectory it would instead be waiting for us on the table in the room
just off the entrance. I suspect that as a Guardian and his family we were perhaps treated quite
well in this respect. Our rooms usually were in the hospice and, again presumably because of who
he was and only if there was room, grandfather was provided with a private
sitting room which was at the very top of the building. We shared this with
another Guardian and his family who would invariably be doing much as we were,
of course. The bedrooms were ‘interesting’! Beds were adequate for the likes of
me but they would not win awards for comfort! The heating system was also
interesting. I recall that it was hot air pumped through grills in the rooms. Always
too hot or too cold, the great feature of the system was the ducting which allowed
the snores of fellow residents to permeate through the building! Small price to
pay however for the unique atmosphere of peace and contentment, and I dare to
say love, which radiated through the whole place.
Quite often the hospice would be full and I was
allocated a room in the College. I felt very
privileged and of course in those days only men
were put there!
A typical day for us on our holiday (rather than pilgrimage) would
perhaps be a trip to Wells-next-the-sea or Blakeney. Holkham Beach
was another favourite with long walks to the sea and other
adventures which included trying to look through the shuttered
windows of a beach hut which we were led to believe belonged to
the Queen. Every day started however with breakfast in the
Refectory and I remember very well the deep sense of loss of
community when my wife and I visited the Shrine some years later
to find a new Refectory building with tables that could only
accommodate four people. Gone were the days of the long trestle
tables and benches where you would sit in the midst of everything.
There was no ‘saving of places’. Everyone mixed with everyone such
that you might be sitting next to a little old lady from somewhere one day and a canon of the
church the next. And even if you were not next door to them, such were the ergonomics of it all
that neither of them would be very far away! Conversation was always lively and as you might
imagine was always far ranging.
Every day was a little special but of course Sunday was always particular. Masses were said
throughout the Shrine every day and servers were always required. I was brought up in a high
church and was taught to serve by a man who knew exactly what high standard was demanded. I
was used to serving alternate Saturday evenings at Benediction and at the 8am Sunday mass so I
had a fair idea of what was required. You can imagine then perhaps that serving in the Shrine held
no particular fears for a 10 year old. However……..! It was absolutely necessary to do one's
homework the evening before, to be absolutely sure that you knew which chapel you had to head
for the following morning as you led your priest from the vestry. Without a through geography
lesson the unedifying experience of wandering around until one found an empty chapel to step
into was a real possibility. I once served at a tridentine mass and had not a clue where we were in
the service for most of the time; my grandfather (the Guardian), who also served from time to
time, told of an occasion when he was unsure of how to ring the bell at the consecration. Was it a
pick up and shake bell or did one push it? He decided on the latter and was mortified to watch as
the bell clattered off down the steps to join the bemused congregation.
top of page
Sprinkling was of course mandatory and I doubt that I will ever forget joining the queue to go
down statue of Our Lady at the wellto the waiting priest and taking the offered water. On our last
visit to the Shrine some 15 or so years ago we were sprinkled but I happened
on an occasion when piped music was accompanying the sprinkling. My
particular view is that this is a very special moment and one which should only
be disturbed by one's fellow pilgrims. My grandfather would have fought long
and hard to have such a distraction removed. Indeed if he were still at his post
the loudspeakers would never have been installed in the first place! But I
understand that this is not the general practice now.
The Stations of the Cross was always on the list of things to do, and this was
all the more special and poignant as one moved from one to another through
the garden. It all seemed much more real and believable to the 10 year old.
Fr Hope Patten’s death occurred whilst we were at the Shrine. The Guardians
had assembled for an Episcopal Pilgrimage (I am grateful for the commentary which Fr Derrick
Lingwood provided in a 1958 edition of Our Lady’s Mirror, which on the one hand confirms my
recollection of events whilst at the same time reminding me of others which I had forgotten). We
had all assembled for Benediction. I remember the Elevation of the Host, I think, and after that,
oddly, nothing; the service had perhaps come to an abrupt end. We heard, I think, that Hope
Patten had been taken ill Fr Patten's funeral processionbut more than that we did not know. At any
event it was late for a 10 year old and I was sent to bed with a companion, another young boy
whose father was also a Guardian. Shortly afterwards the Shrine bell began to toll and I remember
my friend saying that he thought that the bell was tolling once for each year of the life of Fr Patten
and that he had died. And so it was. His open coffin was brought into the Shrine the next day,
much to the surprise of my mother who I suspect, had she known, would not have got us places
where we could see things! My mother tells me that we went to the funeral in the Parish Church; I
don’t remember that at all. After the service we went back home leaving my grandfather at the
Shrine, perhaps to be involved in the election of the new Administrator? He would normally have
returned with us.
I don’t remember meeting Fr Hope Patten; if I did, I suspect that it would have been rather at
arm's length. On the other hand I do remember very well, meeting and being entertained by his
successor, Fr Colin Stephenson. This was a charismatic man and a gifted raconteur. His ability to
tell stories was extraordinary and he would recount these
tales during evenings which we spent with him either for
drinks or dinner. He told us a story of going to London and
collecting a statue of St Agatha and returning with her laid in
the back of his car covered by a sheet. He stopped at a
service station somewhere to refuel and only later realised
that the feet of the statue were exposed to anyone who
might care to look. Was it a murder that had been committed
by a dog-collared individual or was that someone sleeping a
good night off? It all sounds a bit prosaic written like this; at
the time I wondered if we would all ever stop laughing! Fr
Stephenson had a wooden leg (I hope I am getting this
right!!) after he either fell or was pushed into a well in the African Desert during the Second War. I
cannot think that I have imagined this.
We all knew the Sister in Charge of the hospice very well, well enough for the elder members of
the family to have kisses bestowed on them by her. The difficulty was I gather in positioning one's
face just so that her wimple did not get in the way of the procedure! Grandfather also used to visit
the anchorite who lived in a shed in the garden somewhere. He used to tell us that, despite not
having any form of outside communication, newspapers or radio, her grasp and knowledge of what
was going on in the world was remarkable.
Enid Chadwick was another of our friends. She and my grandmother got on particularly well. You
will know of course that she was an artist of some renown. We last saw her on our last visit to
Norfolk. We took a house for a couple of weeks at Brancaster and in between doing holiday things
we visited the Shrine to be sprinkled and looked up Enid, who was then in fine form and was
clearly pleased to see us. She gave my daughter a very pretty necklace. We were never to see her
again.
I am coming to the end of this. However I remember long evening walks past the Parish Church
along the haunted lane; I remember the conviviality of it all. I was very fortunate to have been in
the privileged position that I was. There is no doubt that we were provided with perks of the job
and had access to some extraordinary people who were kind enough not to be patronising or
arrogant, but instead welcomed even a small boy like me into their ‘presence’.
top of page