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Community of Aidan & Hilda For the healing of the land through children, women and men who draw inspiration from the Celtic Saints AROUND THE EAST ANGLIA REGION |
St. Peter's-on-the-Wall, Bradwell
The Othona Community
Word from Wormingford - a reflection on Cedd and Othona
Word from Wormingford -
Ronald Blythe honours Hilda the Abbess and the poet
St. Fursey and Burgh Castle
St. Walstan and Bawburgh
St. Fursey's Orthodox Community and Study Centre
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'St. Peter's-on-the-Wall, Bradwell'
The chapel was being built mainly from reused Roman materials, but only the rectangular
nave remains today. In the 15th century it became a chapel-of-ease to the newer church
which had been built in the village of Bradwell and in the 17th century the chancel was
pulled down and the nave turned into a barn. The chapel was reconsecrated in 1920 and
in recent years has become the focus of an annual pilgrimage and regular services during
the summer months. The chapel of St.Peter's-on-the-Wall is in the Diocese of Chelmsford. The Cathedral is dedicated to St. Mary, St. Peter and St. Cedd. In the Cathedral is a chapel. dedicated to St. Cedd.
Here may you find the Peace of God. Jane Jones
For further information, visit the Chapel
website,
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Here is a place where you can experience a different kind of holiday and go home with a fresh sense of well-being and community. It is very inexpensive and our centre is in a beautiful and remote corner of Essex on the River Blackwater. Nearby is the Saxon chapel of St. Peter's-on-the-Wall, which we use twice daily for informal worship. Our year round activities include Art, Music and Drama weeks for all ages, weekends on our environment as well as religious themes and special times of celebration at Easter and Christmas. Our lifestyle is based on non-dogmatic Christianity. We welcome people of all faiths - and of none. Our aim is what through open relationships and shared activities away from the pressures of modern life, we will reach a deeper understanding and acceptance of ourselves and others. We welcome individuals, families, School and Church groups.
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Word from Wormingford
Ronald Blythe reflects on the language of ecstasy
Cedd and his friend, having tramped here all the way from Lindisfarne, must have muttered to each other, "How this land hangs out!" Eventually they came to it, the tumbling fort Othona, and quarried it to build a monastery. And there it is at last, still as sharp as these Angles could make it against the blue sea. It was still celebrated salt country when these severe Christians arrived, and it would have been useful to have connected this local industry with Christ's praise for his followers, "Ye are the salt of the earth." This industry was very near a thousand years old when Cedd came to Othona, and his flat see would have been littered with its waste: the red hills made of broken pots, the puddled clay evaporation tanks cut into the fields. Here they "inned" the sea. Here he inned Lindisfarne. While he was present, its wonderful flavour must have been tasted in every aspect of life; but, when he left, it too evaporated, draining away under the terrors of a plague that caused his converts to call on their old gods. But, as the Preacher so rightly said, "Everything is for a season," and this includes despair. At last the tall Saxon shrine. Never was an architectural apex so grandly and simply stated. A great many swallows stay for evensong, squeaking and gently screaming along with the George Herbert hymns. These are sung unaccom-panied (except by birds) by a full congregation, and I long to be in two places at once - here in the song, and outside on the shore so that I can catch what I imagine must be the lovely holy drift of our music. The Celtic Church, I like to think, set its liturgy for both human and animal voices, and to the mesmeric sound of the tides. Hugh, Cedd's successor in these airy parts, has brought the three of us here from inland Wormingford: myself to read Traherne in this elementary chapel that began as a military defence, and went on to be a monastery, then a barn, and now is the proto-shrine of Essex. It is awesomely functional, a sacred in-terior which admits only the purest language. Traherne's language is highly elaborate for it, but then it would be for Westminster Abbey. He is an ecstatic, for whom the world - he means Herefordshire - is so beautiful that it takes his breath away. He includes its inhabitants, of course. Herefordshire is heaven now. Lindisfarne for Cedd must have been a paradise of sorts; and, strict evangelist that he was, he could not but have carried some of its poetry to this austere room, if only for the creatures who winged in its roof-space or crouched listening at the door. He was Aidan's pupil - Aidan, who once said, "Were you not too severe to unlearned hearers? Did you not feed them with meat, instead of milk?"
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Word from Wormingford
Ronald Blythe honours the Abbess and the poet
THE FIRST FROST. As the garden is a frost pocket, it lined it. Having taken the weather forecast at its word, which I rarely do, the tender plants in their summer pots have been hurried inside and can regard the threatening whiteness with immunity. Proust once described a hard frost cutting its way through the walls of his Paris flat with a ''silver knife'', and the faint warmth and strong scent of a newly lit fire. In Suffolk a good husband would come down to get a nice fire ''on the goo'' before his wife rose. But there were also petted husbands whose wives proudly declared that ''he never does a hand's turn in the house'', and, on a frosty morning, these husbands expected to descend to bacon and a blaze. At that time many women were nervous about the domesticated male, and hesitant to gossip about his skills. Their tongues were reduced to a whisper when it came to certain tasks. ''When she had her last he even did the washing . . .''. In winter, washing would hang above the glistening grass like crystal boards. The sun had to melt it before drying it. Today, St Hilda's day, the sun is suddenly hot against the window; the frost pocket is empty, and Max the cat stretches to get the full delicious heat on to his tummy. Hilda, or Hild, was 66 when she died in the monastery she had built for both men and women on the headland which the Danes would call Whitby. I remember standing there in a high wind with that wonderful tumble of a town just below me, and the sea scarlet in the autumn evening. It was here that England severed her connection with the ancient Irish Church in favour of Rome; but it would never, thank goodness, free itself wholly from Celtic Christianity, one of the most enchanting expressions of the faith. Poor Hilda, the very expression herself of Celtic worship and thought, dutifully went to Rome. Discerning Abbess Hilda, she it was who recognised a great poet in a herdsman at her gate and brought him in to sing with her learned monks and nuns. She knew talent when she heard it: she saw no bounds to genius. She knew that both blew into sacred places like winds that were both ice and fire. Hilda listening to Caedmon singing to Christ on bleak Streaneshalch above the crashing water: now there is a November picture! It was the beginning of English literature. On Friday, to Essex University to give the third of my seminar talks, only to be reminded that this week it is readings. The grey towers sway in the park like rookeries for students. My dozen or so drift into our classroom with their stories and poems. Between the lines I can hear that same longing to write which consumed me at their ages- which, at a guess, run from 20 to 40. Greeks and Mexicans, East Anglians and Londoners, they are all at the stage when they would like Abbess Hilda to arrive and say, ''Come inside''.
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'St. Fursey and Burgh Castle'
St. Fursey was one of the earliest missionaries to East Anglia. Bede tells us that he was
born on the shores of Lough Corrib, Galway in Ireland at the end of the sixth century and was
'of noble Irish blood and even more noble in mind than in birth; for from his boyhood he not
only read sacred books and observed monastic discipline but, as is fitting of the saints, had
also diligently practised all that he learned'. He was determined from an early age 'to spend
his life as a pilgrim for love of our Lord'. Accordingly, about 630, accompanied by his
brother Foillan, he journeyed across Britain to the province of the pagan East Angles and set
up his monastery at the deserted Roman fort of Burgh Castle. After a while he fell ill and
during his nights of delirium he was granted a series of visions. In one of them, recorded by
Bede, Fursey was looking down on the earth from a great height and saw a gloomy valley where
four fires burnt. When he asked his angel guides what these fires meant, he was told that in
time they would consume the whole world. The fires he saw were called Falsehood, Covetousness,
Discord and Cruelty. Sigebert, King of East Anglia, received Fursey and his companions kindly and gave them the old Roman stronghold of Gariannonum and adjacent lands for their monastery beside what is now Breydon Water near Yarmouth. In Anglo-Saxon times this wild and desolate spot was known as Cnobheresburg. Here this Celtic monk, assisted by his devoted followers, built a House of God within the walls of the old Camp. It became the centre of a great missionary movement and produced momentous results among the Angles and the Franks of Northern Gaul. Today the site, which played such a prominent part in the early evangelization of East Anglia, has most of the massive Roman walls still standing and has superb views across Breydon Water and the Halvergate grazing marshes. Archaeological excavations in 1958, 60 & 61 found evidence of the foundations of a group of beehive huts within the confines of the walls. It is to the west of the village of Burgh Castle and can be reached on foot by track and footpath leading from the Parish Church.
John Keeling
Sources:
An annual Pilgrimage in Honour of St. Fursey is held on the first Saturday in October at Burgh
Castle, starting with a service at the Parish Church and then proceeding to the site of St.
Fursey's monastery within the Roman Fort. A short commemoration is held there followed by tea
at the Village Hall. See a report of a previous year's event on the
Newspage.
St. Fursey's Feast Day is on the 16th January. We celebrate it on the nearest Saturday in
Norwich with a Service at St. Matthew's church followed by an illustrated lecture and in the
evening with a celebration supper. Details of this year's event will appear on the Diary.
These events are organised by the Fursey Pilgrims,
a group dedicated to celebrating the life of St. Fursey and his contribution to the
evangelisation of East Anglia. For further information
contact:
The Revd Canon David Abraham, tel: 01603 402797, or
email
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'ST. WALSTAN OF BAWBURGH'
Norfolk's Patron Saint of Agriculture
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This page is under continuous development.
All information is provided in good faith.
Last Update: 1st July 2009