St. Hugh's

The first line of an old song, "Fools Rush in Where Angels Fear to Tread," entered my mind the instant I found myself in an embarrassing situation.

I, the fool, didn't rush in. I walked in slowly where angels, if they were about, had nothing to fear.

Our son David and I rode leisurely in a rented car through the county of Kent, which lives up to its claim of the Garden of England, and through the South Downs in Sussex.

Waves of daffodils swayed in a slight breeze along the roadsides. Rolling green hills bled into freshly tilled earth and hedgerows of misty white Sloe blossoms lent their scent to the tranquil scene.

A distant spire that loomed heavenward above a grove of oak trees caught my eye. David stopped the car and walked to find a spot for picture taking.

Returning he said, "We'll drive over that way to find out more about it."

The hamlet of Partridge Green, where we took a left turn, would be missed if one blinked.

A sign read, St. Hugh's Charter House. Under Restoration. The iron gates were open. The lane was narrow. The gate house appeared to be unoccupied.

An arc of spring green oak branches lent shade over a carpet of jonquils, primroses and white celandines that bordered the gravel lane. The scene enticed us on.

David drove at a snail's pace toward the massive dapple-grey stone building ahead. The sweet scent of flora filled the air.

Two cars were in the parking area. "Probably workmen," I said. Some 30 feet above the ground on the outside wall, stark white statues of saints, possibly, looked too new to be part of the original structure.

Our closing car doors shattered the hushed atmosphere. One side of the Gothic style door was ajar. David questioned, "Shall we go in?"

"We might find someone inside who can tell us more about this place if we do." I replied.

He pushed the door and we found ourselves in an unkempt courtyard.

"There's certainly signs of restoration here. Those windows on each side are new." David remarked.

On the steps of main building, tubs of petunias and pansies graced the entrance. "Signs of life," I murmured.

We entered a second Gothic-style door, also ajar and stepped onto uneven stone slabs in the foyer.

To the right and left, long arched passages of the same stone extended for about 50 yards. Windowed walls were on the courtyard side and on the other a series of doors.

Our voice tones were muted.

"It doesn't appear to be an active establishment," David said as he scanned a couple of papers thumb tacked to a notice board.

"And it doesn't appear to be well inhabited," I replied.

We were about to leave the silent, cold interior when a figure appeared at the far end of one corridor dressed in long ecru robes. The person stepped toward a door, stopped, looked our way and came toward us.

Urgency reverberated through the passageway in the rapid slap-slap-slap of sandals on stone.

"It's a monk!" I mouthed.

Before he reached the foyer he spoke "I'm sorry," he said, "You can't be in here." His eyes and words were directed at me. With agitated hand motions he escorted me to the door. As if by a force other than my own I was in the courtyard. "May I be here?" I asked.

"No. I'm afraid not. Women can't be inside the walls." He spoke kindly.

My apologies rolled forth to the monk at my side during what felt like a winged exit to the outer door.

Once through, the monk relaxed which gave us the opportunity to explain how we saw the spire from a distance and it interested us.

"Are we trespassing?" David asked. The robed monk assured us that we were not.

My composure renewed, I focused on the man of medium height in ankle to wrist length robes consisting of a soft, shift-like garment overlaid with a course woven surplice. The sandals, on bare feet, were sturdy.

Blue eyes emitted a sparkle of humor. His rosy cheeks were like those of a child well scrubbed. Thinning white hair gave his age to be in the 60-year range. The image of a cherub or a descendant of Father Christmas came into focus.

"I will be glad to show you the cloisters from outside the wall if you are interested and, if you don't object to a walk through the woods," he offered. We accepted his invitation.

The rough, rutted path skirted the compound shielded with a 10-foot stonewall. Through veiled foliage of spring leaves, flecks of sunlight tipped the petals of violets, primroses, cowslips and bluebells.

In a pleasant tone he held the conversation alive with facts of the monastery saying that it was built in 1897 and is inhabited with 40 of the 600 worldwide monks in the Anglian order. They venture beyond their domain whenever they wish.

Family members and friends are welcome by reservation and stay in a guesthouse on the premises outside the wall. Once a month a Sunday service is held for the public in the church that is also located outside the wall. I detected a mischievous flicker when he looked at me to say that male visitors could be in the buildings inside the wall.

The lane opened into a green field dotted with massive oak trees and beyond the stone wall some 200 yards away, a series of narrow blue-grey dormitory style buildings cut into the pale, late afternoon sky.

David walked ahead of us through the woods and when we reached him he introduced himself and me to our guide who held a hand out to David and acknowledged me with a nod.

"I'm Father Cyril."

He paused, and then continued, "Each of us has our own accommodations and a garden. We need time alone."

My thoughts ran, I wonder why. Their lives can't be that stressful living in these serene conditions that overflow with nature's bounties.

I heard David ask, "Can I take a picture of you with the cloisters in the background?"

Father Cyril's reserve broke. Embarrassment flooded over him but he consented.

"Would you like me to send you a print?" David asked.

Still uncomfortable he replied pleasantly, "I don't really have any need of a picture of myself."

Bells chimed.

David asked the reason.

"It's the call to choir practice and I must get back."

Returning through the shaded path Father Cyril asked what state we lived in and said that once a year he travels to Vermont to attend Anglican seminars.

Our steps were hurried.

In the parking lot David and I expressed our gratitude for his time. He wished us a pleasant journey. I extended one last apology for my foolish intrusion.

He dismissed the incident with a wave saying, "There's no harm done."

The slap-slap-slap of Father Cyril's sandals on gravel as he hurried to answer the peel of the bells halted.

He turned and looked at me.

I caught a glimpse of amusement cross his cherubic face as he said, "I have to tell you. You are the only woman to set foot inside our walls in 100 years."

Note: St. Hugh's Charter House is one of many interesting places we stopped at in 1997 when David and I toured through England's southern counties, the country of our births.