itself, rising above the abbey, and which can now be reached dryshod, is still known as the Isle of Avalon – Ynys Afalon in the old Celtic tongue, the ‘Island of Apples’. Beckery, which lies about a mile south-west of the town, was originally called Becc-Eriu, meaning ‘Little Ireland’. Saint Bridget is said to have visited it over a thousand years before to work and pray, while Saint Dunstan was instructed there by Irish teachers.
The other story connected with Beckery is that King Arthur, while resting at Glastonbury, was told by an angel in a dream to go to the hermitage on the island, and when he did so, he was favoured with a remarkable vision of the Virgin and Child.
In that late summer of 1476, however – already nearly half a century in the past as I recount this story; how the years spin by us as old age takes its toll! – Beckery was what it had been for many years: a halt for pilgrims approaching Glastonbury from the west, either by land or along the waterway of the river Brue. A small, compact chapel, a simple oblong in shape, catered for their spiritual needs, while the priest’s house itself, together with another long, low, single-storey building, provided them with accommodation for rest and refreshment. Ditches and a substantial fence protected the whole compound and separated the chapel from the secular buildings. A lavatorium had been added to the north-east corner of the house, a more than welcome sight, no doubt, to dusty and footsore travellers.
Upon enquiry, Cicely and I were told by one of the pilgrims that the priest was within the chapel, getting all ready for Vespers, which was only a half-hour distant. Our journey had taken us longer than we’d expected, the heat having slowed our progress and made several rests necessary for comfort and well-being. We were directed to the building’s only entrance, a door which opened into the nave, where the tiled floor added to the general coolness induced by thick stone walls and a roof of Cornish slates.
The priest, a slender young man wearing the black Benedictine habit, was in the chancel, lighting the altar candles and making certain that all was swept and garnished for the evening service. Cicely and I paused for a moment, silently regarding him while we recovered our breath, before advancing. Our shoes made very little noise, but something – a sudden draught of air, perhaps, or the faint creaking of a door hinge – alerted him immediately to our presence. He turned and came towards us with a friendly smile, wiping his hands on the skirt of a linen apron.
‘Have you come far, my children? Do you require accommodation? We have a space or two. All our overnight visitors have moved on to the abbey, and we have had less than a dozen replacements.’
Cicely forestalled me. ‘No, no, Father! We’re not pilgrims. We’ve come to ask after my cousin, Mark Gildersleeve, who set out to pay you a visit this morning and has not yet returned home. Did he arrive here? And if so, did he stay long?’
The priest frowned for a moment, then his brow cleared and his narrow features lifted into a smile.
‘Yes, yes! Mark was with me today, round about noon. He came to bring me a present of a new sheet of vellum.’
‘A present?’ I repeated. ‘It was not something you had ordered from him then?’
‘Oh no! It is extremely fine vellum. A very generous gift indeed by Master Gildersleeve, but far too good for my mundane needs. I shall, however, pass it on to the abbey scriptorium, where it will doubtless be used to the best advantage.’
Puzzled, I said, ‘But Master Gildersleeve must have known that the vellum was too valuable for your household accounts and suchlike. Why did he bring it?’
Father Boniface’s smile grew rueful. ‘I think it was in the nature of a small douceur. He hoped I could give him some information.’
‘What information?’ Cicely and I demanded in the same breath.
The priest looked somewhat taken aback by our
The other story connected with Beckery is that King Arthur, while resting at Glastonbury, was told by an angel in a dream to go to the hermitage on the island, and when he did so, he was favoured with a remarkable vision of the Virgin and Child.
In that late summer of 1476, however – already nearly half a century in the past as I recount this story; how the years spin by us as old age takes its toll! – Beckery was what it had been for many years: a halt for pilgrims approaching Glastonbury from the west, either by land or along the waterway of the river Brue. A small, compact chapel, a simple oblong in shape, catered for their spiritual needs, while the priest’s house itself, together with another long, low, single-storey building, provided them with accommodation for rest and refreshment. Ditches and a substantial fence protected the whole compound and separated the chapel from the secular buildings. A lavatorium had been added to the north-east corner of the house, a more than welcome sight, no doubt, to dusty and footsore travellers.
Upon enquiry, Cicely and I were told by one of the pilgrims that the priest was within the chapel, getting all ready for Vespers, which was only a half-hour distant. Our journey had taken us longer than we’d expected, the heat having slowed our progress and made several rests necessary for comfort and well-being. We were directed to the building’s only entrance, a door which opened into the nave, where the tiled floor added to the general coolness induced by thick stone walls and a roof of Cornish slates.
The priest, a slender young man wearing the black Benedictine habit, was in the chancel, lighting the altar candles and making certain that all was swept and garnished for the evening service. Cicely and I paused for a moment, silently regarding him while we recovered our breath, before advancing. Our shoes made very little noise, but something – a sudden draught of air, perhaps, or the faint creaking of a door hinge – alerted him immediately to our presence. He turned and came towards us with a friendly smile, wiping his hands on the skirt of a linen apron.
‘Have you come far, my children? Do you require accommodation? We have a space or two. All our overnight visitors have moved on to the abbey, and we have had less than a dozen replacements.’
Cicely forestalled me. ‘No, no, Father! We’re not pilgrims. We’ve come to ask after my cousin, Mark Gildersleeve, who set out to pay you a visit this morning and has not yet returned home. Did he arrive here? And if so, did he stay long?’
The priest frowned for a moment, then his brow cleared and his narrow features lifted into a smile.
‘Yes, yes! Mark was with me today, round about noon. He came to bring me a present of a new sheet of vellum.’
‘A present?’ I repeated. ‘It was not something you had ordered from him then?’
‘Oh no! It is extremely fine vellum. A very generous gift indeed by Master Gildersleeve, but far too good for my mundane needs. I shall, however, pass it on to the abbey scriptorium, where it will doubtless be used to the best advantage.’
Puzzled, I said, ‘But Master Gildersleeve must have known that the vellum was too valuable for your household accounts and suchlike. Why did he bring it?’
Father Boniface’s smile grew rueful. ‘I think it was in the nature of a small douceur. He hoped I could give him some information.’
‘What information?’ Cicely and I demanded in the same breath.
The priest looked somewhat taken aback by our
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