Epiblog for the Feast of St Birstan

It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley, and one of my least favourite weeks in the whole calendar, given that it contains both Halloween and the start of November, my least favourite month in the whole calendar. Its only redeeming feature, as a week, being that it also contains half term, so at least Debbie has not had to venture out in the cold and the frost to far flung exotic places such as Stalybridge. That pleasure is still to resume, next week. The weather forecast for any places where we did want to go, however, was so poohey that we abandoned the idea of getting off in the camper, full stop. The only good thing that can be said about last week is that no-one has pulled the door handle off…yet.

The squirrels are conspicuous by their absence, Brenda and Freda seem to have gone to ground, though there are still a few birds hanging around the bird feeder and the table on the decking, especially small tits. [I have emphasised that particular species in a shameless attempt to entice Google’s web crawler spider program to pick up the words for when people type them into search engines, and potentially increase dramatically the number of readers of this blog. Many of them will, of course, go away disappointed, but it’s the hits that count.]

Things will resume next week with a vengeance, in fact, because Ofsted are now threatening to visit the college, which has thrown the whole college admin staff into a flat panic, as they may well have to actually do something to justify their existence, which will be a new experience for many of them. Deb is hoping that Ofsted will largely bypass her; she can’t really envisage them setting off mob-handed to the sort of run-down tin sheds on Godforsaken housing estates to provide “Outreach” in the hinterland that education forgot, just on the offchance of catching her out without a risk assessment or something.

Nevertheless, just in case, she has been boning up on all of this stuff which everybody on the staff is supposed to carry round in their heads with them at all times, including personal evacuation plans for students with mobility problems and ethnic diversity training manuals. She was bemoaning the latter in a phone call to Granny only yesterday, who replied “Never mind, at least it will earn you some brownie points.” I don’t think she’s really got the hang of this diversity idea, somehow. [Before you all email in to tell me, I know that the “brownie” in brownie points refers to small girl scouts rather than any supposed ethnic origin, but why pass up the opportunity for a feeble and possibly tastelessly offensive joke at my Mother-in-Law’s expense? And, let’s face it, I could have made a joke about my having a “personal evacuation plan” featuring Senna Pods. But I spared you that one.]

The animals don’t like the weather any more than I do. Zak and Freddie have been disputing the ownership of Zak’s armchair. While Zak vacates it temporarily to snaffle Freddie’s breakfast (or whatever he has left of it) Freddie nips in behind him and jumps up into the chair. This morning, it was so cold that Zak got back into the armchair regardless of the fact that Freddie was already in it, and after a degree of shuffling round and settling down, they reached an accommodation that allowed them to share their body-warmth to maximum effect.

Matilda, meanwhile, has been spending most of her time curled up and sleeping on Kitty’s old bin-bag/beanbag of paper shreddings in the hearth, on which we have spread out her new crocheted blanket from her Auntie Maisie, and she seems duly appreciative of this. In the last 24 hours the only time she has moved from it has been to visit the food dish.

It has been pointed out to me by several people that I have sort of introduced Elvis into proceedings without either relating any of his history or indeed continuing the story by telling what happened when we went to meet him, so please allow me to rectify that omission. Elvis was a stray who was rescued from the side of a road in Cyprus, where he was living – or rather slowly dying – by scavenging. He had the lungworm infection very badly, and there is no doubt in my mind that his life was saved by those selfless saints of Cyprus Pride, June and Michael. Shipped back to England, Elvis racked up an £1800 vet bill, and his life hung in the balance for many months, but he pulled through, albeit at the loss of some of his lung mass. He will be susceptible to kennel cough for the remainder of his days. Nobody really knows how old he is.

The journey to the kennels at Ferrybridge was a horrendous one, of the sort I used to hate when driving. I was very glad Debbie was at the wheel. Mile after mile of roadworks along the M62, 50mph average speed restriction, and heavy traffic bunched together in rain and spray, all the way. Eventually the impressive bulk of Ferrybridge’s cooling towers indicated that it was time to turn off, and despite following the directions provided to the letter, we drove past the kennels twice, once from each direction, reasoning [incorrectly, as it turned out] that this couldn’t possibly be the entrance.

Once we got there, the staff were very welcoming and even produced a cup of steaming coffee for me! They also produced Elvis, who jumped up into the camper van and started sniffing around. Kerrie, who is in charge of him, and indeed, seemingly the whole establishment, says that, because of his background history as a one-time scavenger, Elvis is still very food-motivated and may not know when to stop eating. Debbie cast a meaningful glance in my direction. She thinks that, like Nigella, I am one of those people whose mission in life is to fatten up those around me so that I don’t stand out so much. [I wonder if Nigella has problems with scavenging, and her husband catches her with her head in the bin and has to shout “Oi! Nigella! No! Get back on the Stairmaster!”]

In the same way that Bruce Springsteen is a perfectly ordinary American with someone else’s shoulders, Elvis is a perfectly ordinary little dog with Fred Basset’s ears. Still, despite his slightly odd external appearance, and his extensive [and expensive] medical history, we warmed to him, and I think the feeling was mutual. We are being inspected this coming Friday to see if we come up to the exacting standard necessary for re-homing a dog. Given our well-ordered and entirely conventional household, what could possibly go wrong?

That was at the very start of the week, of course, and since then it has gone downhill, as I said. I’ve not been that well, either, physically, I mean, I think I had a tinge of flu. Well, a tinge of something, anyway. The age of “shivery” is not yet dead. The weather kept the would-be trick or treaters away on Wednesday, though, and so far it’s been so quiet on the firework front, that I am wondering whether it’s another sign of the times. The people currently in Parliament have finally triumphed over the man who wanted to blow it up, by wrecking the economy to the extent that nobody can afford fireworks any more. Meanwhile, I sat clutching a hot-water bottle, gritted my teeth, and got on with the stuff I absolutely positively had to do – anything else is next week’s problem.

Talking of Parliament, our postal voting forms turned up for the Police Commissioner elections during the week, and I filled mine in. Debbie was initially going to chuck hers on the back of the fire, until I reminded her of all those racehorses that had thrown themselves under suffragettes just so she could exercise her democratic right as her own person, and not merely as my chattel or appendage. Personally I don’t have a lot of time for the idea of the Police Commissioner as a concept. I view it as part of the general political gimmickery that despoils the simple, classical symmetry of our constitutional structure, along with devolved assemblies, regional assemblies, elected mayors, MEPs, and all the other useless claptrap which merely provides extra costly layers of bureaucracy and potential conflicts of interest.

Nevertheless, despite my misgivings, it is obviously going to happen anyway, so I wrote to all four of the people who are standing in this area asking them about their stance and policy on animal mistreatment and wildlife crime. Not one of them has replied, or even attempted to contact me by either phone or email. It is no wonder people feel disenfranchised, cut off, apathetic and cynical when we have would-be politicians like these. In the end I voted for the independent candidate, for several reasons, one being that he has a very silly name, secondly he was once a serving police officer, which is more than you can say for the others, and finally, the fact he is an independent allows me to vote without my vote being seen as a proxy endorsement of the Junta or the feeble opposition. Debbie looked in vain for a UKIP or a Green to vote for, so her form may well have ended up burnt to a crisp, suffragettes or no suffragettes, and in fact, sometimes, deliberately not voting can in itself be a political act.

As well as containing Halloween and All Saints Day, which I always recall from my schooldays because we invariably sang “For all the saints, who from their labours rest” which is a great hymn, this week also brought All Souls’ Day, or, as some cultures have it, the Day of the Dead. Personally, I don’t have much trouble recalling the dead, and I think of them every day, especially at a time of the year such as this one, when the membrane between this world and the other is sometimes demonstrably thin. I often feel like Henry Vaughan, lamenting that

“They are all gone into the world of light
And I alone sit ling’ring here…”

From a folklore point of view, however, All Souls’ Day is interesting because of the tradition of “souling”, which was essentially semi-organised, semi-institutionalised begging, where gangs of urchins would go from house to house singing their “souling” songs and wishing the well being and continued existence of everyone in the house for another year, in return for some small dole of meat, drink or money. A bit like trick or treat, but without the trick.

Several “souling” songs have been collected, and the best known one is probably “Soul Cake” which has been recorded by artists as diverse as The Watersons (good version, but monotonous and scary) and Sting (bad, very bad.)

“A soul, a soul a soul cake
Please good missus, a soul cake
An apple a pear a plum or a cherry
Or any good thing to make us merry
One for Peter, One for Paul
One for him who made us all…”

My own favourite is the Edgmond Mens’ Souling Song, collected in Shropshire and performed, inter alia, by John Kirkpatrick and Sue Harris:

‘The streets they are gotten dark, dirty and cold,
We are come a-souling, this night we’ll make bold,
We are come a-souling as well doth appear,
And all that we soul for is ale and strong beer’.

Shropshire archives has the following on its web site, drawing on the work of both Roy Palmer and Charlotte Burne:

In Pulverbatch , it is thought that the last person to keep this custom going was a Mary Ward, who died in 1853 (at the age of 101). In Hopton, Mrs Gill had soul-cakes made in her house for the souling-children until her death in 1884. In 1938, Phyllis Crawford pointed out that at Wem the ‘souling cake’ had died away, but in villages near Oswestry at around the same time, including West Felton and Llynclys, children still visited local houses. Lillian Hayward stated: ‘The soul cakes are, I believe, no longer made, but nuts, sweets, and apples are put ready for them’.

The folklore site, Mother Nature Network, takes up the story:

What is known is that by the 8th century, soul cakes were given to beggars (soulers) who would say prayers for the dead on All Souls' Eve. And the price? One soul saved per cake. In other places they were given to wandering mummers, the costumed predecessors of buskers, as they entertained on Halloween. Today's trick-or-treaters are thought to be their descendants, and soul cakes are thought to be the first treats for tricks. These days, soul cakes are generally presented as a small round cake, variously spiced, often studded across the top with a cross of currants. They are part scone, part biscuit, part teacake — and a sweet little treat harkening back to the times when souls roamed this realm and Halloween was truly a haunted night.

That sounds a little early for me, and I wonder if it's a typo for 18th Century. Anyway, I suppose I should be thankful that, dire as things are at present in many ways, I’m not yet reduced to begging. I am sitting here in front of a relatively warm stove and there is food in the house. It’s a day for counting blessings, I guess. Mind you, speaking as a scavenger, those Soul Cakes look like a very good way of saving souls…

Today is also the feast of St Birstan. It is also the feast of St Charles Borromeo, a much more well-known and conventional saint, who, despite being related to the Medicis, allotted most of his income to charity, forbade himself all luxury and imposed severe penances upon himself. He sacrificed wealth, high honours, esteem and influence to become poor. During the plague and famine of 1576, in Italy, he tried to feed 60,000 to 70,000 people daily. To do this he borrowed large sums of money that required years to repay. Whereas the civil authorities fled at the height of the plague, he stayed in the city, where he ministered to the sick and the dying, helping those in want. Worn out, he died at the age of only 46.

Fascinating as St Charles Borromeo is, however, I have decided to write about Birstan instead on the Police Commissioner principle, that he has the sillier name. In fact, St Birstan’s name is not altogether decided – in some accounts he appears as Brinstan, and with a little more effort, some culinary help, and less time spent praying, could have invented chutney 900 years before Richard Branson. Bring out the Brinstan! Birstan succeeded to the See of Winchester on the resignation of St Frithestan in May 931AD. Appropriately enough in a week which contains All Souls’ Day, Birstan, “a man of exceptional piety and charity”, was devoted to prayers for the dead and also did his best to help the poor, founding the Hospital of St John, adjoining St Swithun’s Bridge in Winchester. A Norman Chapel replaced the original in the Broadway and St. Birstan's image can still be seen in the stained glass there today. He managed to combine his interest in prayer and the dead rather neatly, by dying whilst at prayer in 934AD, after only three years as Bishop.

He is best known, apparently, for an incident which occurred some years after his death. Some time at the end of the 10th century, the Bishop of Winchester, St. Aethelwold, visited the graveyard of the Old Minster (Saxon Cathedral) at Winchester, where he was shocked to find himself being addressed by the spirit of St. Birstan, thus:

"I am Birstan, former Bishop of this town" and pointing with his right hand, "This is Birinus, who first preached here," and with his left, "This is Swithun, particular patron of this church and city".

St. Aethelwold was so impressed that he reinstated the veneration of the saint as an equal to both the better known Birinus and Swithun, though he was never much known outside Hampshire. Well, maybe all that will change now, especially if my ploy with Google comes off. In the meantime, I daresay the coming week will, potentially, give me plenty of cause to employ my own personal evacuation plan, as we struggle on in our attempts to climb out of the mire, and avoid having to go a-souling!

And no, this is not me. Nice hat, though!