March mystery

“You would pluck out the heart of my mystery.” – Hamlet

There is a memorial plaque on the vestibule wall of St. Peter’s Church, Barford that always catches my eye. It commemorates two young lives cut tragically short:

Francis Bruckfield Byerley Died August 5, 1818, on his passage from the West Indies Aged 19                                                                       Octavia Charlotte Byerley Died September 26, 1818 Aged 17

Seeing their names week after week piqued my curiosity: who were these two, and what brought about their untimely ends? A mystery. And, what could be more English than a good mystery? Furthermore, what could be more pleasurable than finding one staring you in the face. Not a mystery of the “murder-in-the-drawing-room-with-a-candlestick” variety, perhaps, but still a riddle worthy of a bit of sleuthing.

My initial inquiries into the identity of pair led to a surprising revelation – a Barford connection to the famous Wedgwood firm and family. The two young Byerleys were children of Thomas Byerley (1747-1810), who was nephew of Josiah Wedgwood, and made a partner of the firm in 1790. The firm then traded as: “Josiah Wedgwood, Sons and Byerley”. Finding no further details about the tragic siblings, I allowed myself to imagine, rather romantically, that Francis was spirited away, having answered the clarion call of the sea, dying heroically in a valiant battle against pirates in the Caribbean; and poor, poor, Charlotte, languishing here on dry land, her demise precipitated by the loss of her dearly beloved brother, with a grief as deep as the sea.

The trail, as they say in detective novels, had run cold. Then, an email from the Wedgwood Museum archivist informing me that the Byerley association had further connections to reveal – and quite significant ones, indeed. Francis and Charlotte’s sisters: Katherine, Frances and Jane established The Byerley School in Barford in 1817. It was located at what is now Barford House, a private residence. The Byerley teachers and their pupils regularly attended St Peter’s Church, where the school held designated pews.

The Byerley sisters’ school was renowned for its curriculum and the literary talents of its teachers – each a published authoress. Their most successful by-product was Elizabeth Stevenson, who later became the great Victorian author and critic, Mrs. Gaskell. Although Knutsford in Cheshire prides itself on being the inspiration for Gaskell’s much-loved Cranford, Barford, in fact, holds a prior claim. Living in Barford during her most formative years, Gaskell studied the classics whilst enjoying rural life in this idyllic Warwickshire setting. This village no doubt set the seeds that would later blossom in Gaskell’s literary career. Gaskell was undoubtedly fond of Barford, it appears in [ITALICS START] My Lady Ludlow (1858), and is remembered affectionately in her novella, [ITALICS START] Lois the Witch (1859). That story’s tragic heroine, the orphaned Lois Barclay, is a happy Barfordian before her reluctant emigration to Salem, Massachusetts:

“In the dim sea mist which she gazed upon with aching eyes - there rose the little village church of Barford…the little, old, grey church…What would they think of it at home – real, dear home at Barford, in England? There they had loved her; there she had gone about, singing and rejoicing all the day long in the pleasant meadows by the Avonside.”

Like Mrs. Gaskell, and Lois Barclay, I, too, share an achingly sentimental love of Barford and its ‘little, old, grey church’. And, perhaps like me, the young Elizabeth Stevenson may have routinely spied a memorial plaque on the church’s vestibule wall that set her mind and curiosity adrift. To be sure, the greatest reward of every good mystery is the joy of unexpected discovery.

Ashes to Ashes

Sometimes, I wish we could be a bit more Medieval.

Allow me to explain. Witch-hunts, the Crusades, and the plague aside, the Middle Ages were a key time in Christian spiritual development. The Church, held a pivotal place in people’s lives, not only as the central authority, but as the central hub of life.

Every significant moment in a person’s life from birth to the grave was punctuated by ritual -- an outward, public expression of the inward spiritual journey. In addition, the church was also the cultural hub in terms of art, music, literature, education and thought; as well as the epicentre of social and community life. It was where you went to meet people, to seek advice, support, &etc.

We have lost this very ordinary and direct connection to/with ‘the church’. And I believe there is no time that this is more evident and noticeable than Ash Wednesday, and the start of Lent.

Tonight’s service at St. Peter’s was beautiful and deeply moving. Heartbreaking it was, though, as there were more people in the Choir, then there were sitting in the congregation. 

Let’s face, apart from the fact that the vestments for Lent are a luscious, regal purple, it’s a pretty dour time.

The readings, collects, prayers, and anthems for Ash Wednesday all centre on themes of repentance, redemption, sin, self-denial, and sacrifice. We are reminded how we have fallen short of the mark, and admonished that we’ve got 40 long days to think about it. 

But, more than this, Ash Wednesday requires us to actively contemplate our own mortality: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

We’d rather skip that part, and cut straight to Easter. How easy to forget that there is no light, without darkness. No resurrection, without death. No glistening Spring, without the chill of Winter.

I was surprised by the “tweet” (yes, I vowed never, ever to join Twitter…) that popped up on my screen: “What are you giving up for Lent?” 

I was surprised to find such a spiritual query in that secular space. I have decided this year to “give up” something very precious to me: my time.

I run in circles everyday looking for more time to complete tasks, meet deadlines, work out, train for the Swimathon, send email, tweet (ugh!) -- never enough hours in a day.  

So, instead of denying myself chocolate, wine or popcorn, I want to ‘hit where it really hurts’ and give time to my community, and find new ways of serving. 

And, just maybe, perhaps, helping St Peter’s become a bit more, well, ... Medieval.

A passing

This past week saw the passing of a wonderful man in our little village. Last Monday, St. Peter’s Church was filled to capacity and overflowing with mourners paying tribute and bidding farewell to the man loving known as “The Doc”.

The DEB and I had had the very good fortunate of meeting and becoming acquainted with Chris, his wonderful wife, Maggie, and his delightful family. Our blossoming friendship was a meeting of kindred spirits and like minds.

As we sat in one of the makeshift extra rows at the rear of St. Peter’s, the DEB and I shared a deep sense of regret, as we listened to tales of the Doc’s remarkable life from those who had known and loved him best.

How longed and wished we had had more chances to know him better; to have shared more stories, theories and philosophies with him; to have heard more of his travels and his spiritual quests.

Previously, I would never have thought of describing a funeral as “beautiful”, but that is precisely the best word to describe the celebration of Chris’ life. It seemed to me that this, his final journey, was a true encapsulation of his life path as a whole; and so very like him: moving, inspiring and deeply meaningful. Every moment of the service was a reminder of his incredible magnanimity and largess of spirit.

It seemed to me that this celebration of Chris' life was in a way itself like one of the many provocative conversations one could have with him. I left the service, with a saddened heart, but a prompted mind and spirit; inspired by what, whom and all that this great man has left behind. His was a life well lived and well-loved. A challenge to us all.

Chris’ funeral was the first such service I have attended here in England. The elegance and grace of the service and its customs, including a formal procession led by a stately and somberly clad funeral director/undertaker, was fitting tribute to this dignified and soulful man. He shall be sorely missed.

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During Victorian times no funeral was complete without some degree of pomp and ceremony provided by undertakers with black-plumed horses, elaborate horse-drawn hearses, funeral coaches, and attendants. Dickens immortalised an image of the grim, money-grasping undertaker with Mr Sowerberry, in his classic tale Oliver Twist, but the reality was that undertakers became essential to the community because everyone, irrespective of status, wanted a decent burial for their kinfolk. – Ian Waller, “Undertakers: A Decent Burial”, Your Family Tree magazine, 7 Oct 2005)

Pictured: Louise Ryan (aged 20) in Newport, South Wales, believed to be Britain's youngest, female funeral director

(Daily Mail, 23 April 2009)

My new home: Barford, Warwickshire

Barford is a tiny, idyllic village in the heart of rural Warwickshire. Warwickshire is known as "Shakespeare Country," and Stratford-upon-Avon is about 7 miles from Barford. Barford is a typical, old, quaint "two pubs, one church" English village. It is lush and green, full of beautiful cedar and holly trees, and surrounded and embraced by rolling, pastures and fields.