Читать книгу Cloister Cats - Richard Surman - Страница 8

‘As cellarer of the monastery let there be chosen from the community one who is wise, of mature character, sober, not a great eater, not haughty, not excitable.’

From the Rule of St Benedict

HISTORY

Alton Abbey, an Anglican Benedictine monastery, is an architectural gem set discreetly amidst the beech woods of Hampshire. Originally its purpose was to care for retired merchant seamen – the community came about through the missionary work of Father Charles Hopkins among merchant seamen in foreign ports; its work is now centred on prayer, running retreats, giving lectures, baking bread and the manufacture of incense.

The Times described Alton Abbey as ‘the best kept secret in the Church of England’ – thus possibly turning it into the worst kept secret in the Church of England! A casual glimpse of the Rhenish ‘pepper pot’ tower of the abbey church through the trees is almost enough to persuade oneself that one is in Normandy: this striking building, set in some 80 acres of woodland, was designed by Sir Charles Nicholson, and built by the monks themselves in the late nineteen hundreds to accommodate retired seamen.

It was the retirement of a vicar of St Paul’s Knightsbridge that caused the community to adopt its first cat. When the vicar was making arrangements for his retirement, he asked Abbot Giles if the community would look after his cat Misty for a couple of months. But Misty made herself rather more at home than was intended, and ended up living at Alton Abbey for nine years. Then one damp November day, the feast day of St Gertrude (who is variously described as the patron saint of cats and of those who fear mice), a young cat turned up at the door of the abbey. She rolled over disingenuously at the feet of the Abbot and Prior, flashed a few appealing looks, got fed, and promptly disappeared. The fleeting visitor hadn’t gone far, however. She haunted the woods adjacent to the monastery, appearing at odd times asking to be fed, and as time passed, her disappearances became less frequent, until she finally decided that she would move in. And once that decision had been taken, Millie declared her annexation of the monastery in short order. One near victim of this fierce territoriality was a visiting blind priest’s guide dog. For the whole of his visit Millie sat growling on the inside of the enclosure door, which was thankfully kept firmly closed. She didn’t endear herself to the guest master either, having given him a sharp nip when he picked her up: it says something for the Benedictine spirit of hospitality that she wasn’t shown the door permanently.

On the way to the abbey bakery

Millie has an aversion to closed doors: an early sortie into the abbey church while the monks were at their offices caused much distraction and hilarity, and resulted in a ban from any further church attendance. So closed doors represent a challenge that Millie is forever trying to overcome. One welcoming door is that of the abbey bakery, and another that of the guest house, through which Millie charms her way in order to shamelessly solicit attention from visitors and guests.

Millie’s real nest is in Abbot Giles’s study, where a cosy fire and comfortable bed are at hand, as is a doorway to the grounds through which she can come and go as she pleases. And somewhere in the background lurks the call of the wild. For she came from the woods, and when one sees her spread-eagled on the trunk of a tree, it is quite clear that the woodland environment is where she feels at her wildest best. Millie pelts across the open spaces between trees, scaling them in a frenzy of excitement, ending up teetering crazily on a narrow branch, looking around with startled eyes and flattened ears, before dashing down again to join in mortal combat with a wind-blown leaf or two.

The monastery has a pond which is home to a vast number of large frogs. I don’t know what it is about cats and frogs. The cats obviously enjoy stalking the frogs, but rarely seem to know what to do once they are actually nose to nose with one. And recently the tables turned. It was a warm day, and Millie was lying in the shade of tree by the pond. Nearby was a small, and apparently confused frog, which decided to hop onto Millie’s back. She was later spotted, complete with inscrutable amphibian passenger jogging on her back, oblivious to the hitchhiker’s presence.

Watching for wind-blown leaves

Millie at her best in wild woodland