This Easter was compressed for me, in that from the middle of Holy Week till my alarm clock rang on Monday 1 April, it was crammed with activity of two varieties: a spiritual retreat which took me to Holy Saturday afternoon and, apart from liturgical activities, a magnificent lunch with friends at their home on Easter Sunday. The Holy Week retreat I had already done in the last couple of years – it seemed ideal for a retired schoolmaster and bachelor – but at 80-plus, how would I fare?
For most of my adult life I’ve gone on a three-day retreat each year, be it in an abbey like Quarr or a retreat centre such as Wickenden Manor in Sussex, which is where I went this year. The manor, achieved in a beautiful early-Jacobean style, was completed just after the First World War by members of the Messel family, who had a connection with Field Marshal Haig, as well as with the local nobility. In former days, Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip attended a ball there, and spent the night.
The manor itself is spacious and elegantly built in warm grey local stone; it has since been bought by a charity – the Netherhall Educational Association – inspired by St Josemaria Escriva’s Opus Dei, itself fired by the founder’s vision of Britain being a launching pad for evangelising the Commonwealth. While not a member, I have found the retreats to be a sort of thorough updating and polishing of my prayer life.
Now Wickenden Manor plays host to a more distinguished guest than even Her Late Majesty: the beautiful wood-panelled chapel contains the Blessed Sacrament. The retreat structure is fairly formal: silence, meditation, talks, not to forget excellent food and homely comforts, a retreat master to consult, and a priest to whom to confess. In spite of the silence, retreatants themselves turned out to be helpful and cheerful. Of course, Holy Week added that special liturgical element, whether in the chapel or in the library, where the altar of repose had been placed.
I don’t particularly like the activity known as “examination of conscience”: five or six questions read out, using fictional if common situations, for the retreatants to self-judge their use of virtues. I’m sure that the questions are there to make the situations more realistic, but somehow their fictionality grates against the importance of truth in our life. I do know that St Josemaria had an immense regard for truth, and that should be the criterion.
I was glad that by Holy Saturday I had planned a not-too-heavy programme to complete my celebration of the Lord’s rising day: lunch with Catholic lawyer Jamie Bogle and his wife, writer and journalist Joanna Bogle, at their home in New Malden, in south London between Balham and Kingston.
Quite late on Holy Saturday afternoon I quickly visited my local supermarket to complete the weekend’s shopping and looked around for an Easter egg for myself. I was surprised to find many of them stacked near the hens’ eggs.
Emerging from the 10am Mass at my crammed parish church, the miraculous entered – it is all too unusual a phenomenon in my life, I’m afraid. I had planned my journey using a Transport for London guide online, and printed it out. The Bogle homestead is difficult to find as it is hidden among many massive buildings, to which one bus from Tooting took me, but my <em>aide-memoire</em> was gone, and nowhere to be found.
At that point, unusually and admittedly, I had to make an act of complete trust in God. I had just reached a garage where a young couple were filling their car. They were kindness itself; the girl pulled out her mobile phone when I gave the address. “No problem – just follow the road round. The street’s the first on the right.” And so it was.
What a lunch! Tender lamb cooked by Jamie, followed by simnel cake made by Joanna, of which I had several slices, quenched by Taylor’s port that had been brought by one of the other guests. This was followed by coffee and a quiz about the authorship of well-known hymns, devised by a fellow guest.
The Bogles seem to have done so much for Catholic life in England; I think particularly of their joint biography of the Emperor Charles of Austria and Empress Zita, A Heart for Europe (Gracewing, 1990). It seemed only fair that they should be able to relax over a delicious meal.
Meanwhile, I had not quite forgotten my little Easter egg at home, still uneaten. Needs must, and a final cup of tea was followed by a short walk to the bus stop with Joanna. Getting home was a doddle after the morning’s difficulties, and I could look forward to a restful night’s sleep. On Monday morning my Easter egg’s independent existence was short-lived.
<em>Stephen de la Bédoyère is a retired schoolmaster</em>
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