Whither the Wolds?

..Some of you have been asking and no doubt many more of you been pondering, what news of the Wolds? We - you say - have heard little indeed nothing of the intriguing, peculiar doings of Woldean folk these past weeks.

Not indeed from the time of the momentous Parish Council elections, when we all waited with breath a-bated to discover if Cathy had won her seat, or indeed since Colonel X took most strange umbrage and action at his un-seating, has a word passed on parochial matters.

This indeed is true and time to 'fess up to its truth.

There are a multitude of factors that need to be considered here. The first is that, yes, in truth there is an ursine quality to village life in winter, in that by and large we do hibernate as the bears waiting for Spring to warm and call us back to more active existence.

The rhythm of the seasons does urge us to rise with the sun and to bed with the setting of it. Shorter days do lead to shorter doings and, given the enormity of what too many folk do with their days, I may opine that such abstinence of action has its virtuous merits.

The second prevailing wind has been that of another 'season' - though not one in nature - that of Lent. I have never regarded my words here as gossipy or demeaning of a village people or their doings. But a small voice inside has questioned whether even the straight public telling of essentially private deeds risks exposing to unseemly interest - though not ridicule for there is nothing ridiculous in our ways of being - people who would not imagine what passes here could or indeed should be passed on elsewhere.

Added to that is my flock's own particular - if not peculiar - presumptions as to the nature and content of a parson's observance of the season of fasting and abstinence. They - bless 'em for their innocence - seem to presume that I have entered some ecclesial purdah, as if on retreat from all that matters in human life.

The butcher will cease his tale of funny doings at the Hall on my entrance to his shop, as if Lenten clerical ears should not be enchanted by such nonsense. People in the street adopt a serious downcast eye approach as we pass, as if in acknowledgement that somehow one is set-aside (like a field?!) from ordinary life.

'Tis most strange this feeling of separation. I needs must live with it as, if nothing else, it seems to spare others from feeling they ought too to be a bit more sackcloth and ashes and a bit less "Pint of the usual is it Tom?" (I believe, on reflection, that I have, thereby, some considerable insight into how the scapegoat must have felt on being driven out from the herd as a sacrifice for all others.)

No harm indeed to the Lenten soul in living the outcast life - the refugee, the fleer of oppression, the stateless, the homeless - though one should not over-egg this. The Rectory is still there for refuge and the garage/office its inner sanctuarious sanctum.

The more narrow and apposite effect of all of this is that people tend not to 'keep me in the loop' as Bro. George and his crew would say. H of course knows everything as ever she does, but even she seems to hold fire in passing on the best lest I should be deflected from my True Path.

All so utterly wearing!

But behind this lurks something far more compelling, nay sinister. All inner and outer energies, all resolves and reserves of strength and fortitude are needed elsewhere other than in whimsical public musing on Woldean life.

H does not know it yet - I must soon summons the courage to tell her - but a letter was received some three weeks ago from that awful prig of a diocesan secretary, Father William, announcing that the formal annual episcopal Visitation would be commencing the Wednesday following Low Sunday.

If any of you are ignorant of 'Low Sunday' you are naughty yet spared, and if any of you know not what a 'Visitation' should be I can only inform you that it has nothing to do with some celestial event, such as the BVM's image appearing on the Colonel's morning toast or being visible upon the clock-tower's clock-face.

No, this Visitation is one's being called to ecclesial account by the See's overseers. Spanish Inquisition? A mere bagatelle in comparison. You shall hear and you shall witness.

No wonder then that I've been keeping stumm. Can't afford any untoward info seeping back towards the Palace at this juncture. So if you know anything about anything then mum is indeed the unspoken word all right? That stranger down at the Dragon Inn, reputedly just stopping over while his great-aunt passes on to glory? Give him the widest of berths. Bound to be one of Father William's advance spies.

You think me paranoid? Ha! Been there, done that, worn the tee-shirt bearing the truthful legend "Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition!"