"All Along The Bell Tower..."

My late - and I would call great - Abbot did not, on the whole, do humour. Being German may not have been the cause, but we all thought it was.

I am though now reminded of an occasion when he conjured, as if from nothing, a wonderful and perfect witticism.

E has returned from the latest sales clutching in triumph and awe a disc of young Jimi Hendrix playing Isle of Wight 1970. Those who were there may remember - if age, decrepitude and the aftermath of heroic drug ingestion permit - that it was a fine yet also a fractious time.

'Desolation Row' - you remember the hill above the site where free and protesting youth sat, listened and generally made a thorough nuisance of themselves? ("Up Against The Wall Mother******s", a Jefferson Airplane inspired graffito, my favourite slogan.)

The Wall - separating the fee-paying from the free-loading - did indeed buckle and bend a little, but it never fell. It survives to be seen at Glastonbury each year. The same revolutionary spirit, though, I doubt still lasts. There is probably even a 'UATWMs' creche, where grandparents can be safely left for the day to re-enact their old battles against 'The Man' while the younger generations enjoy their safe and largely harmless music.

Anyway, back to E and the Abbot. Her purchase of the disc has reminded me of the tale fondly told that in the late summer of 1970, when the festival was upon the Island, a promoter chappie - interesting if cheeky cove - came over to the monastery to enquire whether the monks cared to have a slot one day to 'do their thing'; that is, to take to the stage and intone Gregorian Chant to the instoned masses.

I suspect that had it happened it would have become the stuff of legend, or perhaps even myth: "Hey Derek, remember those cool dudes in black who dug that Latin?" "Wow, far out man, I thought I was the only one seeing them. I presumed it must be the acid." (Nursing staff in care homes for the mentally frail around the country had better be prepared for this kind of banter coming their way soon.)

Being a serious sort of Germanic fellow - as above - the Abbot gave the offer serious thought then magnificently replying: "I am awfully sorry to have to disappoint you, but you see we cloistered monks don't do tour gigs. You're most welcome to suggest people may come to us, but we sadly can't come to them.

'Tour gigs'!? Where in the sacred, silent cloister did he learn that a la mode phrase? The promoter, according to witnesses present, sucked on his largish pipe - containing whatever herb it might - and replied "That's cool brother." (Very monastic term that 'brother' thing. Sharp fellow indeed the promoter.)

And believe it or not many festival folk did trek across the hills to spend a sensational half an hour in our monastic church being 'spaced out' (another expression of the day I am told) by the chant.

Whether or not Jimi himself came history does not record. He was to die but a month later. That sadly is in the history books.