A couple of days after Christmas, my Holly King and I headed
out into the Norfolk countryside to blow away the cobwebs of pre-holiday
stress, finally making the pilgrimage to St Benet’s Abbey that we had talked
about so many times.The sky was a frosty blue when we set off, but as we crept nearer to the Abbey, along the narrow lanes of Broads country, a mist descended and the heavens clouded over. The light became muted, and the spidery trees now seemed to be surging out of the bare ground like grasping black hands.
When we stopped and climbed out of the car, we found ourselves standing in a peculiar calm, enveloping us into the silent landscape; the kind of moment that sends a little thrill coursing through your body as you feel yourself connecting with the earth and with centuries of history, while at the same time mourning the past.
In the distance, a huge wooden cross was silhouetted on
the horizon, poignantly marking the point where the high altar once stood in the Abbey
church.
As we approached, past the still waters of the medieval fish ponds, I could hear the cross telling its silent tale to the land.
Nowadays, only the geese congregate where the monks once worshipped; gazing out into the hazy distance, across the veins of silver water creeping through the melancholy plains.
Toes numb, and the saturated ground seeping into our boots,
we turned back towards the remains of the Abbey gatehouse, now fused together
with the brick tower of an 18th century mill – an icon of the Norfolk landscape.
And, as we reached the car, we turned to see the mists begin
to lift, the sky return to blue... and the geese take flight.
