Hold on to your Seatbelts!

During the Middle Ages, the veil between the material and the supernatural was tenuous, the supernatural an essential part of life. It was the Reformation that separated the two and caused a whole heap of problems that theologians tried to reconcile or obliterate.

 That Christ performed miracles was agreed by both  Catholics and Protestants, but beyond that a widening schism emerged. Protestants argued that Christ performed miracles to prove he was the Son of God, but after his Resurrection and the Redemption of mankind there was no further need for them. Miracles packed away. Job done. 

And yet, miracles kept breaking out of the box. How to explain their continued existence? The Devil’s work, Protestants argued, satanic delusions to lure the unwary. And the fact that miracles weren’t disowned by Catholicism was clear proof that Rome was the whore of Babylon, the Pope and his minions, agents of Satan.

The Church were acutely aware of the dilemna and desperate to distance themselves from frauds and charlatans, any possibility of devilry. In former times, it had been less questioning of the miraculous. In the C16th it necessarily became more critical, so much so that the Inquisition gave a hard time to those who claimed miraculous powers.

And yet miracles proliferated—especially levitation. Women were especially prone. Now they become air hostesses.

The French founder of the Poor Clares and patron saint of expectant mothers, Colette of Corbie 1381 - 1447 performed a number of miracles, levitation being just one of them. On one occasion Colette rose so high that for a moment she vanished from the sight of those watching.  There were levitators who glowed like candles. The Dominican friar, Peter Geremia of Palermo was noted for his miracles, levitating being the least of them. On one occasion, light brighter than any candle shone from cracks in the door of his cell. When his fellow friars broke in, they found him levitating and glowing in ecstatic abandon.

By the C16th, levitators were two a penny, including such luminaries as saints Francis Xavier, Ignatius Loyola, Peter of Alcantara, Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross and Philip Neri to name just a handful. And levitation wasn’t restricted to saints. A conservative estimate of recorded levitations  during this period would be measured in hundreds. 

The most significant levitator is perhaps St Teresa of Avila. Her various levitations began in middle age and lasted only a few years; but what makes her significant is the fact they were witnessed by so many, sometimes having to be held down by  panicking nuns.  And they occurred  frequently, albeit  in a short period  of time. What makes her so noteworthy is that she was forced to give a detailed account of the experience by a sceptical Inquisition and so we have on record not just eyewitness accounts but a more intimate record—the internal experience of one who levitated in an ecstatic communion with God—until she begged Him to make it all stop—which he obligingly did.

Tomas de Villanueva 1488-1555 an Augustinian priest and councillor to the Emperor Charles V still holds the record by staying aloft for twelve hours during and after celebrating Mass. Pedro de Alcantara was seen soaring outdoors as high as a tree and on another occasion ‘flying ecstatically from a garden to a nearby church.’

St Philip Neri also levitated whilst saying Mass, sometimes as high as the ceiling and sometimes glowing in holy light. Every one of these examples were out doors and were witnessed by many and so hard to explain. Today holocaust deniers are rightly condemned. To deny levitation is more acceptable. We have a gift for denying what makes us uncomfortable or find hard to explain. In the next post, I’ll focus on perhaps the most spectacular of those ‘who flew’—St Joseph of Copertino.  Hold on to your seat belts.

 

 

 

In Search of Lost Time

David Suchet’s Hercule Poirot is a family favourite, especially his relationship with food. His first introduction to fish and chips is one of life's small joys. 

He is less impressed with fish paste. In Sad Cypress, salmon paste and crab paste are the red herrings (red herring paste is a step too far). When Poirot samples the salmon, his face screws up in anguish and disgust which intensifies as he goes on to consume a small spoonful of the crab. ‘It was bad enough the first time!’ He refers to it later as ‘slurry.’

It’s in this context I bought a small ‘joke’ present for my son on his birthday: two jars of Princes Salmon, and Crab paste. 

His reaction was very much like Poirot’s. And yet, I remember loving Shippam’s* salmon paste, indeed the whole range, as a child —especially with a small, pickled onion. 

The following day, I tried it on toast. I tried it in a sandwich, the result didn't change. It tasted beige, a nondescript sludge with just a faint whiff of sea, and I understood the wisdom of the pickled onion addition. 

It got me thinking of other childhood treats and whether it was worth risking the same disappointment.

Our local fishmonger in Walton Vale sold virulent pink salmon paste. In the window it resembled a large rocky island glowing in a Pacific sunset. Irresistible to a small boy and so bought as a treat on a Saturday. The memory of its taste lingers still, like one of Proust’s Madeleines—one I will never sample again. The shop closed in 1961. 

There remains one other childhood taste I intend to re-sample next week. Primula Cream Cheese.

I loved the picture on the original cardboard container, that of a smiling Nordic woman against a backdrop of sky and green hills, a window to another world. I loved the cheese too, with its sharp and tangy taste—even tangier with chives, celery or prawns.

With or without my imprimatur, Primula cheese is a survivor. Developed in 1924 by a Norwegian business man, Olav Kavli, it was the world’s first spreadable cheese, and is still available albeit in rather attractive tubes which you squeeze out in the form of edible toothpaste.

I was a little put off when I read the answer to a random question online: can dogs eat Primula cheese? It made me question the sanity of the unknown questioner, and the answer was not all together reassuring. ‘Primula cheese is safe to eat for dogs; it won’t cause any immediate health issues. But Primula is a highly processed food which contains lots of additives, so it’s not a healthy treat.’ 

My body is my temple and all that; I carefully read the ingredients: cheese (57%); reconstituted skimmed milk powder, water, whey powder, emulsifying salts (sodium phosphates, triphosphates, polyphosphates) modified maize starch. 

Well, to hell with the consequences. This weekend I’m buying into a memory, Primula and Chive cheese spread on fresh white bread or toast, perhaps even both. I will not, however be experimenting with their recommended ‘Easter Squeezy Cornflake Cakes.’

* Shippams were taken over by Princes in 2001

 

Mysteries My Walls Enfold

Built from Cotswold stone, the main part of Snowshill manor dates from the C16th, but its history goes back farther than that. The estate was given to Winchcombe Abbey in 821 by King Coenwulf of Mercia, and was listed as such in the Domesday book 264 years later. It remained part of the Abbey until Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, and Snowshill Manor was given to Catherine Parr, his last wife. 

Over the years it had several owners and was extended and developed to what we see now. Its last and most notable owner was the gifted eccentric, Charles Paget Wade, who I’d never heard of before visiting the house.

Young Charles Paget Wade  

Creator:  | Credit: Artwork Copyright: National Trust, Snowshill Manor; Photo Cred

Wade was a respected artist, a superb craftsman and obsessive collector, motivated by his motto ‘Let nothing go to waste. The result was a 22000 collection of objects that in some way appealed to him, all of them crammed into the manor - leaving no room in the house for him or his wife to live. He resided in the so called ‘Priest’s House’ adjacent to the manor, his wife preferred the local inn, and both decamped to the West Indies .where his family had owned a sugar plantation, and from where much of his wealth originated. 

A bit gloomy perhaps, but I would quite like to have lived in the original Tudor part of the house.

But gradually the collection grew and grew. Below is only a fraction of what I could have shown, but each photo I found worth studying at home. You absorb an atmosphere in the house but appreciate the detail later in more leisurely surroundings. 

Old Charles Paget Wade

For Wade, beauty and craftsmanship was everything, as too was setting. He eschewed electricity for its harshness. His vast hoard was lit by oil lamps and candle light. 

Snowshill Manor soon attracted interest. Queen Mary was entranced, as was J B Priestly and Virginia Woolf, even perhaps the Great Beast himself, Aleister Crowley, for there was another side to Charles Paget Wade – an intense interest in the occult. 

This chest was inadvertently closed some years ago and no one now can unlock it. If you look below AND at the lid of an open chest in Wade's bedroom shown farther down, you'll appreciate the fiendish complexity of a C17th lock

Wade had a propensity for dressing up in armour and playing peek-a-boo with guests.

Did I say Wade collected everything?

Wade was a master craftsman. This, believe it or not is a doorbell. The figures moved to music when someone knocked at the front door. No one now can get it to work.

Hidden away in the attic is a hidden space named ‘The Witch’s Garret.’ The present owner of the house – the National Trust—were so horrified, they have since done their best to deny its existence. It seems it may once have hosted an active coven, and that Aleister Crowley may well have attended.

Its occult and satanic paraphernalia  is presently housed  in the Witchcraft Museum in Boscamon, Cornwall. All that remains now is a room painted with sinister symbols, a room the Trust pretends isn’t there.

The attic is now crammed with bikes and every form of wheeled vehicle. Just below is a real bone shaker. The twine leading from handlebars to back wheel is the brake!

just to the right out of picture was an innocent looking cot until you approached it. For some reason it gave me the shivers as though something truly bad had happened in it. This was before I knew about the 'witch's room.' 

What they don’t deny though are the various hauntings. Whilst Wade was renovating the manor, a workman housed in the attic left the day after and refused to come back. Perhaps it was the ‘Benedictine Ghost’, the 16 year old thwarted bride in the green dress, the monks that haunt the adjacent lane, or the victim of a dual to the death that occurred in one of its rooms. 

In the words of a short poem written by Wade about the manor: 

Old am I, so very old,

Here centuries have been.

Mysteries my walls enfold,

None know deeds I have seen.'

A relief to step into gardens and sunlight

The Priest house where Wade ended up living. Still a bit cluttered you might think but more liveable than the mansion that housed his collection. 

His fire and cosy covered chair. There was no electricity in the house but to keep abreast during World War II he relented and bought a battery powered radio

Where he ate.

And slept.

His bathroom and toilet - notice the hat from the portrait above

And apologies for the surfeit of photos and for all that I didn't show.

For those who would like a glimpse of his costume collection housed elsewhere click here