November 2010
Why on earth did I come here I asked myself. When Pat said, 'I hate New Year will you come on a retreat with me?' I imagined a cosy little cell with a comfortable bed, a chair where I could sit and read, peace and quiet and no one to irritate me. So here I sat in this shabby, sparsely furnished room on the lower part of a basic wooden bunk bed with brown army blankets, and a thin lumpy pillow. I wanted to go home.
'We've come this far I suppose we'd better stay.' Pat said. Obviously feeling guilty that she had persuaded me to come, and so she should.
We made our beds and returned to the main building, left our shoes in the untidy heap by the door and wandered into the main room. Here there were people of all ages, everyone seemed to be busy with some job or other and chatted as if we'd known them for ever. We were given a box of cutlery and asked to lay the table.
After a brisk and freezing walk along the sea wall we returned just in time for dinner. A simple meal like mother used to make, satisfying and cosy, everyone pitched in with the washing up. Then we all trooped into a huge lounge type room and played silly games and quizzes until just before midnight. Then we put on our coats, scarves and wellies, armed with our torches we wended our way up the hill, the grass, silver with frost, crunching, under our feet. The sky was smothered with stars. At the top of the hill stood the sturdy little chapel of St. Peter's on the Wall. Built by St Cedd in around 653 AD it had stood, alone on the windswept coast, battered by storms, lashed by the wind for hundreds of years. Inside, the ancient walls seemed to radiate a feeling of the great age, and tranquillity which was almost tangible.
As the short undenominational service ended I slipped outside. The night was crystal clear, millions of stars twinkled in the frosty air. Suddenly, all along the horizon fireworks leapt into the air sprinkling their bright coloured jewels into the starlit night. Then across the silent frosty fields the bells of Bradwell church rang out to greet the New Year, joined by the mournful hoot from a passing ship. Then across the starry sky shot a brilliant shooting star.
Very soon the others were leaving the chapel and the spell was broken. Pink cheeked, chattering we left the cold for the warmth of the lounge, a huge wood fire burned in the massive fireplace, we settled down in the shabby, cosy armchairs. Someone began to play the piano, someone else an accordion, gradually everyone joined in the singing, carols and barely remembered old songs. It wasn't long before the dancing began. Auld Lang Syne, the Hocky Cokey, the Birdy Song, or a mixture of all three no one cared. There was something about this place that is difficult to explain, peace? Friendliness? Community spirit? I can't tell but it seemed to have cast its spell, on even the most cynical. Around 4 am people began to wander off to bed.
After breakfast we strolled across the fields to Bradwell Church, for a short service followed by mulled wine and mince pies, then we were off home. I looked back across the windswept fields to the little chapel and the Orthona Community nestling nearby. My stay there in this very special place had been truly magical.