Ronald Blythe retreats indoors as a downpour batters the house

The classic rainy day: the sky a liquid colourlessness, the trees drenching sieves, the farm track a river, the fields just dull and wet. The old labourers "saved" for such a day because, unable to work, they would not be paid. Four horses soak it up, the streaming day; whether indifferent to it or enjoying it, who knows?
Cocooned in the old house, I have to settle down to it as it rattles the windows and surges through the guttering. Field-wise, it could not have come at a better time. October was dry as a biscuit, and the dusty winter wheat had been aching for a shower; but this downpour! It is not unlike Australian rain. One minute I was baking, the next drowning. No point in running for shelter. In any case, it had been thrilling: the heat suddenly all washed away, and oneself as wet as a surfer.
The Duke of Norfolk's magnificent tomb in Framlingham Church has a Genesis frieze that includes Noah's Ark. Benjamin Britten liked to take children to see it. He turned it into one of his Church Parables, Noyes Fludde, with a marvellous setting of "Eternal Father, strong to save". I remember singing it for the first time in Orford Church, long ago. William Whiting wrote it for Hymns Ancient and Modern, in 1860. Britten's version is heartbreakingly plaintive, slow, and sumptuous.
He would have seen the memorial to a Victorian crew in Aldeburgh churchyard, and would have more than once witnessed the lifeboatmen launching their new boat to rescue some vessel, maybe some holiday yacht that had not understood the North Sea's power: from being leisurely, it had become imperious, throwing craft and men about like toys. We lesser mortals watched. Watching is a coastal profession. Also a Christian imperative.
St Matthew reports Jesus as saying: "When it is evening, you say, 'It will be fair weather; for the sky is red.' And, in the morning, 'It will be stormy today; for the sky is red and threatening.' You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times. An evil and adulterous generation seeks for a sign, but no sign shall be given it except the sign of Jonah."
Jesus refers to this sign more than once; so what is it? That he will be returned to life and not swallowed up? The island nature of Britain has given its Christianity a flood-based imagery. They say that our coast may have lost three miles in a thousand years. Certainly, its dwellers spent much of that time keeping the sea out. But the inlanders would not have noticed, or minded - and in many cases would never have seen the sea.
Those who lived by it were farmers and fishermen by turn. Some were marshmen, and a different breed altogether. Think of Peter Grimes. There cannot be many sea views framed in a Gothic arch as at Aldeburgh. It is how it first presents itself to the traveller to this town. The road to it once ran through the arch like a grand canopy. Or saw it as a divine approach to sea wealth or sea desolation. The great sea poet George Crabbe's severe parents lie beside it.
Like St Luke, Crabbe was a medical man and a voyager. Or, rather, the voice of those whose business was in deep waters. Both scientifically and spiritually, he took its measure. Luke's Acts of the Apostles set the lakeside faith sailing through the centuries, finding harbour here and there, but then restlessly taking to open water. The Aldeburgh fishermen meditate (chat) by their boats by the hour.  (17th October 2014)

Wet grass and windfalls remind Ronald Blythe of a childhood treat

Angelic days. Two feet of white cat stretch out in the sun. But the first ash leaves sail down, wavering in the air before landing. The grass is soaking wet and ruled with badger trails. Undaunted blackbirds sing as though it is May. It is warm and bright, yet at the same time a little sad. The orchard smells of rotting falls, and I think of Aunt Aggie's triangular orchard and its tall hedges and padlocked gate - a kind of Suffolk Eden after sinful boys had been driven out.
Now and then we would be admitted, led by Aunt with her stick, to find an apple in the dank grass. Wiping it on one bosom, she would give it to us. "Eat it on the good side, dear." All the picked apples would be laid out in Eaters and Keepers order in the apple-room to scent her clapboarded cottage out until Christmas at least, when it would reek of home-made wine and cake.
In the village churchyard, a suckling was splitting her gravestone, and moss was devouring her name. All around her Blythe and Allen humps posed problems for the mower. There used to be crab-apples and bullaces in the churchyard hedge. And over it the cries of Acton United on Saturday afternoons. They vied with the rookery.
Peace, peace the gravestones whispered hopefully. But Bottengoms is comparatively silent in October, that yellow month. And full of flowers: late roses, self-heal all the year round, and summer plants reluctant to call it a day.
The artist John Nash taught me to look at seeds, to value their shapes, to regard them aesthetically as well as horticulturally. Or deadheadedly. "They are part of the life of the plant, don't forget." The friend who comes to mow the lawns, when asked what he thought of the garden, said it was "unusual".
And never more so when October thins it out, and yet at the same time fills it with senescence. And such warm weather! As for the churchyard horse-chestnuts, the ones the Victorian priest planted in the 1890s, they celebrated conker time with their usual glossy panache.
The conkers lie in their exquisite casings like Fabergé jewels. I put a few in my pocket after matins for old times' sake. I think of boastful "tenners" and "twentiers", long ago.
To this day, I carry a conker scar on the palm of my right hand: I was skewering it when it skewered me. Our churchyard horse-chestnuts are a wonder. The village would not be the same were they felled. "Lift up your hearts! Life up ye conker trees!" And the rooks agree.
To Norwich Cathedral to see the new windows. No glassy saints but their realm of pure colour. Visit them at once if you are in Norfolk. John McLean, who made them, reminds us that colour is the most emotive aspect of church windows, but it was George Herbert's lesson, 
A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye;
Or if he pleaseth, through it pass,
And then the heaven espy

that continues to teach us how to approach them, and never more so than this pure-colour addition to religious art. "I feel I had permission for the quadrants of colour tumbling across the design," the artist says
One thinks of Matisse, and then of so many things that one would not have thought of in a Norman cathedral before. Stunning, captivating, loaded with prayer colour.  (10th October 2014)

Ronald Blythe takes Virginia Woolf down from the shelf

A pensive morning. Adrian is mowing the grass, up and down, round and round. The white cat watches from her wall. The postman crashes along the farm track; the horses gossip on the hill. The brook splashes to the Stour. The sky is colourless. Wild geese flow over in echelon and outriders, whirring away.
The radio becomes alive - somebody is talking about Virginia Woolf, and jogs my brain. The friend who is showing me Sussex slows down, and there, on the left, is Monk's House. Hesitantly, for Leonard Woolf has been dead only a month, we steal through the gate and stare into the window.
A long table and a chair initialled "VW", half-opened parcels, pot plants wilting, dumpy cretonned chairs, a fadedness such as rooms get when everyone has departed. And near by is the lane to the river. I thought of Virginia filling her pockets with stones before she reached it.
Her passing has always been summed up for me by Sidney Keyes, who was killed in the Western Desert:
Over that head, those small distinguished bones
Hurry, young river, guard their privacy;
Too common, by her grave the willow leans
And trails its foliage fittingly.
Except they buried her under the garden elms, and they, too, were dying as we shut the garden gate. Her guests were long gone: Lytton Strachey, Duncan Grant, Morgan Forster, Maynard Keynes, her husband, Leonard, the servants who sang, the whole Bloomsbury nation.
But when I find my copy of The Waves, although a stream of press-cuttings pours on to the floor, the novel itself flows on in all its careful beauty. It was a 1947 Christmas present. I re-read a few pages. Surprisingly - I had forgotten - the story begins in Suffolk, but soon wanders up to Virginia's beloved London, each character coming to the front of the stage, as it were, and presenting himself. The writing is spare, yet filled to the brim because of what it suggests.
But it won't do, just after breakfast. Chores await; letters beg replies; the telephone which had broken down has been invisibly mended. Calls come in. Had I forgotten? You were going to tell us about Laurie Lee. Black coffee and dark chocolate. And matins on Sunday for St Matthew.
He was old moneybags in the old windows, a crudely attributed apostle. His was the most despised of all occupations, a Jew who not only collected the Temple tax, but also that which his nation had to pay to the Roman Empire. He had actually purchased the right to collect it. And here was Jesus, associating with such a person. How could he! Even his reply - "It is the sick who need the doctor" - failed to satisfy them.
And it could not have been welcome to Peter, Andrew, James, and John when the Lord invited Matthew to join the little group, and it would have taken some time for them to accept him, let alone love him. He was "called" in Chapter 9 of his Gospel. Jesus had been on one of his healing walks and sails, "and as he passed from thence he saw a man named Matthew sitting at the seat of custom, and he said, 'Follow me.' And he arose and followed him.

No giving notice to the Romans. No selling his converted licence to another would-be publican. No hesitation. "He arose and followed him." Matthew and his Gospel and fascinating examples of renewal. Autumn feeds renewal. Decay nourishes life.  (3rd October 2014)

Ronald Blythe succumbs to late-summer sloth

The classic September days take their time as they succeed each other. No hurry. They are turning Old Master-gold. Come out and do nothing, they say. A nine-months-old baby calls and bumps about on his bottom, talking in Czech and English, but it is all double Dutch to me. He lives in the Barbican. High up? Low down? Is there grass? "Oh, yes." I have only his parents' word for it. His round blue eyes shine.

The white cat lies on the garden wall, taking it all in. Chiff-chaffs talk monotonously in their thicket; otherwise the late summer quietness prevails.

Alone, I call my sloth "meditation". The postman brings proofs of an essay I have written about Laurie Lee, something that has to be read without reading, as it were, so as not to miss a mistake. I pick up falls in the orchard: Victorias, apples - the latter are fit only for the birds, but the plums are bursting and delicious. And too many to devour at this stage; so I put them into plastic bags for the fridge.

Coming down to make the morning tea at six, I encounter a Miss Muffet-size spider attempting to climb the sink Alps, and carry him to the doorstep. I always mean to study spiders, but there is so much to do, so little time, as they say. But I am discovering a method of sorting out small blocks of time for this or that, although the Lectionary is no help.

A long time ago, I read the wrong Trinity collect, and, at the door, a farmer's wife said that it had quite spoilt her worship. I nearly replied, "I don't believe you," which I didn't, but I thought better of it, and looked contrite, even wicked.

We had a Church of Ireland priest who had the Bible borne before him on a red cushion as we processed in, which I thought most beautiful; but she did not. "It quite spoilt my worship."

Little spoils mine. The centuries of words and music and silences keep me on the illimitableness of what might happen during a country service. "I spy strangers," we all say, should such grace us with their presence. From my seat, I watch some of them plundering their way through the Book of Common Prayer, others helping. "Lord, we beseech thee to keep thy household the Church in continual godliness . . . to the glory of thy Name." Both in and out of the building there is our inescapably grand history, our wildflowers, our views.

David arrives to split up the willow logs that he cut last winter. They tumble musically as the axe falls. He builds them into shining walls inside the old dairy. It is impossible to feel what the coming cold will be like. But "sufficient unto the day" etc., Jesus said. "Don't look back: remember Lot's wife." And don't look forward: live for today.

Children always look forward, and have no idea about living for today. Who would, with so much to look forward to, and maths to be solved before tomorrow? I like to read old diaries to find out what Parson Woodforde, for example, was doing in his Norfolk parish at this time of the year. Eating, of course; but what else?

10 September 1783. "I walked to Church this morning and publickly baptised Mr Custance's little Maid by name Frances Anne. After I had performed the ceremony, Mr Custance came to me and made me a present wrapt up in a clean piece of Paper. We stayed up at night till after 11 o'clock on account of its being a total Eclipse of the Moon." That evening, he had lost nine shillings at cards. Turkey and a goose for dinner. The Bishop of Norwich affable. A single parish. Two cheeky servants.  (26th September 2014)

As in his youth, Ronald Blythe is thrilled by seeing the sea

"THE sea! The sea!" we shouted when the land ran ran out and the blue wall of water rose ahead. At Aldeburgh, the church-builders framed it in Gothic stone. Even today, when everyone goes everywhere, this sudden proclamation by the sea itself of its existence remains thrilling. To us Suffolk inlanders, it remains heart-stopping.
Those who live by it never take it for granted. The fishermen, lifeboatmen, and sailors generally eye it warily. Victorian photographs in the sailors' shelter reveal ravaged faces of boys and men as though waves and winds beat against them with the same indifference as they would a breakwater.
The gulls scream, and Ian plunges in, the only one of us who has an arrangement with it, a dark head, a white arm, a distant cry.
I pick up stones. The church tower comes and goes between the houses. A matching whiteness of form and architecture, birds and boats, is everywhere. Time slips away, and I am the youthful writer slipping and sliding in the shingle of decades ago, deafened by the monotonous rise and fall of the elements. Yet, at the same time, stimulated by their power.
There is Benjamin Britten's house. Sea-trained by his Lowestoft origins, he would have found the interior silences of my native scene sterile, maybe. No thud and crash of water, no pitiless distances, and an absence of drama. No glitter to life. What was somtimes wearying to me was reviving to him. George Crabbe, the great realist poet, heard the Aldeburgh sea calling to him wherever he went. He would make long journeys to it, just to breathe it in. His snowy bust looks up at Britten's memorial window in Aldeburgh church, and away from congregations.
The Revd George Crabbe was given a hard time when he re- turned to Aldeburgh as a curate. But the mighty sea solaced him, and while he could be said to have taken his revenge in The Borough, an exposé of a poem if ever there was one, in his head the sea put all human behaviour in its place. And so here it is once more, diminishing, yet somehow praising us mortals.
There are no oceans in the King James Bible, only seas, and these abundantly. Awe accompanies the many references to them. It was St Paul who used the word "peril" in relation to them. Most scriptural references show humanity acknowledging the sea's supremacy. Those who wrote them would not have heard of the Pacific or the Atlantic. They would have seen them as roads, and the Gospels have a marine flavour to them.
St Paul's journey to Rome, in Acts, is one of the world's best-written sea voyages, with its mixture of sailors' superstition, religious trust, and economics. Nelson would have found it quite an ordinary account of what is likely to happen when you board ship. Jesus's eyes - his inner and his outer vision - were sharpened by Galilee, that inland fishing-ground and faith-carrying sea from whose shores he gathered his disciples. "And did those feet . . ."
Matthew Arnold, in Dover Beach, the greatest of all shoreline poems, writes of the ebbing of the sea of faith. "Listen! You hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease. . .

In Cornwall, I used to be entranced by the mesmeric sea, but less so in Suffolk, where coastal history not so much tamed it as made it practical. Every now and then, like Crabbe, or Maggi Hambling, I visit it, and am transfixed by its immensity.  (19th September 2014)

Ronald Blythe reflects on the pleasure of being caught in the rain

Summer rain - warm, drenching. It catches me up before I can get to the house, a familiar sensation since boyhood, briefly a plight, then a pleasure. The rain it raineth every day, but only a little. Not like today, when it is as continuous as Portia's mercy. It pours through a break in the guttering, it streams through the oaks, it makes an extra river in the farm track.
Thomas Hardy made it fall with a wounding splash on poor Tess's new grave, as if what had happened to her wasn't enough. And his field-women, soaked to the skin, cried "How it rained!" But, seeing it through the window, all I can do is to meditate on its soft, remorseless progress, watch the plants bend before it, and the valley itself receive it.
On Sunday, Paul calls himself the least of the apostles, because of what he had been. The past weighs heavily on him, especially his ignominious taking care of the coats of those who stoned Stephen.
Also, hundreds of Christ's followers had witnessed him as the resurrected Lord, but Paul had not. He felt it as a deserved and indelible reproach. Yet by grace he was what he was, and not what he had been. He had toiled for Jesus more than all the others put together; so this grace was more than their grace. It validated his apostleship - it gave him the right to be what he was, and to say what he did. Not to mention the beauty of his expression.
Where did he learn to write? In that far from mean city, Tarsus? Or, as with many great writers - Shakespeare at Stratford grammar school, Keats at Enfield - had there been a minimal of "learning"?
There was, of course, the proud dual nationality, and the confidence which came from it. But how much of this would have come down to us had he not been locked up? Oratory then being a formal part of education, he would have lectured more than write letters. These bring us close to him. Those to the Romans, whether Jews or Gentiles, are tenderly inclusive. Those to all the other churches recognise their particular countries, but without description; for being one in Christ, not in nations, is the true unity of men.
On Sunday, I climb into Wormingford pulpit, and say what I must have said before, but it cannot be helped. And the dear neighbours sit where they have sat for years. And the medieval arches soar overhead, and St Alban, in his Roman tunic and sandals, looks across the red altar.
And Christopher plays his introit. And one candle wavers, and the other doesn't. And we sing "Morning has broken like the first morning," and I remember Eleanor Farjeon, who died in 1965, which is yesterday in Anglican terms.
Coming home, walking through the orchard, the Victoria plums touch my head. And the sculptor Jon Edgar writes to ask if I think that his clay bust of me should be turned into bronze.
I look at myself from previously impossible angles, and myself looks back at me. I have irises, not the blind gaze of classical heads - although they were not blind to begin with, the painted eyes have faded, then gone. Lashes, too. Now this marble stare. This seeing nothing and this open-to-everything look. Did anyone think of repainting the pupils of ancient statuary? What a sensation!

Pupil, the dark aperture at the centre of the iris through which light enters. The impatience of Jesus. "A little while the light is with you. Walk while you have the light."  (12th September, 2014)

Ronald Blythe gives thanks for the summers he has enjoyed during his life

The peerless August goes its way: day after day of sunshine, the garden heavy with scents, the churches, too. St Paul tells us "not to murmur"; the News tells us ghastly things. In his Diary, Francis Kilvert tells me what he did on an August day a century-and-a-half ago. He is the 32-year-old curate of Langley Burrell, Wiltshire - a strong, handsome young man who would die before he was 40, suddenly, from peritonitis. The floral arches for his wedding served for his funeral.
So how could I possibly remember, given so many years, so many summers? In fact, having to go to London to talk after a literary lunch, I grew quite scolding, myself and the elderly audience having been awarded all these summers, and doing anything but sing the Benedicite.
But then there comes August weeding. Searching for something to complain about, we look at the towering plants that have taken over the flowerbeds. How have they usurped them without our seeing them before they were splendid in their own right, and too good for the chop?
I find myself apologising for them to visitors, the wicked balsam in particular. Then I find an enthusiastic note on it in the matchless Victorian Dictionary of Gardening, edited by none other than the Director of Kew, and I must quote it in order that anyone afflicted by the current abuse of certain specimens should find heart.
This is how our ancestors saw balsam: "It is one of the showiest of summer and autumn flowers, and well deserves a place in every garden. Although of comparatively easy cultivation, good blossoms . . . are far too rarely seen. A good Balsam flower should be quite as double as a perfect Camellia."
Sitting among my balsam, their seeds peppering me, and the white cat sound asleep at their roots, I say to myself that August wouldn't be August without them.
A different firing, that of August 1914, fills the commemorative radio programmes. To the young, the First World War must sound like the Crimea. But, in church, an old man listens to his great-uncles' names being read aloud, and, shaking hands with him after the service, I am astonished and moved to see that his eyes are full of tears.
At dinner, we hazard guesses at which of our women deans - or, indeed, curates - might become women bishops. And what would Mrs Proudie have said? Or indeed Barbara Pym? It is fatal to take one of her novels out into the sun on a day like this. Nothing else will be done for hours. There should be a special place in the order of blessedness of those who take us into realms of delight via idleness, as reading is often called. "They tell me that life is the thing," remarked a young American long ago, "but I prefer reading."
There is a big chair in our departed village school, now closed down, where anyone is invited to just - read. Perhaps nothing in the history of mankind has produced so much happiness as reading. Ordered to bed when we were children, we would plead: "Oh, Mum, just this last chapter."

Now and then I think - and not at all dismally - just to read this summer, because it seems enough. Faith brings its own philosophy. It structures time. At this minute, two men are abseiling across the face of Big Ben, giving it a wipe. It is made of thin glass. The fragility of our existence!  (5th September 2014)