This is not a weblog entry, as this site is a website. But it may be the nearest this site comes to having a blog. I thought it worthwhile to record some aspects of the day before the funeral. With all arrangements finalised – hopefully – this was an opportunity to take a quiet day and think about my Mum.
I attended a religious service in the morning – one very distant from my mother’s Roman Catholicism, and something about which she knew very little. As my wife and I were to meet other relatives for dinner in the early evening, there was only a limited amount of time to spend on a “day out”.
We headed, therefore, into the nearer part of North Wales – supposedly out of the rain, although it rained for part of the afternoon. We went to Mold and there began to follow the “Tour Taith”, a public route through Flintshire which we had followed once on a day out with Mum. After this climbed to Rhosemor, we turned off to leave the Tour beyond Halkyn. Our destination was Pantasaph Friary, which we had re-visited shortly after Mum died. We did so in some doubt, as the Friary celebrated a form of Roman Catholicism which was very distant from my beliefs, with a focus on St Pio (previously Padre Pio), who was a somewhat mystical figure.
As with most successful visitor attractions, St Pio now has his own cafe, one that I doubt was there on the last occasion when I visited with Mum. This proved surprisingly good, and it was packed – albeit with several cyclists rather than visitors to the Friary. Next to it was a shop in which we had bought items for Mum, while she was in her final residence. These included a figurine of Christ, and a rosary. These had little meaning for us, frankly, as we had very different religious affiliations, but considerable significance to Mum, and I hope that seeing these in her room gave her some comfort.
Although there were signs of slight rain, we decided to walk up the terraced walk that runs behind the Friary, leading up to a chapel and a figure of Christ on the Cross. This runs between various “Stations of the Cross”, each one being viewable from the previous one, with a group of three at the top. I have distinct memories of Mum walking slowly up the hill here, looking at each “station” in turn. She clearly enjoyed being there, but did not comment on the religious significance, general or personal. She also did not comment on the odd plaque that is affixed to the Cross, which calls for “the conversion of England”. Maybe this was because, despite the strength of her convictions, she had married a non-practicing Protestant, and attempts to convert him (by her mother) had not proved fruitful.
Rejoining the “Tour Taith”, we descended into Holywell, and down the Greenfield Valley, stopping at St Winifrede’s Well, which gave Holywell its English name. I went alone into this, looking briefly through the museum and then heading towards the well, with its supposedly healing waters, and the chapel above it. As this was a Sunday, there were no bathers in the pool there, but a glass was provided to drink some of the “holy water”, pumped up from the well. I tried this, but I don’t think that this was available when we had visited St Winifrede’s with Mum. However, I had very distinct memories of her recalling her first visit to the place – seemingly in 1930, when she was five years old, with her mother, father and sister. There is a pool below the chapel, which is now gated off, so that only the outside pool is now in use. Mum had thought that only the chapel and underground pool were in use on her visit, and that the entrance was nearby rather than the present arrangement, further down the road, with a museum attached. I remembered her pleasure at being able to recall so long back, and presumably at the connections with a religion that had meant so much to her.
I will be exploring further Mum’s connections with Pantasaph and St Winifrede’s, but today just noted how re-visiting places that we explored together feels both familiar and strange, and highly poignant. No tears today, but these were reminders of places that held meaning for her, so that to visit them is to pay tribute to her. There is a view that one should not return to places that remind us of those we have lost, and maybe for some people this is too painful, but for me it seems to bring her closer. I had forgotten, however, how much the religious significance of these places may well have meant for her. There is, clearly, more to find, in an involvement that continues.
Much more happened this day, but the only other matter to highlight was that I met up in the evening with my sisters and my cousin who has come here from Australia for the funeral. She would have been pleased about this, and also the venue – the Derby Pool pub/restaurant in Wallasey, which she often visited with family members.
Joan Boughey Recalled 