Diary

Some weeks ago it was announced that the Abbot of Nashdom was leaving his monastery in order to become a parish Priest in the north of England. The Bishop of Leicester, who is the Visitor to the Abbey, made a rather foolish statement to the press, I thought, claiming that all the religious communities in the Church of England are in a bad way: a remark which is totally misleading. For those of us who try to believe that God did not totally desert England at the time when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, there is a peculiar importance in the Anglican religious orders. When they began to be founded in the 19th century they were a po- tent sign to the world that the Holy Spirit was at work even in the poor old national church. It does not matter that these orders have attracted, over the years, a lot of odd bods. Their very existence is one of the Miracles of God: none more so than Nashdom. They derive from the tiny rem- nant of the Caldey community who did not go over to Rome in 1917. They have had great struggles in the past, and they have survived. This week they announced that they have elected a new abbot, Dom God- frey Stokes, aged 79. We must all wish him well and pray for him. I am always delighted when old men get jobs, and for this reason even have rather a soft spot for Mr Chernenko. The modern cult of youth is very silly,

particularly when applied to

Priests who often retain the follies of youth until they are about 70 and then become Wise. Which donkey ever introduced the concept of 'a retirement age' for the clergy?

Iwent down to Sussex this week to spend Land, few days at Belloc's old house, King's ',and, still inhabited by a member of his family (great-grandson). When A. C. Ben- son visited the place seventy years ago he hasaid it was like a gypsy encampment and it

s got no cleaner since. The BBC were there making a film of theplace, which was rather a bore, but by good luck, they went

on strike for one of the days, so one was atm! to

curious Potter about the house in peace. A

A phenomenon, however, occurred unring the filming. King's Land has a

eilaPel, where Mass was offered con-

tinuously in Belloc's lifetime (rarely now) and where, night by night old HB said his Wri.Drayers. Part of the evening ritual was for the old man to shuffle forward and kiss or tten a memorial to his wife which he had twritten on a piece of paper and pinned .to _be Chapel wall. When the camera team in- vaded the chapel and it was wired for !latind,

whenever they picked up 'interference' a microphone went near this queasy old bit of paper. This striking, if not

pernatural, phenomenon emphasised the intrusive nature of the film, I thought; but also the power of old Belloc to hold his own, even now. Would that others had Belloc's belligerent temper and could thus fight back from beyond the grave when `publishing scoundrels' or TV persons try to rip them open like pigs. I would like to have heard of T. S. Eliot's ghost blacking out that disgusting play at the Royal Court recently called Tom and Viv.

On my way back from King's Land, I was involved for the first time in my life in a motor accident. I turned right across a busy main road and was hit by a car coming in the opposite direction. My own hurtled across the road as the dodgems do at a fairground. It bounced high in the air, and I watched glass, bumpers, and broken headlights crash and fly all over the place. Luckily my car did not turn over or catch light, and the other person involved, beyond bursting into tears, was unhurt. Everyone said I would suffer from delayed shock, which indeed has happened. I have started to have hallucinations. I could have sworn, for instance, just now, as I looked out of the window, that I saw Mr Peter Hillmore of the Observer hanging upside down naked from a hot air balloon. Inside the basket of the balloon were the Duchess of Gloucester and Mr Tom Maschler. But I blinked and in a moment the vision was gone.

fln Sunday, I was on a television pro-

grammed called Did You See.. .? and met one of the idols who gave joy to my youth, Barbara Castle. Before we went on, we sat watching snippets of the week's viewing including a rather sad programme about the owner of Calke Abbey, who in- herited this great house from his brother with a tax bill of something like two million pounds. Everyone cackled in their egalit- arian way and I joined in until I realised that Lady Castle thought there was something wicked about certain sorts of people owning real estate. When 1 asked her about her own living arrangements, it ap- peared that she has a flat near the European parliament, and keeps on her country house in the Chilterns. The accountant apparently `won't let her' sell her flat in London because it is a better investment than stocks and shares. I would be the last to begrudge Lady Castle these various residences but I wondered what made her so gleeful about poor old Henry Harpur-Crewe having to abandon his house to the National Trust and move into a tiny flat on the estate. I am sure he is poorer, in fact, than Lady Castle. I enjoyed meeting her, even though I was a trifle shocked by her less than charitable observations about Lord Wilson of Rievaulx and the effect which the robes of the Garter had on his already undistinguish- ed appearance. It made me sad. Once upon a time I believed in politics and in those days I hoped that England would turn into a combination of Chairman Mao's China and William Morris's Earthly Paradise. For some reason which is now obscure to me, I thought that Harold Wilson, Barbara Cas- tle and their cabinet colleagues were intent on bringing this to pass. How wrong one can be. At least Barbara Castle is preferable to Mrs Thatcher.

My warm thanks must be extended to all those who have written to me about my reflections in last week's Spec- tator on the subject of beards. I have had such mountains of correspondence on the subject that I am not sure that I can reply to it all in person. I shall endeavour to write to the very nice lady from Shepton Mallet who gave me her reminiscences of 40 years as a Bearded Lady at the fair, and to the rabbi from Galashiels who sent me such copious quotations on the subject of facial hair from the Talmud and the Mishnah. There is obviously, as publishers say, a book waiting to be written on the subject of beards. Did you know, for instance, that if you are bearded and you attempt to visit Albania, they attempt to shave your cheeks at the border (a correspondent from Crosbie Road, Birmingham supplies this informa- tion)? Apparently, it is to keep out Chris- tian priests, most of whom are bearded in Eastern Europe. Someone the other day was drawing my attention to the fact that some beards are grown with a sensual, back-to-nature intention: e.g. D. H. Lawrence (see relevant passages in Lady Chatterley's Lover) whereas other beards seem immediately to recall the figure of Saint John the Baptist and are entirely spiritual.

A. N. Wilson