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Pilgrimage to Saint Govan's Chapel,
South Wales.
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There is a story in Wales about a Celtic monk called Saint Govan. The story involves the saint escaping from a band of enemies -- probably Irish raiders. Govan was driven right to the edge of the land, till he scrambled down the sheer face of the cliff in desperation. Then the rock opened up and hid the holy man from his pursuers. In thanks to God, Govan settled in that spot to serve the local people. He built a small chapel and lived in a tiny cell. You can still visit this site.
As I approached saint Govan's Chapel for the first time, I was wondering how the reality matched the story. I parked the car in the parking area above the cliffs, and let my dog out. My friend Mark led the way to the cliff's edge. Far below I could hear the waves on the beach. We were on the rocky coast of South Wales. To the south, far out to sea, I could glimpse boats in the Summer haze of the Bristol Chanel. The dog stood by my feet, looking up expectantly. I could see no sign of the chapel at all.
Mark halted a few feet from the edge of the cliff. "Here you are."
"Where?" I asked, feeling foolish.
Mark grinned. "Step forwards slowly, and look down, over the edge."
As I stepped forward, right to the edge, the ground seemed to open in front of me. There was a wide crack running right down to a rocky beach. Steps in the rock led down to a tiny stone building snuggled against the cliff. Here was saint Govan's Chapel. Remembering the story, I stepped a couple of paces back from the edge. The chapel and the steps disappeared. The rock had opened up once again to hide the saint. There was simply no way to see anything unless you stood right at the edge.
Mark and I had come to Saint Govan's to celebrate a short service in honour of this Celt and his monastic brothers. (In fanciful versions of the story, the saint is actually Sir Gawain from the court of King Arthur. More probably he was called Gobham, and was the abbot of a 6th Century Celtic monastery in Wexford (Ireland). like many people in the Celtic Age of Saints, he came by boat and stayed to preach.)
Like Saint Govan, we were travelling light. We had brought our belongings in a back-pack: a cross, some candles, a small incense burner, and a service book. The present chapel building dates from the 13th Century, and is a favourite tourist site. People hurried down the stone cut steps to the north door of the chapel, through the dimly lit, vaulted room, onwards through the west door, and down to the beach. Others made the return journey. There was only one way down, and one way back. At the East end of the chapel stood the altar, and behind the altar was a tiny room -- hardly more than a crevice in the rock, where the hermit once lived.
With the candles flickering wildly in the draught from the windows, Mark and I chanted a simple prayer service.We were in a place from the past, in time and out of time, suspended between this world and the heavenly world. The Celts would have said the veil between two worlds was thin here. Not a single person came down the steps from the car park, or returned back up again. My playful Sheltie collie lay quiet for once. Time stood still. We finished the service. We left the candles burning on the altar, and incense lingering in the air. We packed our few things into the pack. As oif someone had turned an electric switch, the tourists moved on once more.
"What a place for the night vigil service." Mark and I knew that one day we had to return to pray through the night where the early monks had prayed.
Pilgrimage to Celtic holy places is not difficult in Britain. Here in Wales you can easily visit places such as Llandaff in Cardiff (the capital city of Wales) or St. David's in West Wales. Each of these cathedrals from the Middle Ages began as a Celtic monastery, tucked away in a peaceful corner. There are places such as the ruins of Saint Non's Chapel, where you look Westwards over the sea, or saint Govan's Chapel, clinging to its rock half way down its cliff, or Saint Cennydd's hermitage on the little island of Burry Holmes, a few miles from where I live. At low tide in the Summer you can walk across to the site of the monastery with your packed lunch, and spend hours without being disturbed. Other places were more challenging for the Celtic monks, and are more difficult to reach today. One of the most challenging is the island of Skellig Michael. Out in the Atlantic, off the coast of Ireland, the remains of this monastery show the real Celtic spirit. This was a Desert place in the sea. On the harsh, bare rock a tiny monastery of beehive huts survived for centuries.
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