The Carthusian life is hidden and unsung. I will break their Silence and sing of ‘a Carthusian’ whom I have known as a friend for over a decade and who died earlier this week. You will never guess his identity, merely learn of his life at St Hugh’s Charterhouse. We met when I was invited to spend two weeks masquerading as a monk in order to write Hear our Silence,my portrait of this extraordinary ancient Order of hermit monks who live as a community in solitude and silence.
That was 13 years ago. At the very end of my stay, I was allowed to walk with the community on their weekly Monday traipse. I describe the hilarious event in my concluding chapter. Every quarter of an hour in the five hour excursion, the company stops, as fresh walking companions, two by two, are announced. A little like shuffling the pack to deal a fresh hand.
First, I had walked with an intriguing Nigerian; then marched at the back of the file with Joseph from the Philippines; now with gentle Hugh: finally to graduate and accompany the senior monks. A wonderful Irishman, formerly an wartime GP, now former Prior and leading light of the choir monks. And finally, my friend who has just now gone home.
‘A Carthusian’ is Swiss German: his opening question, ‘Skinner, your name, wot is that?’ I explained it was a trade name: people shot deer, culled cattle, then needed a skinner. ‘My name is Rosli! I am Little Rose.’
It almost sounded Native American Indian squaw…
Then we came to a stile. And I must heave his legs one after the other across this barrier.
‘Do you know how long I am a monk?’ I paused, hesitant to guess correctly: ‘For forty one years…’
So now, at last, my friend has gone home to his longed for peace. Thirteen years on…that makes him fifty four years a monk: the one hundredth Carthusian to be laid under the Sussex soil since 1873, when first they reappeared in our land after an absence of 350 years.
‘Fare forward Voyager’ : it is my great blessing to know you.