PETROC OF GLASTONBURY
A novel of the Celtic Church in the seventh century Bruce Garrard A5 Paperback, 256 pages. Illustrated with drawings by Miranda Montgomery. Published June 2017 R.R.P. £11.95 Special price for copies bought from this website: £9.00 A free copy of Conversations with the River Spirit will be sent to anyone ordering this book. Prices do not include postage, which will be charged extra. If you are in Glastonbury you can buy copies direct from the Unique Publications office to save on postage costs.
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Petroc of Glastonbury
A novel of the Celtic Church in the seventh century Petroc was ‘given away to God’ at the age of eight. He grew up in the monastic school at Glastonbury, and then as a young novice monk in the monastery. He was nearly twenty when the Saxons of Wessex invaded Somerset, and twenty-five when the Synod of Whitby began the gradual absorption of the native British Church into Roman Catholicism. It was during these turbulent times that he would set out as a peregrinus, as one of the wandering Celtic saints who had placed their lives entirely in the hands of God. At the same time his earthly life still continued, and his past was to catch up with him in ways that were sometimes surprising, even shocking. This is Bruce Garrard’s first novel. It tells the story of his character Petroc and the brotherhood of Glastonbury monks, as they struggle to maintain their culture and their spiritual traditions in a world that is radically changing. It also explores the early, Celtic period of the monastery’s history. Bruce, who has lived in Glastonbury since 1985, is known mostly for his writing on aspects of local history. In 2016 he received the Tim Sebastian award for his contribution to the local community through the written word. He describes himself as ‘not a religious person’ although ‘I like to think of myself as spiritual’. Writing this book has been a way to understand better what that might really mean. See review |
Extract
The Historian of the Britons
Petroc ap Belin, Brother Petroc, returned to the ancient monastery at Glastonbury fully seventy years after his first arrival there as an eight year old boy. That first arrival had been long before the new stone church was built and dedicated to Saint Peter and Saint Paul. It had been long before King Ine had attained the throne of Wessex and such conspicuous additions to the monastery had ever been considered. It had been before, even, any king of Wessex had held dominion over this place, and had given its name the strange Saxon mis-spelling and mis-pronunciation, Glaestingaburg.
Petroc arrived, this time, on a gentle pony, being now too long in years to travel far on foot, and having come the entire distance from the furthest reach of Kernow in the southwest. He brought with him his lightness of heart, for in spite of the many deep sorrows and harsh disappointments of his life he was unashamedly joyful. He carried a letter of invitation from Abbot Ealdberht, the fourth Saxon Abbot of Glastonbury, with whom he had corresponded during these last several years. Also with him was a copy of his book, the second in all that he had composed, hand-written in Latin using his distinctive uncial script; it chronicled the Dumnonian kings and the history of West Wales since the ending of Roman imperial power in the land.
He owned nothing else, except the clothes that he was wearing and the love that he carried in his heart, and he wished for nothing else, being deeply satisfied with these few things he had been given during a life that had now lasted nigh on four score years.
He had travelled slowly, with ease, as if every mile of his journey was a meditative prayer. He dismounted before reaching the monastery gate and he led the horse the last few yards, so that his first step over the threshold would be his own.
He had returned for three good reasons – and these things always seemed best counted in threes – first, to meet Abbot Ealdberht face to face, for his was a mind he had grown to respect from afar and he wished to make his connection human and close; second, to deliver his book to the shelves of Glastonbury’s library, to join its brother that had already been there half a lifetime or more; and third, to die within touching distance of his beloved Ecclesia Vetusta, the Old Church, the one place on earth that could always call him back wherever he may have wandered, however far.
When he had achieved these last three ambitions, his body was committed to the holiest ground that was known, the cemetery beside the venerable church, and the words that marked his place of rest read ‘Petroc ap Belin, Historian of the Britons’.
Petroc ap Belin, Brother Petroc, returned to the ancient monastery at Glastonbury fully seventy years after his first arrival there as an eight year old boy. That first arrival had been long before the new stone church was built and dedicated to Saint Peter and Saint Paul. It had been long before King Ine had attained the throne of Wessex and such conspicuous additions to the monastery had ever been considered. It had been before, even, any king of Wessex had held dominion over this place, and had given its name the strange Saxon mis-spelling and mis-pronunciation, Glaestingaburg.
Petroc arrived, this time, on a gentle pony, being now too long in years to travel far on foot, and having come the entire distance from the furthest reach of Kernow in the southwest. He brought with him his lightness of heart, for in spite of the many deep sorrows and harsh disappointments of his life he was unashamedly joyful. He carried a letter of invitation from Abbot Ealdberht, the fourth Saxon Abbot of Glastonbury, with whom he had corresponded during these last several years. Also with him was a copy of his book, the second in all that he had composed, hand-written in Latin using his distinctive uncial script; it chronicled the Dumnonian kings and the history of West Wales since the ending of Roman imperial power in the land.
He owned nothing else, except the clothes that he was wearing and the love that he carried in his heart, and he wished for nothing else, being deeply satisfied with these few things he had been given during a life that had now lasted nigh on four score years.
He had travelled slowly, with ease, as if every mile of his journey was a meditative prayer. He dismounted before reaching the monastery gate and he led the horse the last few yards, so that his first step over the threshold would be his own.
He had returned for three good reasons – and these things always seemed best counted in threes – first, to meet Abbot Ealdberht face to face, for his was a mind he had grown to respect from afar and he wished to make his connection human and close; second, to deliver his book to the shelves of Glastonbury’s library, to join its brother that had already been there half a lifetime or more; and third, to die within touching distance of his beloved Ecclesia Vetusta, the Old Church, the one place on earth that could always call him back wherever he may have wandered, however far.
When he had achieved these last three ambitions, his body was committed to the holiest ground that was known, the cemetery beside the venerable church, and the words that marked his place of rest read ‘Petroc ap Belin, Historian of the Britons’.
