Colour-coded

“HAVE you lost an MA hood?” Blackberries are sprouting from the hedgerows across Charlbury, the not-ripe red and the ripened black a temptation for birds and walkers alike. It was the appearance of a different scarlet and black combo, however, spotted hanging on a post at the end of a hedge, which intrigued residents this past week. There was some confusion about what it was: its tint in the September sun led some to believe that it might be a very bijou tarpaulin.

Eventually, after a week of its intriguing people, a parishioner sidled up and asked whether it was mine. It was — dropped on the return journey from prayers for Accession Day at Shorthampton. I wonder whether, at another time of year, it might have found its way back more quickly; and yet I am pleased that it seemed to blend in rather perfectly to the palette of these autumn days — even if it is now a little damp.

All-inclusive ministry

WE NEVER sang the apparently ubiquitous “Autumn Days” at my Kentish prep school in the early 2000s. We had just about grudgingly embraced “Make me a channel of your peace”, but the Come and Praise hymnal was a step too far.

My memories of rural childhood in the depths of the Blair government were thus not of cauliflowers fluffy, but of the pyres from the foot-and-mouth pandemic, the fumes from which meant that we couldn’t go outside during playtime.

For all that I remember being locked in during blazes of autumn sunshine, further research reveals this would have been in the unusually clement spring, and not September: funny how unreliable childhood memories — and the weather — can be.

Yet, despite the oddness and unreliability of memories locked in the grimoire of childhood, there is still something about autumn — easily my favourite season — which is compelling. But there is precious little time for idling, as the parish is a flurry of activity: community breakfast, patronal lunch, street fair, harvest, school-bag blessing, ride and stride.

It strikes me as distinctively C of E: Catholic rhythm and ritual, with an arguably Reformed desire for something constructive and edifying to do after the luxury of a summer holiday.

Predictive nomenclature

AMONG such activities is a trip to Finstock for the parish ale — a welcome resurrection after its loss at the hands of the Puritans’ fierce anger. The heart of the village holds both a blue plaque to Barbara Pym and the font in which T. S. Eliot first put on Christ, reflecting the affectionate but creatively waspish relationship that it has enjoyed with the Church of England.

The village’s being outside the parish means that I can indulge in the ale — although not, I hope, to the extent that it might trouble episcopal authority: the legal protections once enjoyed by such as the previous Vicar of Finstock (remembered for his lack of episcopal deference) are now long gone.

Still, even in the past, there were mechanisms available to bishops who wished to force their will on the clergy. I have been reading of the persecution of Parson King, of Ashby de la Launde, in Lincolnshire. His crime was owning and training (although never gambling on) a horse that won the St Leger, the Oaks at Epsom, and the 1000 Guineas at Newmarket. The censorious Bishop Wordsworth of Lincoln made him choose between the parish and the horse, and he chose the latter. The mare’s name? Apology.

Dressing down

ALAS, I can aspire only to the foibles of lesser Victorian parsons. Parson Coleridge, the father of the poet, was famously absent-minded. He once found himself — as we all, no doubt, have — needing to retuck in his napkin on multiple occasions at a formal dinner. When he came to stand up at the end, he discovered that he had in fact been stuffing the train of a woman’s dress into his trousers. I recently had a similar napkin mishap, but, thank goodness, discovered that it was only the tablecloth that I had requisitioned.

Fortunately, this took place at a restaurant in London where the staff are notoriously tolerant. These days, very few things can tempt me to South Kensington, but Daquise — the Polish restaurant where Christine Keeler used to meet her KGB lover — is one of them.

I was there twice of late, celebrating with friends who had achieved notable milestones. Sadly, I gather from a waiter, the restaurant is set to be demolished so that TfL can have a bigger station in which to announce that their trains are delayed. More pyres for progress!

Mellow ruefulness

DAQUISE serves schnitzels bigger than the plates on which they are presented, and, owing to an abundance of respect for the clerical state, extra rations of the delicious plum vodka for those in a dog collar.

I will continue to go for as long as it continues to serve. Indeed, the knowledge that the delights of Daquise, like W. S. Gilbert’s tower warders, are “in the autumn of their lives” probably inspires me to go more often, and bask in its final rays.

That is the problem with autumn, for all its glories: it serves as an irresistible reminder that winter is on its way. I know that Christian hope compels us not to dwell too much on that, but still, as I sauntered back over the marble at Paddington, it was not “Autumn Days” that came to my humming lips, but “Abide with me”.

The Revd Fergus Butler Gallie is Vicar of Charlbury with Shorthampton, in the diocese of Oxford.