CAROLS AT MOUSEHOLE CHURCH: a light-hearted look...

Mousehole Carols…

The village streets were all but deserted,

As the church I cautiously approached:

An austere, prominent, Methodist chapel

Through the doors of which I encroached…

Veteran ladies weighed down my hand and wrist

With a well-thumbed, hardback hymn book;

I took my mince-pie and plastic cup of ‘mulled wine’

Then found a discreet pew near the back, a nook…

The potion might have contained anything

From Ribena, to Ovaltine, to slops

But I drank it anyway, in remarkably good faith,

Wondering whether I could taste hops…

Over recent years, I’d hoped the vicar would ask ME 

Where I had dropped in from that night,

Then last Christmas he did! I replied: “Solihull!”

And his repost was somewhat contrite:

“I’ve been to Solihull!” he commented, 

No enthusiasm he did lack,

So I retorted, with a knowing eye,

“Yes, but YOU came back…”

I reminded the fellow about the previous year’s repartee,

Then noticed his dog-collar and smiled,

For he was the only wearer of such an accessory

In Mousehole that night, not canine, on a lead, or wild…

A motley crew began to enter the church 

And found solace in the pews,

Choir-members, pensioners and obscurities,

Come to eat, drink and pay dues…

I photographed the monument

To Mousehole’s glorious dead,

From the cruel and despicable 1st World War, 

Before a woman reared her ancient head…

“Are you visitors?” she demanded, then “Where are you from?”

But my responses, repeated, were forlorn,

For the resident was rather unfortunately deaf,

Missing only an antique hearing horn…

She talked of the gleaming, visible Menorah,

Given to the church following the 2nd World War

By Jewish schoolchildren who’d been evacuated there, 

Then she spoke of her family members, and more…

A drifting Dutch vessel her father boarded one day,

Found it abandoned and towed it into Penzance, 

Where he eventually profited from the boat’s scrap value

And took his daughter to enjoy, er, Birmingham, not France!

Fortunately, the singing soon began

And THIS year, the songs weren’t obscure, at least

But the competition then began to bellow out the number

Of the next hymn, in earnest, at the priest…

It was like a game of ‘Bingo’,

“Legs 11…”, “Blind 80…”, :2 fat ladies, 88…:

The vicar nearly shouted batted the numbers away,

Like an auctioneer at the church fete…

He then announced the guests from Solihull

And asked if anyone had travelled further than that:

“Arrr, Sennen…” came a serious response from the congregation,

Then: “Penzance…” then “Newlyn…” were loudly spat…

I’d been outmanoeuvred by those who had arrived dreckly

From short distances away,

To sit in the warm, eat a mince-pie

And sup dish water at the end of the day…   

The deaf lady often turned her head my way,

I nodded and sang on regardless;

Then an elderly chap dropped into the pew behind me

And began to harmonise and sound almost tuneless…

‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ began to sound

Like every original note was quite wrong,

For the man rose higher, then lower than the accepted tune,

Like an aged Tony Bennett tinkering with a song’s right sound…

What irritated more was that congregation members

Turned and looked aghast, as if it was ME,

So henceforth I stopped singing, as the bloke behind 

Murdered hymns 94 and 103…

‘Away In A Manger’ began and my sore head hurt more,

Concentrating upon the correct sound and tune,

Whilst the trio-less Karl Denver behind me

Howled high and low like a wolf at the moon…

Time to leave, as the Penzance fellow insisted

That he should be allowed to play his guitar, next,

“Maybe next year…” the vicar carefully replied, as his

Priest, psychologist, pragmatist, but perplexed…

Leaving, I handed in my mighty tome,

To be utilised for the next fifty years

And be re-used by carollers long after I’ve gone,

Though I will leave behind no tears…

My empty paper cup was taken from me,

To be recycled with more of the brew,

To harass another innocent visitor’s throat

And leave it corrupted, burned and askew…

But there she was at the exit too:

The lady, hard of hearing,

Asking where I was travelling home to

On the morrow, so volunteering,

I told her that I lived in Solihull, but she failed again to hear,

Thus I raised my volume twice more to repeat:

Still no joy, but I confessed I wouldn’t shout in church,

So I left red-faced for a meal at 2 Fore Street…

Pete Ray

December 2014

Seriously though, the mulled, non-alcoholic wine is absolutely OK! 

The vicar is brilliant and the evening is always excellent…

Go, if you get a chance because the building, the helpers and the atmosphere are simply unmissable…

  

WW1 memorial...

Front of the church and the Menorah...

Lights...