We sat at the wrought iron gates, peering in, waiting for them to open onto the impossibly green mossy lane winding up and out of sight towards who knew what?
Drive up to the gates and wait patiently for ten to three, the instructions read. Don’t ring the bell: the monks grow weary of trigger-happy tourists. Just wait, and when the time is right, the gates will swing magically open, like something out of a Roald Dahl novel.
Which they did.
And then out of the mizzle, there it towered: something which Bram Stoker would have profitably used for one of his settings. A tall fortress with straight unscalable walls and thin, tall windows, crafted with geometrical hewn stone, clothed in dark luscious ivy. And a man in a blue hoodie was ambling past, on his way down the drive, out into the secular world.
“Excuse me,” my friend said. “Is it all right to park here?”
Was it the overwhelming power of suggestion, the knowledge that this place was an old place of God, that gave the young man an otherworldly aura of peace when he answered that, yes, of course we could?
Probably. He pottered off out of sight, and we craned our necks up at this strange, counter-enchanting place; the stuff of Grimm. Or MR James. Or Stoker.
The tall fortress was just the beginning. We were here to see Farnborough Abbey: a building with theatre written all over it, Large. It is not, by the standards of this country, old; but it was founded in 1881 by a heartbroken Empress.
The Empress Eugenie – a close friend of Queen Victoria – was not strictly an Empress any more, but they still called her by the title of her glory days, before the third Napoleon, nephew of the first, had been forced into exile from France. Her husband died, still incredulous that he had gained and somehow lost an empire, in January 1873, and her son was killed in the Zulu Wars in June 1879. The Empress upped sticks from Chislehurst and bought a house and land at Farnborough; and employed an outrageously fashionable French architect to build her a chapel and mausoleum to honour the two people she loved most in the world.
Gabriel-Hypolyte Destailleur came from a line of great architects. His style was gothic, yes: but not mediaeval-gothic or Italian Rennaisance gothic. He took the most flamboyant aspects of French chateaux and cathedrals, and brought them to a field in Farnborough, and built a strange citadel far from the madding crowd.
It must be owned, this is a very happy monastery. Four monks live, and work here, a remnant of the French Benedictine community invited by Eugenie more than a century ago; and I am assured they are very busy.
No shy retiring gargoyles here: they crane menacingly from the tops of buildings, fit to unsettle the dead in the churchyard below. The lines are those of a cathedral: bold, sweeping arcs of symmetry, adorned with clever florid stone and exquisite tracery. The whole thing has more than a whiff of steampunk, it is so theatrical. It boasts an elaborate dome: but fills its towering windows with bottle glass, so that light floods through the small circular discs and into the old citadel. Astonishing place. Extremely odd.
The mausoleum is perfect to house the undead. It has a certain Citizen Kane splendour: three great, sheer marble stone tombs dominate stage left, right and centre. Eugenie’s sits high above the altar: she is in charge in death as she was in life. The place is a sanctum of whispers and shadows, a place where ghost stories lead.
Oh, to sit silently, and listen for wraiths.
Kate Shrewsday 
What an amazing place….it’s funny, but for some reason it doesn’t sound like your writing. Maybe the ghosts got to me.
Or me….
no sign of any wraiths?
Not a single one. But they had been there a few minutes before, Sidey. You could tell.
the cold air?
What a marvelous place. What is it about the old places that calls to us? Mere interest in history, or some memory stirring like a shadow in our molecules? They make me rather melancholy and … homesick for places I’ve not been in this life.
I know precisely what you mean, Elizabeth. I have always had a feeling we are more than just our own time.
Oh My, now it’s going to be gargoyles in the night for me.
“To sleep, perchance to dream- ay, there’s the rub.” Hamlet
Ha! I hope you got your sleep despite these long, sinuous, Gallic gargoyles, Lou!
Oh, Kate; I can imagine you waiting patiently for those gates to open. Listening. Watching. I love your travels – worldly and otherwise. 🙂
Alas, I get to travel so rarely, Penny, these days. If I can find time to write in a day, it finds its own balance. A job and pre-teenage children have seen much of what I love squeezed out. Never mind: Summer hols soon. Hope you are all well, over at The Cutoff x
I’m a bit in love with those gargoyles. I’m sure they helped to keep the wraiths at bay 🙂
They are quite stern and definite gargoyles, aren’t they? If I were a wraith I’d watch my step.
The gargoyles are so reminiscent of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. Beautiful photos and story, Kate.
Thanks, Judy. It was a dull day and my camera was on the blink: but I got home to find I had a few salvageable photos. Phew.
Those gargoyles are graceful in their menace.
They are stunning, aren’t they, Andra? If I am ever rich as Roosevelt, I shall have a place built with gargoyles just like that.
I was hoping for a glimpse of one of those four monks especially after the serene description that you gave the one. When I first saw the title of this post, I thought you were going to out the fake monks who are setting up in NYC and asking for donations.
Hi Tammy,! The monks were conspicuous by their absence: perhaps they hate being gawped at by tourists. The man in the hoodie was beating a hasty retreat out of the gates, and we had no time to ask him whether he was a monk or not…I had not heard about the NYC monks. Now there’s a way to make a living.
A place to write! Your photos are just wonderful, Kate.
I’m thrilled to read this post, Kate, and to see the beautiful photos. I’m sure it’s been 40 years since I read a novel based upon the life of Empress Eugenie and I’ve since, all these years, held a fascination with her life and story. How interesting to learn that the monks were invited to live there, and I would have really enjoyed this tour. I’m delighted with this much detail! 🙂