Glenstal Abbey
copyright Victoria Mary Clarke, 2001-12-03

I've just had the most horrendous dream. In it, I was a fabulously beautiful and adorable television personality and I lived in obscene luxury and serene contentment, in the land of Dublin 4, where I gave splendid dinner parties and people came from VIP magazine just to sample my partially-dried tomato pakora. I had many, many celebrity friends and a perfectly groomed family and we were often photographed at fashionable launches. Then, all of a sudden, tragedy struck. RTE axed my series. As the horror of this sank in, my Dublin 4 pad went into negative equity and I had to stand, Prada-less on the street, watching my beloved Merc be towed away. Just before I woke up, I found myself applying for a job in a supermarket.

Sometimes, I am afraid there might not be a God. But sometimes I am afraid there might be. A God who rolls around Heaven, laughing his little heart out at all of us down here while we endure His obstacle course of earthly horrors. It's just too horrible to contemplate, that prospect. But God or no God, I am determined, as ever, to find the key to eternal happiness. Bali seems to be out of the question, for the Christmas, but Limerick is affordable. I am taking a trip to Glenstal Abbey, where the monks live. Imagine if you were a monk. Never ever having to worry about what to wear. I'm trying to imagine that and it's just not possible. Never having to be waxed, never having to diet, being able to grow old and grey hideously, in perfect peace. Heaven, surely.

The monks have been at the top of the best-seller list for fourteen weeks now, with their Glenstal Book of Prayer. Marian Keyes is getting jealous, she says. And they've just brought out a CD. Which I am listening to now. It's kind of relaxing. Makes a change from the radio. While I'm humming along, I glance through the papers. Homelessness, car insurance doubling, unemployment rising, things like that. The monks don't have any of those problems. No gas bills, no clampers, no nasty letters from the bank, no income tax, either. They just tootle around in the countryside, singing psalms and looking serene. They've got to be onto something.

Glenstal Abbey. The longest of driveways. At the end of it, the castle from Monty Python's "Holy Grail". An enormous, fabulous building, with the word "Pax' over the entrance. That means peace, in Latin. Inside, the monks are having lunch. But I am not to join them. Instead, I am escorted to a separate dining room, where one place is set at a polished dining table. Soup arrives first. I am dining alone, but Father Dominic is watching me. He's the Prior. He looks like a monk from a children's story. Jovial, cheeky, almost, in his voluminous habit. I need to know. Can you get depressed, if you're a monk? Or are you always happy? He grins, a happy grin.

"Do I ever get depressed? I did go through a bad patch in my early monastic life, when I was neurotic and depressed, to be honest with you."

Why was that? I say, tasting the soup.

" I was very fearful of life, and of people, and I probably had an anxiety complex. I don't know if you are familiar with St John of the Cross, but if you are, I went through what he calls a 'dark night of the soul." I couldn't pray, couldn't eat or sleep, I was anxious about my family."

Did he lose his faith?

"No, that was the one thing that stood by me. I prayed to St Therese, every evening, and asked her to intercede for me, to get rid of this depression. Eventually, it began to ease and the clouds lifted and I got rid of the darkness and came out into the light. I developed an inner sense of peace, which I have now. And a little later on, I went away to University, to Berkeley, where you had to see a therapist, as part of the course. So I had a young woman, to whom I talked once a week. At the end of it, I felt an even greater sense of freedom, because I had never talked to anyone about it before."

He didn't talk to the other monks?
'I didn't.'

Why not?

"I didn't trust them! I spoke to my confessor, but that's not the same as going into therapy. My parents were people of strong faith, and they passed it on to me. I was able to survive and trust in the Lord that if I held onto God, the depression would pass. And after Berkeley, I had a sense of freedom, also, from having had the courage to talk, especially to a woman."

He probably hadn't met many women.

"There are always women around, but I had never spoken about personal things to a woman."

Not even to his mother?

"Oh, yes, to my mother. But I was worried that I might bother her. My parents were semi-senior, when they married and my mother was over the age of forty when I was born, so I just barely made it! Just think what Glenstal would have lost! Maybe I shouldn't have made it!"

Ah, now, that's a terrible thing to say, I tell him. Another monk brings in my main course. Steak and kidney pie with spuds, gravy and turnip. I feel a little self-conscious, being watched while I eat, so I try to think of a question, to distract him. Is the place haunted? I ask. He says the boys have seen the ghost of the young Miss Barrington, the daughter of the last inhabitants of the castle. She was shot by the IRA in the twenties and her death sent her father mad, causing him to sell up and move away. But Father Dominic doesn't believe in ghosts. I want to know why. When his parents died, did he not feel their presence? I ask him.He's non-committal.

"Yes, well I would, because I always pray for the souls of the departed, especially at this time of year. The souls in purgatory. Not that they are in purgatory, I'm sure.'
I thought they did away with purgatory.

"Oh, no. We did away with Limbo. Purgatory stands to reason, don't you think? That when people die, they might not be ready to go to Heaven, they might not have been as good as they should have been? Not that I believe too many people go to Hell, but they might not be good enough to go to Heaven. One may have to go through a purifying experience, to get there. Hell is the pain of the loss of God."

Remembering my dream, I suggest that we might have Hell on Earth, too, whatever about in the after-life.

"We have Purgatory, most definitely. Living in community, you get to know what Purgatory is like!" I tell him I'm shocked to hear him say that. I thought you lived a blissful life here, I say.

My dessert arrives. Tinned fruit. And then coffee. Then we have to have our picture taken. For which I don a monk's habit. Should we wear the hoods up or down?

Father Dominic wants to know. We try it both ways. The photographer wants us to pose in the church, kneeling at the altar. Our knees are killing us. Father Dominic agrees with me that being a supermodel would be Hell. A man comes in to the church to pray, and looks horrified at us posing cheekily with the chalice. I keep being reminded of 'Nuns on the Run", even though we're monks, instead of nuns.

Hours later. We're still posing. This time with a crucifix and a row of candles. I've got to light the candles and the lighter is burning my fingers. We discuss the state of the world outside.

'There was a time when I would have reacted to the news in the papers with fear and anxiety," he says. "And become fearful for the world and myself and my family. But I've outgrown that type of fear and I trust in the Lord." This is what I've come here for. To discover that inner peace is a real possibility. There seems to be a bit of a demand for some solutions, at the moment, I suggest. For something that can bring peace of mind to the people in these unsettled times. He looks serious.

"Yes, we would hope to make a contribution, through the prayer book, through spirituality, through our hospitality. The place itself has a lovely atmosphere of peace. When I came to school here, I fell in love with the place. In the month of May, you would hear the birds singing and the rhodedendrons would be out, there would be a smell of incense in the church and all of this got to me, emotionally, so that I felt I wanted to be here."

Are these things not accessible, I wonder, without having to be a monk?
'They are," he says, 'But you've got to look for them and appreciate that they are there. Otherwise they can get clouded out in the Celtic Tiger or the lack of Celtic Tiger. There is an element of escapism to our lives here. I can close my door at night and I don't have to worry about my son coming in late, or about paying the bills at the end of the week. But I have to be conscious that there are people out there who don't have that sort of privileged existence. You are let off the hook, when you come to a monastery. You take on vows and you deny yourself companionship, by taking the vow of celibacy."

Ah, yes. The vow of celibacy. There has to be a catch to everything. Is the celibacy thing difficult? I ask.

"Well, yes,' he says. "I would miss out on having a companion. If I were married to a woman, I would be a little treasure, I would bring her up breakfast in bed and that sort of thing. And she would be somebody I would totally trust and have confidence in. So I've had to give up on that."

But you could bring breakfast in bed to one of the other monks, couldn't you? I say.
"I could not!" Father Dominic howls, inappropriately.
I'm sure they would appreciate it. I say.

"I'm sure they would.'

I'm being serious. We need more love in the world.
"Oh, yes, I agree. But I am the Prior of the monastery."
So you should be bringing breakfast to the Abbott?
"I certainly should not! But if I am to love the Brethren, I do it by serving them. I give them cars..."

You give them cars?

"I'm in charge of the cars. So if they want to go on a journey, they have to ask me for the car. Or I collect them from the train. I wouldn't be terribly emotional about it, but I look after them and make sure they have enough sleep, that kind of thing."
That's a very nurturing role. I commend him.

"It is indeed. They say the Abbott is the father of the community and I'm the mother."

What about physical affection? I ask. Do you have physical affection in your life?
"Well, I love my nieces and nephews.'

What about animals?

'I'm not an animal person. Maybe I'm a wee bit emotionally remote. My feelings are kept under control a lot, maybe. I haven't got a particular affection for anybody, but I want to serve all. I have good women friends, but there wouldn't be physical contact, because you have to control yourself when you have taken a vow of celibacy." I tell him I'm not sure about the celibacy thing. Was celibacy not brought in purely for financial reasons, anyway? I say.

"That was one of the reasons, certainly. It only became law in the twelfth century. St Peter was married, of course."

And it wouldn't have been normal for a man of Jesus's standing and situation to be celibate, would it?

"Probably not. And he loved women, certainly. But I haven't seen any evidence that he was married."

So does he think celibacy is really a necessary part of his spiritual life?
'Well I certainly wouldn't like to have to look after the wives of some of my brethren, if they were allowed to get married!"

That's a shocking thing to say, I tell him.

"No, it's not. It's bad enough with them being single."

Does he think they would be less reasonable, if they were married?

"If they were married, I'd say they would be very unreasonable."

We have to agree to differ, on this. It's time for Vespers. That's the prayers they sing, before dinner. I walk in late, I've been outside, chatting on my mobile and I feel suddenly unholy. The monks sing in Latin and the way the light hits them from above makes them look unnaturally radiant and godly. There's one particularly good-looking monk, with high cheekbones and very short hair. I find myself fantasising about seducing him. There's something sexy about the celibacy thing.

At dinner, I have to work extra hard at not giggling. We troop into the refectory in silence and take our places at the tables. Pots of tea are plonked in front of us and big soup bowls. I look around and see that you are meant to put the tea in the soup bowl. Then sausage rolls and baked beans are produced. The monks eat very quickly, without making eye-contact. I feel like Sean Penn in "We're No Angels".

Nobody speaks, except for the monk who's in charge of reading aloud from the history of the Cardinals. As I'm toying with my sausage roll, some monks with aprons are busily clearing plates. Everyone else seems to be finished. I'm just contemplating having a slice of bread and jam, instead of the sausage roll, when they all stand up and troop out. Dinner has taken twenty minutes. Father Simon laughs at me. He says all the visitors get indigestion. And the food is atrocious. If he was in charge he'd have organic vegetables, at every meal, he says.

Now it's time for Evening Prayers. It's freezing in the church and my clothes are wet, from walking in the rain. Father Dominic suggests a drink, afterwards, and I accept his invitation. We meet in Father Simon's office. They offer wine or whiskey. I say I want a hot whiskey with lemon and cloves and honey, for the chill. Father Dominic says now he knows why he's not married, women are so demanding. Father Simon produces a jar of honey, from his own bees. And makes me a perfect hot whiskey.

He agrees with Dominic. "I don't know anyone who's happily married," he says. Father Simon is a good-looking monk. He's tall, with twinkling eyes and he's wearing a navy blue sweater and cords and fooling around with some golf clubs. He's the business brain behind the community and the man responsible for the prayer book. He pours an enormous glass of whiskey for Father Dominic and a Ballygowan for himself. I put it to him that the monks should do a dance version of the CD and he takes me very seriously.

"You know, that's a really good idea," he says. 'A dance mix could appeal to a whole new audience. I totally see it." Somehow, we get onto the Ten Commandments.
'Can you recite the commandments?" Father Dominic asks Father Simon.
'No. Can you?" he says. I ask him about the celibacy thing. He looks wistful. Tells me about a girl called Linda, who he met in Belize.

"I missed the World Cup, because of her," he says. "Because she wanted to look at the pyramids, and like any man, I did what she wanted me to do." He stresses that I must say this happened before he joined the monastery, in case people get the wrong idea. But he's happy to let it be known that he had a good time, with women, before he took the vow.

"I squeezed every last drop out of life," he says. 'Always have." He has no regrets, he says. He's found the fullness of life, the real buzz, here in Glenstal.

"It's been a privilege to be here," he assures me. We discuss the impending Christmas.

'Did you tell her what it's like here at Christmas?' Father Simon asks.

"I did. I told her we get a cooked breakfast. And a nice lunch."

"Not about the cooked breakfast! That's not the point. You only think about food. I mean about the wonderful, spiritual atmosphere and the Gregorian chanting. And the smell of incense. It really is the most beautiful place on Earth, at Christmas, you know. There's no place I would rather be."

Several whiskies and much philosophical discussion later, I fall into bed and dream a happy dream of monks in white robes singing Gregorian chant in leafy lanes while I laze in the sun and drink red wine from a golden chalice. God appears, in the form of Father Dominic and tells me to take it easy. "Heaven is a state of mind," he says, passing me a sausage roll. There's a loud knocking at my door, which interrupts my dream. It is indeed Father Dominic, who's been up for hours, saying his prayers. He asks me if I want breakfast, before I catch my train. I say yes, and can I please come back and stay a bit longer. I suspect I might have a vocation, I tell him.