I’d held it in my mind as a place of serenity, of succour, of even mystical memory. I used to go when I lived there every Sunday morning early, to sit in the ancient, high-backed pews just by the altar and to worship and take communion. I relished those early services. There was no singing, no grandness or pomp just a small congregation, prayers and the preacher reading the lessons. It was often cold and austere but I loved it. It felt true to the puritan in me. And now? We went in and the pews in the main part of the Abbey have all gone, replaced by wooden chairs – very modern and minimal, tasteful even but it still looks like its been laid out for a recital not worship. There are no kneelers and no rests for prayer and hymn books. There was a huge inflated globe hanging in the centre of the building and it was so light. People were everywhere. Tourists mostly, guidebooks in hand, taking pictures and talking and pointing. Even the private chapels were light and bright. There was nowhere to sit in peace and think. We lit two candles for those that we’ve lost and left. I’d cried. I am not sure why. Change, loss, possibly the loss of something that I’d held as a treasure only to find that it was either gone or merely gimcrack, fools’ gold. I am sorry for it.
