Cover and Introduction

The cover of Galehaut (or Gallehaut as I sometimes called it).  Someone once defaced it with a coffee mug. The pattern is based on  a William Morris design (I drew all of it).. I was a  member for the Morris Society for years. And I had the privilege to stay in many rooms of the Manor where they had original Morris wallpaper.

The second page. The wreathing calligraphy in the middle says "Meleager"

Now will I weave white violets, daffodils     With myrtle spray, And lily bells that trembling laughter fills,     And the sweet crocus gay: With these blue hyacinth, and the lover’s rose         5     That she may wear— My sun-maiden—each scented flower that blows,     Upon her scented hair. Right. Now I can get on about how I delivered the flowers and got my clothes clean.

Galehaut - Page 1.

The first page of Galehaut, my secret diary.

Roughly translated, it reads:

"Catharsis" (so named after Katharina)

"I, according to my good memory and copies, have done set down in print to the intent that noble lovers may  see and learn the noble acts of love. The gentle and virtuous deeds that were used in those days. Humbly, all noble lords and ladies, with all other estates, of what estate or degree they be, shall see and read in this said book and work that they take the good and honest acts in their remembrance and to follow the same therein. They shall find many pleasant histories and renowned acts of humanity, gentleness, and chivalry."

More to come soon as we translate. I hope you enjoy it.

Ah. The Key.

Right. Another brief note from the editor. This is, according to "Davy" the key to his diaries.

It is in English, Greek, German, French, and Hungarian. If anyone could help me out, I would be grateful.

It was a hastily taken picture.

Another Brief Note From the Editor

Hello.

"Davy" - the author of this diary - is now sleeping in his chair, right over there. Just something I slipped into his tea. I've taken this opportunity to grab his laptop (by that I mean computer) and tell you some facts.

We had been spending this lovely Autumn evening in front of his fireplace, transcribing and translating his diaries. I do this as a favor. And perhaps I am a bit voyeuristic.

But it has been truly maddening. Microscript, idiosyncratic, and written in boustrophedon style. Do you know what that means? It means each line left to right and then right to left. Backwards.

Now here are the facts. I am of a certain station, one perhaps "Davy" cannot comprehend. I have status. I have privileges and obligations. I still have 400 hours of court-ordered community service picking up trash on that damn road.

So, as we sat there, "Davy" with Galehaut in hand and that incessant shit-eating grin that nostalgia brings, I lunged. I grabbed his precious Galehaut and held it over the fire.

"I am not for free!", I screamed. "My time! This insane text! You will find a way to repay!"

I'm not ashamed. I am beyond shame. I threatened to burn his entire past unless...

And now there will be ads. Oh yes. I will "monetize" this blog. I need my share. He cares little for the material world, but I do. And I am crucial to this journey.

So. You will soon see a "Pay-Pal" link. Ads - we will have no control over their content. Apparently the algorithms scan the text and try to match up something appropriate. Perhaps "1 Weird Trick For Lumbago" (Oh! Lumbago. How I love that word, it sounds like a secret ingredient for the perfect pesto. Add oregano, rosemary and lumbago).

More likely, as we get further into his diary, you will see the strangest juxtapositions of ads. Prophylactics here, bibles and lexicons there. I care not.

So. Back to his tale. Much has already been written.

The Editor.

Note From The Editor

Hello.

I am helping "Davy" transcribe his diaries for this tale. He has provided me with a long glossary and a Greek dictionary. I am "The Editor". I have been given access to this blog and will from time to time comment on his posts.

We have received some complaints that his style is "enigmatic". That he is "guilty of the twin sins of omission and elision." Thank you for your comments.

Please be patient. All will be revealed. These diaries, especially that goddamn "Galehaut", are incredibly cryptic. We will translate and paint the picture soon.

In the meantime, I suggest you read this "blog" with some equipment:

- A Bible.
- A copy of the "Decameron" by Boccaccio.
- A copy of "The Divine Comedy" by Dante.
- A dictionary.
- Pepys would help. He was also an abnormal diarist.
- "Repetition" by Soren Kierkegaard. There will be much "ressentiment". Look both quoted words up.
- Internet access, of course.
- Perhaps a good stiff drink. Things will not get pretty.

Thank you. The Editor.

Ah yes. And soon that story of how he arrived. And why he needed, immediately, to depart from another in Waterloo Station.

  "Be inconstant, nonsensical; do one thing one day and another the next, but without passion, in an utterly careless way that does not, however, degenerate into inattention, because, on the contrary, the external attentiveness must be just as great as ever but altered to a formal function lacking all inwardness."

My Room

Right. That above is actually a good likeness.

Up the stairs. Then my room. I would change and then Angelika would clean my new suit.

Across from my chamber lived another gardener. We will call him "Gaz".

Gaz was a trainspotter. No, not the kind in that horrid film (I think they were referring to heroin tracks, not the railroad). Instead, he was a young man who would spend his free days at the local train-station. Binoculars in hand and a notebook, he would record every train he saw. He had memorized schedules - this habit was actually quite handy for everyone in the Convent.

"Gaz, when is the next one to Flexmore-End?"

"12:43"

"Bristol?"

"7:18"

Always right. He had a massive toy train layout in his room that he would play with. Sometimes, I would walk past his door and I would hear "Choo-Choo," and then agonizingly later in broad Yorkshire, "Choo". More about him later, since he would become a champion for me, of sorts.

My room. I opened the door. Nothing like the Oriel Chamber in the Manor. No. This was a closet - a very tiny room. Instead of stained glass, I had a narrow arrow slit that barely held back the rain. Sometimes I was dripped on, despite the fact that thing (the leaded glass) was wedged behind three feet of stone. No light at all. The one saving grace was a fireplace (no central heating there, reader). I also had a desk and an armoire.

The bed. Mattress concave and uncomfortable (perhaps from many previous poundings, I supposed). A crucifix with a bleeding Jesus stamped firmly above.

Sometimes that crucifix needed to be covered with a towel. When I did this, I was always reminded of my grandmother. She turned around that portrait of the Kaiser in her kitchen during the entirety of the Great War. There are just some things you don't want the Guy to see, and sometimes you don't want to see the Guy.

So I changed. I would bathe. My clothes would soon be clean.

S.D.G.

Priest's Cottage Part 2 of 2

Right.

My room in the Priest's Cottage. I needed clean (I hate that - why are the definite articles so often dropped, as in "He's in hospital," or "I'm going up to University"). And I needed changed.

Not really a "cottage" - at least what I would imagine. It was actually part of an ancient defensive outer-work for the Manor: a gothic fortress. It remained, I suppose, after the dark days, because it was handy for housing servants. Now it housed priests and gardeners.

Right in front were what once were the stables. Now, it housed my tractor and a priest's silver lake-blue Bentley. Yes, a Bentley. Have you ever sat in one, reader? I have. It's true. That thing represented the sum total of all the money I would ever make in a lifetime. Every piece hand-made, glorious to ride. Especially that time when I was allowed to - oh, more about that later.

Right. I opened the door and headed to the 2nd floor to my room. Below me lived John, the priest and owner of the Bentley. John - not the real name, reader. Middle-aged. Handsome, very troubled, and from an extremely wealthy family (they owned half of Scotland once, it was whispered). He had, I suspected, a very rakish past. The 70s, London, clubs, too much money, perhaps a bit of the white stuff. Something happened (more on that later) and he abandoned his fortune and his family and entered the priesthood. He left it all behind. Except for that Bentley.

Occasionally, there would be people from his past who would visit the Cottage. These visits would invariably end with a scream from John like, "You traitor!". Door slamming. Yes, I could hear it.

I could also hear something else.

You see, John subscribed to that medieval Catholic tradition of Flagellation. Look it up, it's true. He whipped himself to atone for his sins. Mortification of the Flesh.

It was awful - and very awkward when I had a guest. This self-abuse would usually start during the Shipping Forecast, on BBC, just after midnight. So, "Sailing By" would begin, and then shortly:

"Humber. Southeast. Variable at 5 or 6."

Loud slap. "Uhh!"

"German Bight. Northwest. Backing southeast later. 5 or 6."

Crack. "Ohh!"

"Dogger. Gale warning. 7 or 8. East."

The worst was always Trafalgar. Loud smack and whimper. Something must have happened there once.

It was if John was sailing himself - as if he was trying to find forgiveness for all the sins he committed by circumnavigating the entire isle of his past. Perfidious Albion. Perfidious Patmos.


http://www.victorianlondon.org/publications2/gaslight-15.htm


I simply turned up the volume. And so, that is how my evenings often ended.

Next, a bit about my room there on the second floor. And, oh, that Bentley (S1 Continental):

And this is an example of the entire broadcast. It would put me asleep every night for 2 years. Hypnotizing.

(Ed. that sentence needs fixed).

The Priest's Cottage 1 of 2

Right.

So Angelika would clean my clothes. We had a deal.

She stood up, and walked away, saying nothing more, crunching on the lawn of the West Garden, and back to the Manor in the distant mist.

Well then. I stood up and clapped, wrung my hands a bit,  put on the wellies. I needed to go back to my room and get changed.

My room. Ah. The first few days at the Convent I was allowed to stay in the majestic "Oriel Chamber". Look up there, reader. It was just above the main gate. The other image below is a map of the Manor, and no, you are not "here", but I was "there". Not a good map I admit, but the best I could find. Ha! "Car park"? That was the tennis court, where I had matched another once - so fateful -  on the court. Now, now it is a "car park".

Yes. My first room. The Oriel Chamber. Resplendent stained-glass windows (which are still a subject of scholarship to some) that would wake me in the morning with a splash of prismatic colors (more on that glass later, since it told a story of poor Lady Gage and her three dead lovers - she evidently, it is written, witnessed their successive suicides from that same window). Wood-paneled walls, and a leather-padded door. A portrait of Charles II embedded, staring at me. It was next to the "Queen Elizabeth Chamber" - so called because she was rumored to have visited the Manor once. It was not a nice visit. Her strategy was to bankrupt Catholic land-owners with the cost of her huge retinue. It's true.

Even though I was a gardener, I was allowed at first to stay there. I was a Yank, after all, and from an unusual and interesting religious persuasion the nuns were ignorant of (take that Swedenborgians and you Quakers). I felt privileged.

Unfortunately, there was soon an abnormal "incident" involving myself and Angelika during a Catholic foot-washing ceremony (John 13:14-17). Not my fault, mind you, reader. Those long legs stretched, a deep sigh, and those toenails before me and above the basin were painted bright red and I...oh, nevermind. I had a wash-cloth. The ceremonial cleaning was supposed to take a minute. We took at least 30. In the Chapel. Impatient nuns observing. What did I know? Gimme a break. I was a Protestant.

After that, I was politely informed by the nuns that I would from now on be staying at the Priest's Cottage.

Next, a description of the Priest's Cottage. And then the laundry chamber in the main Manor.

Payment in Kind Part 2 of 2

Right. My first falsehood. Those roses above are not the actual roses at the Convent. Those were long since removed after an unfortunate "incident". More about that later.

So.

Angelika would clean my suit? Never possible, and I would not be able to repay her. I was broke and I knew the nuns wouldn't approve of it, not those sort of personal transactions between the "Help".

"Angelika. Thank you, but I can't really give you anything in return."

She looked around, past the Yew, past me, and gazed at the garden.

"I want flowers. Every day for my room, for a...a fortnight, I think is said."

I looked around and saw the beautiful beds I tended. The very reason my back aches in middle-age today. Brilliant! Thousands of roses, flowers of all kind  everywhere.

As a bankrupt gardener it was now my only resource. It was perfect payment in kind.

"Shit sure! No problemo!"

She tilted her head as if in utter incomprehension. So many misfires of my English that day.

"I mean yes. We can do that. But your room, I can't really go..."

"Yes. I speak to Sister Aquinas. We have an understanding. Men are not normally allowed to visit those quarters for..."

"But I'm not very normal! Common, I suppose, but not very normal."

"Good. Yes. I know that. I work something out now. Get changed. Clean. Meet me in the laundry chamber."

Next, a description of my "chamber". Getting changed, and the trip to the laundry-room.

Payment in Kind Part 1 of 2

Right.

So there I sat head in hands on the mossy stone (just up there on the right), the massive Yew aft and the Hungarian laundry-maid fore.

She was wearing an odd gingham skirt. Red and white checkered, like it had been torn from a picnic table. A fuzzy wool sweater of Prussian blue. Long black locks on both sides of her face, and an immaculate white apron that obscured                 .

I was filthy. My cheek was burning. I just discovered a quickly swelling bump on my head.

She sat down beside me on the stone, her hair spilled down and and then was swept up from the wind. She spoke in that wonderful husky low tone Central European women have which originates from the diaphragm:

"What has happened?"

I really didn't want to talk about it. I figured her English wasn't so good anyway, and at the time I knew nothing of her native tongue.

"Well there was this thing at this place and then another thing over there, my bike, oh I don't know."

"You need to be clean."

"Well, I'm a gardener. I can be dirty sometimes."

"Your clothes are dirty." (She pronounced "clothes" with two syllables - "clothes-ez")

"I fell into a ditch."

"Your clothes needs to be clean. We clean them."



More on this later. The linen room, the laundry chamber, and the environs of the Manor.

Common Part 3 of 3

Right.

I had just been slapped, labelled "common" despite buying a hand-tailored suit, and utterly humiliated.

I needed to go back to the Convent and sort this thing out. I needed time with my Galehaut.

I had that rickety old black bike the nuns had provided for me. But trust me reader, it ain't easy biking in Wellies with a waistcoat, with an aching cheek, and the windy East Anglian rural lanes. Plus, it had started to rain.

It would be a 5 mile trip from the nearby Abbey town, and I was still uncomfortable navigating rural English roads. They are so small. The people drive in a different direction. But worst of all are the "roundabouts".

I have never mastered them, and never will.

So with the rain, my wellies, and my cheek (needed to get ice on that soon), I pedaled furiously back to the Manor. And then there it was - the one roundabout that always would haunt me.

I really didn't know where to go. Clockwise? Counter-clockwise? How do I get out of this thing? The rain was soaking me and misting my glasses. I went around a few times confusedly when a large lorry muscled it's way into the procession. With the slippery pavement, my anxiety, and the large looming machine bullying it's way past me, I instantly careened into a muddy ditch. I was inches away from death.

The lorry stopped. I was in the ditch, soaked, filthy. The driver looked out of his window and yelled, "I'd walk if I was you, laddie" and sped off.

Dazed, I looked around. The rims were bent and a tire had popped. Worst of all, my new suit was covered in mud. Stains on my pants and coat. Impossible stains. It would cost a fortune to clean, if anyone on earth could even clean it.

I lifted the remains of my bike and started the walk back. Another 2 miles. At least the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. I'd be at the Convent in a bit, I thought, and then spend some time reveling in self-pity.

Finally, passing the gatehouse, I decided to discreetly ditch my bike under a bush. The nuns wouldn't notice, and that would give me a bit of time to repair it. More about that later.

I went to the West Garden and found a secluded Yew with some mossy stone nearby I could lie on (oh yes! I remember that stone so clearly!). I spread out a bit, took off my Wellies, and grabbed Galehaut from my coat. I'd scribble soon but for now I needed to rest and nurse my cheek, look at the widening sky and scattering clouds.

Christ, I was a mess.

Dozing a bit, perhaps even sobbing at times, I heard some crunching on the lawn. An approach. The smell of detergent. It was the Hungarian laundry-maid I wrote about before. Henceforth, "Angelika" - not the real name, reader.

I looked up. Her head blocked the sun which somehow produced a halo-like effect.

She bent down and looked at me, a tilt of the head which made the long black hair cascade on one side. She said in that unmistakable Magyar way of blurring vowels:

"You are dirty."

"Yes.Yes I am."

More on this later.

Fantastically appropriate soundtrack for what happened to me on that roundabout, my furious pedaling on that bike, and what would happen soon.

Common Part 2 of 3

Right.

This is my second installment of the story wherein I was labelled "common" and slapped in the face. Right up there, in the "Nutmeg". It would not be the last time, oh no.

I had just purchased a hand-tailored suit (see Part 1), and was staring into the mirror with those wily tailors. I knew immediately I made a terrible, terrible mistake. I could never afford it. It was sinful.

You see, the nuns paid me a nominal amount of 2 Pounds a day - barely enough for the occasional pint or case of Altoids. Room and board was provided, but that was it. I had just wiped out all of the tiny savings I had for my stay in the UK. What would I do? I might have to stay at the Convent forever. I was frozen in fear and had to get out of that Suffolkating shop.

I paid them, thanked them, why is my left eye twitching, I left.

I wandered around those Abbey town streets aimlessly for a while, and then, thinking a cup of tea and a smoke might clear my head and rest my shaky hands I went into a small cafe.

I stumbled down into a chair (it isn't easy walking with Wellies, you know), and ordered a cup.

There sitting next to me, was a stunning middle-aged woman who clearly belonged to an upper class I could not and would never comprehend. But I was always attracted to anything in a skirt with an accent (that does not include Scotsmen, reader), and I was confused and lonely. And perhaps this new costume might provide benefits after all. Who knows? Maybe my money problems would be over. I could be her bronzed gardener during the day, and then that debonair guy with a smoking jacket at night. Problems solved. Everything completely normal.

I stood up and walked over. Coughed and said,

"Hey...um...do you know the way to the bank?"

She looked up from her paper and inspected me over her glasses.

"Right through Shambles, just off Butcher Square," she said plainly.

"Oh...ok...gee, thanks."

Well that worked out great, I thought. I was very pleased. After my smoke, I would ask her where Pizza Hut was and invite her to share lunch. I couldn't believe my newly found confidence.

Now smoking is a filthy, filthy habit and I blame that Jesuit Ceasar for introducing me to it. I have long since given it up (model citizen now and all that, reader), but at the time I enjoyed it considerably and there was no social judgement, at least for the fancy brands.

Ah, I even recall a ditty I composed to the tune of "Rule Britannia":

"Rule Tobacco! Tobacco rules the world! My hand-made cigarettes are always rolled!"

I started my smoking career in the UK with Dunhills. These proved to be too expensive, so I switched to Woodbines. I even tried Silk Cut until a friendly shopkeeper quietly informed me, "Those are not for gents, love." Finally, due to my meager resources, I spiraled down to a bag of Old Holborn and rolling papers. My rolling technique became so skilled I could do it one-handed on my tractor (not always a good idea considering that accident I had and toppled a wall, more on that later). The only problem my habit presented before this story was when my parents from the states called, and were informed by a Cockney nun that:

 "Oh, he's outside suckin' on a fag."

That required some explanation.

I took the bag of Old Holborn from my new suit and started packing the paper with some smelly, dark tobacco. I looked over to the woman, she looked at me.

She said:

"Oh. Hmm. I didn't think you were common," sniffed, shook her paper and dismissively returned to reading.

Common? Common? What the hell? Did you getta load of this suit? What does it take?

Despite all of my sartorial efforts, despite my best attempt at politeness and diplomacy, I made one mistake - the mistake of rolling my own - and was labelled common. And I always would be. Later (more on this in time), I would embrace the label, but in that cafe I was crushed and bewildered.

"Common? Hey lady, c'mon, I was gonna to invite you to Pizza Hut. Stuff like that. I thought we could share a slice."

Poorly chosen words. In retrospect, I know now she completely misinterpreted my invitation.

Slamming the paper on the table, she stood up (a lot taller than I expected), angrily walked over to my table, and slapped me firmly on the cheek.

Wow. I had seen men slapped in movies before, but in 3D it really hurts, I assure you.

"Get out! Leave NOW!," she said.

Utterly humiliated, I fumbled for my last remaining Pounds and tossed them on the table, overturning my cup of tea. I ran out the door.

What had just happened? I needed to go back to the Convent and scribble in Galehaut about it - make some sense of that scene. It would be a 5 mile trip on a bike with Wellies and a weird suit.

I was almost killed.

More on this soon.

Common Part 1 of 3

Right. I am common. I've been told that to my face.

There's no sin about being common, and I know all about sin, reader

As an American, I am by default "common". My family were immigrant peasants from East Frisia. Efficient breeders and speakers of a strange form of Plattdeutsch. Look it up.

Sorry.

The point is that at the time and place where I was living in the UK, being "common" put you in a certain category. You might not be welcome at certain events, quality of service not as good, and you really won't be able to play the mighty Boesendorfer in the Great Hall in the Manor (Boesendorfer? Really? What a dumb name for a piano. It means "evil village person". Well, still I managed to hammer out a bit at midnight after the nuns slept - more on that later).

Being "common" never bothered me before. That's why this was such a surprise. I'll tell you the story.

I had a few days off at the Manor. My childhood friend from the states was visiting. Such a good friend. I remember the first day at my new elementary school, ages ago, so nervous and wondering how I could fit in. Normality was key, I decided. One must be normal. So I scrawled "Ingrid Bergman Rulez" on my folder and placed it prominently on my desk. I waited for someone to take the bait. That person would be my new normal friend.

Not long after, a tall blonde boy passed by, tripped over something, and saw the folder.

"You like Ingrid too?"

That would be the start of a lifelong friendship.

We decided to use my break as a time to visit London. London - ha, more about THAT later. It was a wonderful few days, perfect weather, and excellent lodgings off Bedford Square. What a time! Especially that dark evening I looked out the window and saw across the street - oh...never mind. That can never be told.

My friend somehow "lost" 50 quid, so he said, in SoHo (I never knew the complete story). Broke, his time in the UK was up. We parted and I returned to the Manor.

I still had a free day and decided to bike to the neighboring town. An old Abbey town. Plenty of nice shops, pubs with small framed signs explaining that "A LIVE CAT WAS PLACED BEHIND THIS STONE IN 1389". Odd tradition. Look it up. Sorry.

I was a bit lonely and depressed after leaving my friend, so after a warm dark pint, I naturally decided to purchase some slippers. Right there, around the corner, was a tailor shop.

I entered. A tinkle of chimes and two small men in three-pieces with tape measures around their necks somehow magically emerged from the back room.

I decided, out of boredom, lack of attention, and perhaps desire for better service, to pretend I was a wealthy Texas oilman.

"Howdy!"

"Good afternoon, sir, may we help?"

"Well...how much are them thar slippers?"

"Perhaps you would like a scone first. A spot of tea?"

To cut it short, they seduced me into purchasing a bespoke suit. Before long, I was standing on a pedestal as they measured my arms and legs, between my legs and...and, asked me:

"Pardon me sir. How do you hang?"

His measuring tape was on the inseam. Staring at me, little pins held in his mouth. I really didn't know what to say:

"Um...down. Mostly."

He coughed a little, looked down and said, "This fabric is quite fashionable on the Continent." Complete professional.

After a few hours I was led to the mirror. A fantastic creation it was and still is - I have it, right there in the closet. From Trotter and Deane. Look them up. It's true.

It was a three-piece affair. Green plaid suit-coat, bright red waist coat with satin lining. Extremely tight bright yellow corduroy pants. I think he got the measurements wrong on my pants. To top it off, I was sporting my Wellingtons from the Manor.

So the two tailors and I stared at the mirror. One slapped me on the back happily and said, "A right proper country gent, I'd say!"

I'll continue this soon. I'm tired now, and my Pepys must be packaged. There is much more, including the scene where I was slapped and permanently labeled common. And so to bed.

The Artist. Part 1 of 72.

Right.

I have been furiously "scanning" Galehaut - my diary - for your upcoming pleasure, but there are a few things I need to remove from my chest. I just ran across several disturbing passages, all of them dealing with a man we will now call "The Artist". I need to talk about him before we go further.

I don't want to get sued for libel (but if it's true can that happen?), but I have to write about him.

Background and such.

We will just call him The Artist. In any case, I know for a fact that his name was not his real name (he adopted several pseudonyms) so I can't name him anyway. Confusing? Right. The Artist.

I have a pseudonym now too, mister, and I'm over the pond.

He lived in a dingy attic above the nearby Grange. Barely representational school of art, Hollywood good-looks, colorful silk ascots, and the smoothest Oxbridge I have ever heard. He was also perhaps the only other person remotely capable of reading my diary. His racket was to "teach" art to people from the area - mostly women from Cambridge with huge hats and encumbering painting material.

He rarely ended these classes going back to the Grange alone.

Every Saturday he was allowed by the nuns to take his "class" to the West Garden. There, they would paint distant cows, that decaying statue of Lady Gage, that enormous shamble known mysteriously as the "Hanging Tree", and the misty horizon.

He would troll around behind the phalanx of painters, and the mess of sketchbooks, canvas, stools, and umbrellas. Often he would offer an encouraging (sometimes lingering) touch on the shoulder or a word of praise. Like:

"Simply splendid, mum."
"Right - well done, well done"
"Hmm. May I see your palette? Hmm. Please eschew vermilion. It does not represent the sunny summer of our lovely East Anglia."
"Smashing. I think you need more magenta. I have a bit more at the Grange. Why don't you accompany me later?"

My first Saturday, during break, I was lying down on the grass of the West Garden. Next to me was my new friend, a young and plump Spanish Jesuit named Ceasar who was staying at the convent for, shall we say, "reflection". Since he was Spanish, I always had to refer to him as "Thayzar". Yes - that's the way they talk. Needing to pronounce such made me feel embarrassed. Like amateur drama.

Still, he was a good person, could play Flamenco on his guitar, and had complete access to the (surprisingly good) sacramental wine located in the labyrinthine cellar. I'll have a lot more about him later. And that cellar. And that odd locked room down there.

So there we were  on the grass on that fateful day, near the canvas and the colors, and the class, and The Artist. Ceasar and I had been swapping Dunhills for Woobines and I had been scribbling in my nascent "Galehaut" about a laundry-maid I just met in the Manor. She was Hungarian, with, I suspected, a splendid dash of Romany. Dark infinite limpid pools for eyes, even darker hair, and a somehow constant fresh smell. Maybe it was from the detergent.

I was exhausted after endlessly cutting sod and had carelessly dropped Galehaut before me. I was staring up at the sky when The Artist walked by.

He picked it up - he actually picked up Galehaut - scanned several lines, and his eyes widened. His brows lifted. There was something about that. I knew he comprehended something. I knew he understood something about the laundry-maid.

"C'mon man. You dick! That's my diary!"

"Dick? No. Roger, actually. Sorry. I thought you were in the class. I thought it was your sketchbook. I'm accustomed to inspecting - and admiring - sketchbooks."

"No dude, it's alright. I'm the new gardener. Davy is the name...for now."

"Hmm." He dropped Galehaut in front of me and then he lifted himself up by his toes a bit, slapped his hands together, said "Right". Then he walked away as if he had a plan.

Ceaser's belly convulsed as he chuckled. He turned to me and said, "Well he ith the artitht, Davy."

"Thanks a lot Thayzar." Thufferin' Thuccotash.

This would not be my last encounter with The Artist. Oh no. Lifelong, really. Isle of Perfidy. In the future I will relate the stunning altercation between me, the laundry-maid, and The Artist during a Restoration comedy at the local amateur playhouse.

Galehaut

Right.

I would like to write now about the Manor, the grounds, the laundry-maids, that obscene thing I dredged up from the moat, the time my tractor hit a low wall and unearthed stone and statuary originating from the local abbey (I'm sure the Lord thanked Henry VIII for that one), the laundry-maids, and that amusing thing that happened to me at the local pub.

To do that however, I need to be acquaint you with my little friend. "Galehaut" - my diary.

I'm having a quite normal and truthful day.

My diary. All is recorded. Small maps, copies of letters, sketches and confessions. I'm lovingly fondling it now - a small golden tome that I once thought was magic and might unite me with another. Francesca et Paolo. We'll see how that worked out, folks.

It is only 4 inches wide and six inches tall. Tiny script in many languages, but mainly manic faux Attic Greek. I defy anyone, even the lads at Bletchley with their fancy "computer", to be able to read it or even understand it. I need no key. I can leave it alone on any coffee table. The contents are all locked in my head.

Except for now, and I will share them with you soon, reader.

Last night, however, I wrestled with insomnia, neuralgia, and financial stress (Pay-friend? Is that what you call it?). I will be spending the rest of the day preparing my beloved Pepys (Maritime Edition) for sale, and perhaps photographing some pages of Galehaut for you to enjoy.

You'll see. You'll see.

Tertium Quid

Right.

I think I need to back up a bit and provide some answers. Why was I there? What happened before?

Well, in this book - I mean "blog", dammit - I can put my powerful 4X4 in reverse and traverse a few of the muddy years before I arrived at the Convent.

You see, I have always been a bibliophile - lover of books, if you need an explanation, reader.

Sorry.

Have you wondered why my diary was entitled "Galehaut"? Do you know Dante? Boccaccio? Probably not. Look it up on Bling or Coogle, whatever.

Sorry, again.

In Dante's majestic Divine Comedy and Cantos (not those of that awful Pound, whom I now call "Kilo" after going metric), there is a lovely story of Francesca et Paolo. Two young lovers brought together by a book:

"...and Gallehaut was witness to their love, Galehaut dropped and they read no more that day" (my translation).

The point is that two people were brought together, in love, by a text. A third thing - or tertium quid.

This is the magic of books and the reason I was an antiquarian bookseller for so many years.

I'll talk more about the rough trade of book-selling and how that sent me to the UK shortly.

Second Thing. Moles, Moles, Moles.

Right. I will begin the story "in media res" just like ol' what's-his-name.

Picture an old Manor house (listed - it's true - in the Domesday book). 40 acres of pruned lawn, statuary, and oddly tilting trees owing to the fierce North Sea wind. A moat, an orangerie, plenty of Lime trees and all manner of adjacent cottages, gatehouses, etc. I'll talk about the Main House later.

My first day I was introduced to the head gardener Geoffrey. An odd little man who wore a tweed jacket even while piling compost. He'd enjoy his little plowman's lunch - packed always in a greasy bag - under a tree and crunch on apples. He was paid in cash by the nuns (a small envelope of coins every Friday after the 4:00 Sherry which was straight outta Lisbon), and would bike back to his home in the neighboring village which had the comical and utterly misleading name of Fornham-All-Saints.

The first day, after jet-lag and a terrible headache (owing to a misadventure wherein my bags were briefly confiscated after I was misidentified as an IRA trooper - more on that later), I looked for him in the West Garden.

"Hello Geoffrey. My name is David."

I stretched out my hand. No other hand offered, he simply said:

"Davy? Davy Jones? Well do you have a locker?", and then laughed and walked away.

From then on, I was known as "Davy".

Lost and frankly weirded-out, I walked back into the Main House. Right then, I ran into a problem that would be an endless vortex of confusion. You see, the obnoxious house-cat was also named Geoffrey.

Whenever I asked about Geoffrey or his whereabouts, I would hear things like:

"Oh, he's hidin' in the dustbin."
"That little devil slew my hen!"
"Oh, he just nicked the kippers!"

I suppose the bipedal Geoffrey was capable of all these things - I just don't know.

In any case, I later found him in the nearby woods (just by that placid pond, sigh, rumored to be haunted by a drowner - more on that later). He had a shotgun and was aiming for squirrels. Except he didn't call them squirrels: to him they were "tree rats". "I hate the lot of them. Worse than the Irish!"

But his main hatred was reserved for moles. Moles, moles, moles. Everywhere - grinding up the lovely turf with their tiny galleries. I must say that after a time I started to get quite upset as well. It was difficult seeing our efforts for the perfect lawn uprooted every day.

So, in any case, I ended my first day as a gardener sitting down with Geoffrey (no, not the naughty one) and admiring the many moles he trapped. More on this later.









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First Thing.

Right (and that is how all my posts will begin) - this is it: my first post on this "blog". What a horrific word - "blog". It makes me think of some Lizard King arising from a primeval pond.

Right. These short bits will be about my time as a young man in the UK. Early nineties, petrified Suffolk country, large and ancient manor, uncomfortable couplings, technicolor - the picture has been made.

I'm an American. Minnesotan by birth and a bit Paul Bunyanish. Both sides of the family from German farmer stock (actually we were told they were Frisian and fled far away 500 years ago when the Spanish weren't so kind and Mallorca wasn't an option).

Quite quiet and perhaps a tad too sensitive (was it Stendahl who wrote he was born without epidermis?), I rarely thought of much outside Anoka County. Yes that place exists and you can look it up, reader.

Somehow, after many strange and fantastic coincidences (all true), I wound up as a gardener in a convent located in a, well, castle - I guess - in the UK. These coincidences, this wringing of fate, this failure and triumph of the Will - this is the subject of my "blog".

Why?

Well, I have a bit of time on my hands. All the time, actually. Having recently been persuaded to retire from my previous position (mostly prone) at a well-regarded college, and some selfish self-reflection,  I decided it would be healthy to tell the tale. Why is my neighbor mowing his lawn at this hour?

Mind you, I am no Anglophile. Anyone can write a quite-truthful memoir of zany characters populating a charming British village, or even scribble endlessly about pubescent magicians. In fact, I have spent far more time on the Continent. The broad boulevards, Linden trees, brutally efficient postal service...ach, that ist the life!

The point is that the time spent there in the UK was a bit insane.

It will be a wondrous story. All true and based on my diary that I precociously entitled "Galehaut". It is full of a ferocious miniature script based on Greek, Latin, and German that I (it's true) invented called "Cryptographia".

I have changed some of the names out of lack of interest in their actual, and quite common, references.

Please enjoy and come back often. My next post will describe how I arrived at the Convent. At that time, reader, there was a newspaper headline swirling around the town entitled "The Bug Wot Ate Me Face". This unnerved me greatly.

So please join me. It will all be truthful and quite normal.

Just like me.