Now Canute’s riverend pile of St Benet’sAbbey tho’ still on the books as a going concern, alone having been spared by King Henry V111, had lain by the River bure, sleepily deserted for a goodly five centuries, although re-cycled almost out of existence by the good and God-fearing thieves of Ludham and environs. There are a few flints hanging together still, out of habit- the gatehouse, the mill tower, and the good Queen’s gift of the Sandringham oak cross on the site of the old altar.
Then up comes Young Lochinvar, or Oberon, or PC49, or Simon Walker, of Hexham in the North Country, to give him his all and proper titles, sundry imagined, alleged and generic, and spies this twinky-toed, in the pink,, Cracklin’ Rosie, this Lily, This Marlene, this Mawther (Norfolk Maid), this bright, blond, shunkly Angel, this Pixilated Poppet, this Miriam, and invites her to walk up to St Benet’s cross. AND when they get there, and in sight of her parents by the river below, doesn’t he ask her to marry him? He does.
There is no known record of his exact words, tho’ we do believe it did entail the ritual damping of at least one trouser knee on the dewy sward. SO now, with happy hearts will we brazen the trumpets, tap up the bugles, tune up the gloriphoneums and the gypsyphilly to deck the sacred hall. We will load the board with toothsome viands, custard pots and pastry cases of frangipani, fruits of the field and forest, pints of Drambui shandy, jugs of old and mild, decanters of nuns; posset and of bulls’ blood.
We will call in fiddlers, jig makers, spell weavers and singers of songs, and we will throw open the doors to summon families and acquaintances, colleagues and chums, grannies and good friends to come to honour and bless and send off our new-bonded couple, our most beloved bridegroom-son and daughter-bride, to salute and sing them off into new life, while high above, the sky-long anthems of angels brown and grey and white, quack and hoot and whistle to God’s glorying in their happiness.
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