St. Swithun’s Day, and we keep a watchful eye on the weather in these parishes.  The river Worming has been known to flood when not a drop of rain has fallen in the county, all due to a secret rising on the Southern Downs over the borders, hence the old saying in these parts that:

If it rain on Swithun’s morn,
By the evening t’will be gorn.
But if it rain before the Feast,
Be prepared for floods at least.

Here in Wormingdale Saint Swithun is pushed into the background by our own local saint whose Feast falls on the same day.  Hervais the Inflamed lived in the latter half of the 9th century in what is now known as Bottom Meadow.  He was famed for his ascetic lifestyle and many visited him for spiritual advice and the sticky brown sweets tasting of juniper berries that he used to dole out wrapped in dock leaves.  

The tale is told that one summer’s morning he was engaged in silent meditation at the ford across the Worming river when a young woman came by on her way to Wenchoster market.  As she passed him Saint Hervais broke wind, and the woman was so startled that she dropped her basket of goat’s cheese.  The cheeses rolled out onto the ground and became covered in dust and cow dung.  The woman knelt at the saint’s feet and began to weep.  Hervais lifted her up and attempted to comfort her, but she was having none of it.  Without the cheese she had nothing to sell at market, and nothing to sell meant no money, and no money meant no food to feed her family of nine children and crippled husband.  Since poverty usually resulted in death, soothing words from a smelly monk weren’t much help.

The saint then prayed for her distress to be eased, and when he had finished his intercession the woman looked down and saw that all the cheeses on the ground were once again whole, clean, and dusted with fine white flour.

"What’s going on here, then?” she asked.

"It is a sign of God's grace and compassion," the saint said.

“Rubbish”, said the woman.

"All things are possible with God," the saint began, but the young woman interrupted again.

"So God’s omnipotent is he?  Omnipresent?  I bet he’s omnivorous as well.  Listen, father, I work my fingers to the bone week in and week out making these cheeses, and when God finally comes through with a miracle for me, do I get a fortune in silver?  No.  Do I get a nice house and fine clothes for me and the family?  No.  Do I get a new outdoor privy?  No.  All I get is more bloody cheeses!”

It is not necessary to repeat the full text of the woman's conversation from this point, but it is recorded in the ancient Chronicles held in the Chained Library at the cathedral.  This is the only miracle attributed to Saint Hervais, whose mythology says that he was skilled in writing rhyming couplets and drinking his own water.  Ancient Wenchostershire folk-lore has it that if it rains on Saint Hervais’s day, it will be wet for some days afterwards.  This belief is even known in Brittany where the rhyme goes:

Quand il pleut a la Saint Hervais
il pleut tout les jours apres."

Hence, in the village, preparations for the Feast of Saint Hervais are in full swing.  The marquee has been erected on the Green outside the pub, and the Wormingdale Morris Men are booked for both Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes.  I enjoy watching them perform, and am always amazed that their bladders don’t burst, what with all the swinging and hitting they sustain.  Daniel from Ichabod Farm is running his “Bowl at a Pig” competition again, whilst Jack Thykes has promised an innovation with this year’s “Splat the Rat” game.  He is keeping it a secret until Saturday, but has hinted that it involves Wellington boots and aprons.  Mrs. Harrison from Oaktree Cottage will be erecting her Home-made preserves stall again, and Pansy and John Kickup from Back Meadow Cottage have volunteered to run the Bric-a-brac.  I have turned out several boxes of oddments from my garage for them, and even though I will be sad to see some of the things go, especially the light-up statue of Pope John XXIII, at least it will be for a good cause, since all the proceeds are going to the village church.  I shall enjoy browsing along the second-hand bookstall, hoping to flush out more volumes of the hard-to-find “Doings of the Wenchoster Deans” published in 1894, and perhaps an edition of the 1927 children’s book “My Wenchoster Schooldays” by Andrew Edgewise, with its wonderful illustrations. I wonder if anyone will buy the pile of “Amateur Gymnastics Journal” that date from the late 1930’s, and which I inherited from my favourite uncle. 

Then after the services on Sunday I have invited Keith to lunch.  It is going to be a busy weekend, and I expect I shall be exhausted. 

On days when summer’s sun is high,
And blazing brightly in the sky,
We seek what little shade is found
Beneath the trees upon the ground.

The season of the village Fete
Is now upon us, small and great,
With stalls of home-made cakes and pies
All melting there before our eyes.

We “Splat the Rat” and throw a dart,
At games of skill we try our art,
We buy some tickets for the Draw,
And when we win we’re struck with awe.

Across the fields all life is stilled,
Our hats are on and glasses filled,
No breath of wind relieves the air,
The clothes come off, the chests are bare.

Within our ancient church we find
The stone has made the climate kind,
What we in winter try to heat,
Provideth now a coolness sweet.

Tune: Wareham (LM)