Walking down towards the River Nidd in Knaresborough, the pretty North Yorkshire market town where I grew up, it would be easy to pass by St Mary’s Catholic church without noticing it. Built only two years after the Emancipation Act in 1829, the church was designed to resemble a private house in order not to offend local Protestant sensibilities. Two centuries later, sectarian sentiment is no longer a problem, but the crisis of vocations in the church certainly is.
Back in Knaresborough, over the bank holiday weekend, I was in the Sunday morning congregation to hear Father William pass on sad news. A letter from the bishop of Leeds informed us that when William returns to Ampleforth Abbey, after 12 years’ sterling work, he will not be replaced by a resident priest. Instead, the parish will share one with a church in nearby Harrogate. Inevitably, that will mean fewer masses, and it is hard to imagine that the new man (because, of course, it will be a man), will be able to devote the same level of pastoral care and attention to the town.
Such arrangements are increasingly common, as the numbers training for the priesthood continue inexorably to fall. But it still comes as a shock to think of an unoccupied presbytery in a town the size of Knaresborough. In Rome, Pope Francis has inaugurated a great debate on the future of the global Catholic church, which has been compared to the famous reforming Second Vatican Council in the 1960s. But the issue of allowing married priests has barely surfaced, and the ordination of women is not even on the table. For how long can that remain the case?
The day-to-day stuff
At a certain point in Pat Collins’ beautiful, meditative new film, That They May Face the Rising Sun, a middle-aged writer who has returned to live in the rural west Ireland of his youth is asked about his new book. “Not much in the way of drama,” he replies, “just the day-to-day stuff.”
Nothing much happens in the film either, which is adapted from John McGahern’s loosely autobiographical final novel. More accurately, nothing that resembles a plot designed to reel you in. Instead, the narrative is driven by the tempo of the changing seasons, scenes of everyday companionship and reflections on love, loyalty, longing and loss. Faithful to McGahern’s lyrical vision, Collins finds a way to convey the sublime in the mundane and the routine. A task perhaps made easier when the eye is allowed so often to rest on the gentle majesty of the lakeside landscape.
The film is set around 1980, but this masterful piece of slow cinema aspires to touch upon human truths that apply to any time. In a future project, Collins hopes to make a documentary series based on the historian Patrick Joyce’s new book, Remembering Peasants. That feels like it would be a kind of sequel. It will be worth waiting for.
Moving on
Some readers may have noticed that Manchester United are not having a good season. A 4-0 hammering at the hands of Crystal Palace last week was a new low. At times like these, it’s advisable to look away and take refuge in the past. Fortunately, I’m in a rather good position to do just that. Succumbing happily to a nostalgic impulse, I recently acquired some United match programmes from between 1974 and 1977, when I began going to games. They are deeply poignant to read, half a century on. A reserved seat cost about £1, which apparently equates to just over £10 in today’s money. A similar view would cost at least four times that for Sunday’s match against Arsenal.
In 1976, a cutting-edge restaurant and an adjacent “grill room” were opened in Old Trafford. Though closed on match days, a breathless advert tells us the grill room will be offering “succulent steak, scampi or fish, with a sweet or ice-cream to follow”. In 50 years, United have travelled from the world of Abigail’s Party to the hyper-commercialism of the Glazer era. Some might call it progress. I’m not sure I would.
• Julian Coman is a Guardian associate editor
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