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Plague Pit Journal 3

If you’ve missed me, here I am.  I’ve been waiting for the right sunny mood to overtake me.  Also, the day seems ideal – the sun is shining but the wind is so cold that up here on Windy Ridge that we bask inside the conservatory rather than be hit by something else from the East.

It seems a terrible cosmic joke that we are locked away in this wonderful April of blue skies and the young green of trees.  The blossom seems more glorious than ever.  Every day I know I am blessed to be here in the country surrounded by fields and bluebell woods – and the vineyard.  This virus has demonstrated so clearly the huge cracks in our society.  I hope, as we eventually emerge, we never shrug and try to return to what passed for normal.

Have you noticed how moods have shifted as time has passed?  We have been shocked, then light-hearted as we went into lockdown.  We shared jokes about toilet roll shortages and panic buying -especially of wine.  We listened to the daily briefings expecting to learn something; a secret hope in our hearts that there would be good news.  But now we have become resigned and we take stock of what we have, where we are and who we are.  New routines are established, as have Zoom drinks with friends, Facetime with another,  Houseparties with people we would have had supper with.  Tonight I have an on-line choir rehearsal.  The news recedes in importance as there is so little change.  Good news seems only to exist elsewhere and for me the news daily feeds an anger with this administration.  This is not a party-political point: I do not accept the argument that we should not criticise; a government in a crisis should always be held to account for its action or inaction.  But it is not the point of this journal, which is to entertain and keep in touch.

The dogs are wonderful.  They know of no crisis but they know it is strange.  The elder dog trailed round after me for days at the beginning, sensing my own disorientation.  The puppy knew, and knows, no different.  His days are all new to him and his joy in them and the outside world is contagious.  His delight is contagious.  as he races into the garden every morning to discover once more that there are smells and textures and running.  Well, maybe not the running.  

We programmed Alexa to remind us to feed him at lunchtime.  At 1.00pm every day Alexa makes her reminder sound and then announces, I’m reminding you: feed Jack.  And after about three days Jack learned this was a prelude to food.  He now jumps up and rushes to the food cupboard and looks beseechingly at the door every day when the nice lady says his name.  Dog the Elder gets a fishy snack.  It took him 2 days longer to twig that if he turned up, he’d receive compensation.  Now, when the reminder sound comes, he puts down his copy of the Times, leaves his study and comes and looks reproachful until the fishy snack is handed over.  I feel very guilty that I stole the rectangular frozen fish I keep for canine light diet to make a fish pie.  A few frozen prawns and hardboiled egg, wild garlic sauce to bind, and cheesy mash on top. It was delicious. 

It seems everyone is cooking like mad; many trying to create food they’ve never created before.  Anguished cries over Twitter, Where’s all the yeast gone? and WhatsApp groups trade information (intel?) on where to score flour.  I’m not sure the price of that white powder isn’t higher than cocaine in the current situation.  And who has had all the chick peas?  I blame Guardian Cookery writers who seem to believe that if they write about cooking from cans it must include chick peas.  And caster sugar?  I imagine suddenly everyone is baking.  Just as I am.  On Saturday I spent the best part of the day making Ottolenghi Nutella rolls.  I had to make the Nutella first – that’s what this life has done to me.  Every day at 4.00pm-ish we have tea and cake.  I’ve always made cake. My mother believed there was a part of hell populated by people who bought cake.  They shared this space with people who said garridge instead of garaage.  And people who disliked dogs.  And with people…

I’ve kept a note of every supper I’ve cooked since 17 March.  So far, no repetition but it can’t last.  We’re certainly eating very healthily; as is the friend who previously seemed to have subsisted on avocado, smoked salmon and scones.  Not always together.  Our outing for the week is to pick up a takeaway at the Coach and Horses.  Order in advance, stand very far apart in the car park and collect from the window.  And for Sol, the delight of takeaway Harvey’s, for which I sacrificed two SodaStream bottles.  We used to love meeting friends for supper up there and I hope we may do so again one day.  Preferably before the rumoured date for unlocking over 70s of late 2021.  We don’t have that much life left to be locked away from it.  And I miss the Reform Club cheese and ham toastie.

Random notes.  Rainbow signs appear on doors, windows and fences everywhere.  Talismans to ward off the pestilence?

I took the stopper out of a bottle of scent (spritzed some fragrance for the younger people) and inhaled my previous life.  I organised a wardrobe of clothes from a bygone age.  I tried on some shoes with heels and wondered if I’d ever bother again.  No Ascot, no opera, no fancy summer gigs.  No big bloody birthday party!

Still a short reading attention span.  Requirements: no misery memoirs; I must like the central character; a plot – no time for exquisite and opaque writing; fiction only - all science is suspended until the vaccine arrives and all other stuff is speculative.  Perhaps poetry can find the words I cannot but I doubt Lewis Carroll or Edward Lear ever will.  The Guardian was more fun when we had Brexit to complain about.

Here’s looking at you, kid.

X From all at Plummerden.

PS If you can, donate to the Trussell Trust or some other charity caring for the people falling through the cracks.

Elaine Fear, Alto 2


Posted on 23rd April 2020


Reflections on 19 April

This weekend had long been in my calendar as one to look forward to. Sunday 19 April is my birthday and it was to be my first gig with the choir at the Royal Albert Hall since my return to the ranks in January, after nine years away. My wife and I had booked a nearby hotel for Saturday night as we’d bought tickets for a matinee performance of ‘Les Miserables’ at the Sondheim Theatre.

But alas, it wasn’t to be. Instead, with the rest of the world, we’ve been adapting our lives to being on ‘lockdown’ and all that comes with such a challenge. And like everyone else, it’s been really hard being kept beyond arm’s length from my 88-year-old dad, my children, grandchildren and stepchildren. My stepdaughter Naomi’s September wedding hangs in the balance.

Like her mum (my wife, Helen), Naomi is a registered nurse. Although she’s currently employed as a nurse in a sexual health clinic, her prior experience in A&E has led to her being redeployed back there, albeit at a different hospital. This week, she’s been showing symptoms of the virus and, having already been tested once, is returning for a second test in the next couple of days.

Helen is a district nurse, and is just returning to work after ten weeks on sick leave with back problems. Her phased return ends today, Friday, and next week, it’s back full throttle into the fray. And so, as far as we’re able, we’re (very) reluctantly having to keep our distance from each other at home.

I don’t wish to over-egg the pudding here, but added to the mix for Helen is recent news (in the last six weeks) that her mum has been diagnosed with dementia, and her father with an aggressive form of cancer. So, whilst I could return to my profession as a locum front-line child protection social worker, I feel I need to be here at home (well I’m here anyway…) to support her to support everyone else.

If nothing else, this self-isolation provides ample time for self-reflection – and for many, too much. In deciding to remain at home anyway, virus or no virus, I’ve decided to start my own business, and am close to launching a recruitment company, initially concentrating on finding work for candidates in the sectors I know best - health and social care. Wish me luck. If you have any potential candidates, or employers, let me know….!

I, like everyone else, have had time to contemplate what I’m missing (and what I’m not), what I’m discovering along the way, and what I’m grateful for. I didn’t realise I’d miss so much my regular appointment with my hairdresser, Natalie! To describe myself as ‘shaggy’ would be to vastly understate the description!

Apart from my family, like everyone else on here, I’m missing making music in a way I couldn’t hitherto have imagined. Apart from the wonderful BFC, I play timpani and percussion in local orchestras and had some enjoyable concerts to look forward to – not least the one with Lewes Concert Orchestra that was to have featured Gershwin and Bernstein, including the West Side Story suite of dances, great for the percussion department!

The task set by James to record ‘No Rack Can Torture Me’ was an incredible challenge. I’d never heard of it before. I did what was required, thought I sounded awful, but sent it anyway. The emptiness of singing alone was stark. It seemed to take forever, and in trying so hard to get my bit right, didn’t pay much attention to the words, or indeed, the piece as a whole. Once I’d finished it, and sent it to James, I decided to put the title into the YouTube search engine, only to discover, through the moving video of the BFC recording, its true meaning for James and Juliette. I’ve since listened to it several times through the headphones – it’s truly an amazing and inspirational piece of artistry and musical mastery by them both.

I’m missing not being able to travel to France. We’re usually there three to four times a year, and usually in or close to Montreuil-sur-Mer, the inspiration for Hugo’s ‘Les Miserables’. This citadel town, its ramparts with its Saturday morning market has changed little since Hugo visited in 1837. Our regular haunt is the Bar Douglas on the main square, and for dinner, the wonderful Auberge du Vieux Logis, in nearby Madelaine-sous-Montreuil.

Apart from quarantine itself, what am I not missing or getting fed up with? Well, I hardly listen to the news now - don’t get me started….! I’m getting fed up with Facebook – so many self-righteous ‘stay at home-police’ on there.

What have I discovered? Well, my granddaughter has introduced me to TikTok, where there are some absolutely hilarious videos to be found from those who’ve turned self-isolation into an artform. And I’ve rediscovered my guitar(s) – which had lain dormant for far too long. I may even get back to writing a song or two. I’ve also discovered the magnificent voice of our BFC colleague Ian Farrell. See his inspiration blog post below (Ten for Ten), and check out his web page, especially his ‘Nessun Dorma’ video. I’ve discovered that every time I go out to walk Danny, our Golden Retriever, everyone smiles and says hello – which never used to be the case. It’ll be interesting to see if that continues after this is all over. It’s like some massive social experiment…..

I’m grateful for my family, my friends, my mental and physical health and for the huge sacrifices being made by everyone on the front line. Hot off the press, two minutes ago – Naomi has just been further redeployed to ITU. Anxious times. And I’m so grateful to have been welcomed back to BFC.

Les Miserables concludes with battles across the barricades. My birthday isn’t going to be what it might have been, but the imposed barricade of staying at home, with its trials, tribulations, and journey of contemplation and self-discovery has, if nothing else, been cathartic. I’ve saved a bottle of my favourite French red wine for tomorrow. Santé!

Stay safe, and as my dear old mum used to say, “keep on keeping on”.

John Davis, Bass 1

Posted on 19th April 2020


Plague Pit Journal 2

Thank you all for the positive reception for Journal No. 1.  As a thank you, I am sending you  No.2.  This may be a little darker in tone.  Matters have worsened and isolation brings deep thoughts.  Of course, I’m not isolated as such; Sol is here.  A by-product is that we have discovered that we’ve been social distancing for years.  On walks he is always at least three metres behind.  A man never know to hurry, he isn’t going to start now.  He can produce quite a mental distance when he’s absorbed in affairs of the lap top, as well.  I wonder what this is doing for extra-marital affairs?  On the Common last week a couple in business dress emerged from a car and set off along the path.  Ah, I thought,  a walk after work (presumably somewhere essential).   After a few steps they locked themselves in a passionate embrace.  Perhaps not, then?

We’ve all remarked on the silence and the emptiness of the skies, the clear air and the scents of spring.  Once again a massive apology to those inside their homes in a town or city.  I was shocked when a London friend retreated from her balcony because she couldn’t hear me on the phone because of the traffic.  The scents are wonderful – daffodils, narcissus, flowering redcurrant and now freshly cut grass.  Soon the bluebells will be in bloom but this year there will be no Bluebell Railway puffing along at the bottom of the field, loaded with visitors out to enjoy the magnificent sight.  I miss the mournful whistle as it approaches.  Sol can usually tell me what sort of locomotive is pulling the train.  He’s lost his anorak.

Everyone, it seems, has been tidying like mad.  This has resulted in some wonderful finds – lost socks, bits of jewellery, old letters.  One couple I know discovered they have his and hers axes.  Could be handy.  I was going to sift the bookshelves but I found I could not.  At the moment every book is precious because I can remember how I acquired it, if it was a gift, who gave it to me and the events of the time.  The crummiest paperback bought in desperation at a station bookshop now has a resonance that keeps it on the shelf, as if to throw it away would be to jettison my past.  And the past is all that anchors me to a future.  Another friend remarked, “At the moment we have no tomorrows.”. 

The odd mood I am in drives me to reflection.  Is this how life was once for those who had leisure?  Is this why so much Victorian literature is so heavy on philosophical examination and weighty ponderings?  Or why so much of it is just plain heavy.  I realised I wake each morning with a vague sense of dread and disorientation and a certain knowledge that I cannot escape or change the current state in any meaningful way.  Then it hit me.  It is the same feeling as dawns on the characters in Huis Clos: that we are trapped all of us and we are in eternity.  I hope that in this case that bit  is not true but the gradual realisation of hopelessness is very Sartre.  I may put aside La Peste (not yet started and unread since I closed it aged 18) and pick up some Sartre.  Except I won’t.  Again, as with many others, I am finding concentrated reading of worthwhile literature impossible.  Poetry may well be the answer as it always is in times of stress.  Or TV.

Our music director has sent us a score, a backing track and a video of him conducting two pieces from our repertoire.  He invites us to record our own singing and to send it to him to be merged into a choir.  I bet auto tune’s going to be busy.  I find myself reluctant to do this.  First there’s the horror of sending my solo rendition to a man with very high standards indeed; it seems worse than our regular re-auditions.  But more than that, to me the beauty of choral singing is that I am in the same place as my colleagues and friends, that we work in true harmony and that together we make a beautiful thing.  It is the very fact of community that makes it so wonderful.  To sing solo into a phone is a soulless experience.  I have to add that one of the pieces is the Mozart Ave Verum.  For me, this is one of the most sublime pieces of music ever written and it is rare for me to be able to sing it without being moved almost to tears.  It is the collective nature of that emotion and creation of beauty which makes me recoil from the solo cold isolated phone.  That and the fact that it is my grace note for my wake.  I won’t be there, of course, but given my other piece of music is Jnr Walker and the All Stars, Roadrunner I rather look to Mozart to salvage my reputation from being seen as a complete light weight.

Finally, childhood remains the same.  A friend in Edinburgh tells me she watched from her balcony a mother and child in the Meadows.  The mother had a chair and read a book whilst the girl practised her football – keepie uppies, headers and that thing with the heel.  And when I was walking in the woods I heard a child’s voice.  Rounding the corner I met (at a distance) my neighbour and her four year old.  The little girl was dressed in her full Cinderella ballgown and wore a tiara. No glass slippers but wellies.  What an enchanting sight amongst the budding bluebells.

Here’s to more ordinary times.

Elaine Fear, Alto 2

Posted on 6th April 2020


The Plague Pit Journal

Dear friends,

This is a lazy way of keeping up with friends and committing some thoughts to paper.  I’ve been meaning to write this for a few days but the beautiful weather has driven me into the garden and puppy-training. 

It’s certainly been a strange year so far.  Burning continents, floods, constant war and now Covid-19 seemingly laying waste not just to large number so people but also taking the global economy with it.  We all know that many things will be changed forever when we (or those who are spared) emerge blinking into the new dawn.  Ways of working, work itself, habits and social life.  Schooling and universities.  Concerts and theatre.  The Reform Club General Committee Zoom meeting.  It could be decades for the real changes to become obvious, which is really annoying from my point of view since another two decades of life would be amazing although possibly awful and almost certainly not happening.

Talking of which, since so much of of  life is on hold I propose to put my age on hold.  I shall remain 69 and three-quarters until I can celebrate 70 in the style I intended.  And with a decent haircut and manicure.  I am fortunate in sporting natural hair colour. 

So many things now seem irrelevant – the fashion pages in magazines and newspapers, property prices, the FT ‘How to spend it’ magazine – although that always was in this household.  Sourcing plain flour and fresh veg is much more important.  I had vowed to buy no new clothes except underwear for a year except for a new birthday dress.  It’s not going to be hard to keep to that and I may pass on the underwear.  Indeed, we’re so isolated here that we may never manage to integrate into whatever will pass for polite society again.

We live what used to be called ‘a quiet life in the country’.  In other days this meant that we were disgraced and retired from society because of bankruptcy, divorce, scandal.  None of that, so  we missed all the fun.  We are very fortunate indeed.  We have chickens for eggs, a garden for veg and fields to walk in.  Sheep and lambs in the paddock and lovely young neighbours.  Dogs to be companions and amuse us.  Also a chest freezer.  But we miss our friends and the Club and the pub and the gun dog groups and the radio station and all the things we did.  If we looked at the economy, we’d probably miss my pension investments, too.

Sol, deprived of the pub and Harveys, is drinking bottled beers.  He’s just opened a bottle of Brew Dog Elvis, which is grapefruit tinged, proclaiming, Extraordinary times call for extraordinary beers.   A sip and then, it ain’t bad!  Now we know the world has tipped on its axis and all is as in flux.  We think 6.00pm Facetime or Zoom drinks with friends is the way forward.  Celebrated Sandra’s birthday yesterday with a glass and Facetime.  Not quite the meal at Honey and Smoke we’d booked. 

Cancelled the travel insurance and SORNed the camper.

Good things: the silence – no planes, no traffic in the Lane or in earshot, clear skies, spring in its glory, birdsong and bees sounding loud in the hedgerows.  (Sorry, again to my city/town bound mates). Listening to the little girl next door give orders to her mum but then be very confused about what is happening.  The lambs leaping.  The puppy discovering life.  Cue corny sentimental cards etc.

So a little astringency in the absence of any hand sanitiser:  how come so many people don’t take this seriously?  Why do a few people empty the very small farm shop with one swoop of their greedy paws?  Why has Tim Martin abandoned his workers? Why does the government think everyone has two bathrooms?  Some have only a room to live in.  What are our casual (gig economy) workers to live on?  Why do friends report their children working in London hospitals exhausted and in tears?

Final thought – let’s all meet at the Bull in Ambridge.  It seems Covid-19 has yet to hit Ambridge and the Archer family.

With love from Fear and Mead (and Darty and Jack)

Elaine Fear, Alto 2

Posted on 1st April 2020


An Antidote to Coronavirus

So, here we all are, banged up in solitary confinement, unable to sing with our friends and feeling sorry for ourselves.  What we need is something to cheer ourselves up.  So here are a few performances that might do that.

Tom Lehrer with a song that seems appropriate for our times:

Dudley Moore playing “Colonel Bogey” in the style of Beethoven, and reminding us just how funny and talented he was:

The Hallelujah Chorus from Handel’s Messiah, as performed by a group of Trappist monks who have taken a vow of silence:

A talented (and very competitive) female quartet:

Do you have any more favourite clips you would like to share?

Steve Linehan, Bass 1

Posted on 29th March 2020



This is an exercise devised by my husband Simon for his pub-based writers’ group (which for obvious reasons are not meeting at the moment) modestly entitled Alphabretts

You have to write a story in twenty-six words, which appear in alphabetical order. 

Here are some examples so far from various family and friends: 

Apologies. Bad Call. Desperate Excuses For Going Home In Jeremy’s Kia Last Monday. Not Only Perfidious - Questionable Result. Sorry. Try Understanding Voluptuous Wife’s X-Rated Yearnings – Zoe

And here, with the additional refinement of using the alphabet backwards, is the husband’s reply:

Zoe, You X-rated Wife, Very Upset To See Response. Quick, Put Out No More Licentious Kisses! Jeremy Is Hugely Gay, For Ever Desiring Colin! Back Away!

And another one which reflected a true situation this morning:

Ancient bloody cat doesn’t eat. Forget getting ham in jelly. Kibble liked most. Nothing on paws quite replaces sautéed tuna. Uppity vet won’t x-ray. Yours zonked.

It would be great to have a musical one if any of you felt the urge or indeed on anything at all. Send them to me at and we’ll compile an anthology!

Lucy Brett, Soprano 2

Posted on 29th March 2020


Ten For Ten

At the tale end of last year, I celebrated a huge personal milestone, celebrating my TEN years of sobriety. To mark this, I recorded a beautiful album called “ten for ten”. It’s a great collection of well known songs (think josh groban/ opera) and it’s hopefully a brilliant example of someone’s journey and the positivity that can be achieved. (Full bio/story on website).

The album is completely free to download at
(FLAC version is the better quality)

I wanted to share it with everyone to be enjoyed. Hopefully it will be a little light music accompaniment to the lockdown period. There is a video of me singing Nessun Dorma at the bottom of the homepage of my website too. 

You can follow me on Instagram @iandavidfarrell for other videos.

I hope everyone enjoys and appreciates the sharing of something so positive (and hopefully beautiful sounding) in these crazy times!

Feel free to share it with anyone and everyone! 

Ian Farrell, Tenor 2

Posted on 29th March 2020


Tippett - A Child of Our Time

Out of the choral comfort zone with Tippett’s ‘A Child of Our Time’

Tippett composed 'A Child of Our Time' in response to events which marked a catastrophic upheaval in my parents' lives, and without which I would not exist - which makes singing it an unusual and unsettling experience for me.  Much of the choral repertoire - requiems, passions, masses and all - is rooted in Christian belief and scripture, which can make a Jewish atheist like me pause to think. Many of the people singing around me might have lost or discarded the faith they grew up with, but most of them were at least brought up to see the Christian story as their own.  I, on the other hand, will often catch myself in choir rehearsals thinking 'It's not my story, but the musical satisfactions make it all worthwhile.'  Or 'Why does God get all the best tunes?' or even 'Why can't some of the repertoire have more to do with my own story?'  But now that we've started rehearsing 'A Child of Our Time' (the first time I've sung in it) I'm beginning to think I should be careful what I wish for.

Tippett read the news about the 17-year-old Jewish boy, Herschel Grynszpan, who shot and killed a German diplomat in Paris in November 1938, and about Kristallnacht, the vicious pogrom the Nazis launched against Jewish homes, businesses and synagogues in response.  For Tippett, these events provided a focus for ideas that had been taking shape in his mind, for an oratorio about oppression and man's inhumanity to man.

At 17, Herschel Grynszpan was close to my mother in age, and the two had far more in common: both born and educated in Germany, with parents who had immigrated from Poland and still had Polish nationality.  He fired his bullets in protest at the treatment of his parents and some fifty thousand other Jews who had been deported from Germany to Poland that year.  They included my mother and her family, kicked out of their homes in Leipzig and dumped in no-mans-land at the Polish border.  "We cannot have them in our Empire, They shall not work nor draw a dole, Let them starve in No-Man's-Land" as Tippett's libretto puts it.  When the Nazis' Empire spread east into Poland in 1941, my mother's entire family of 46 people were among those murdered.  My mother and one sister who had found a way to get out to Britain were the only survivors.  "We are as seed before the wind. We are carried to a great slaughter."

Meanwhile in Munich, my father, a few years older than Grynszpan, was one of thousands of young men arrested and briefly imprisoned to frighten them immediately after Kristallnacht.  "Away with them!  Curse them! Kill them! They infect the state," was the message, and it got through.  As soon as he was released my father fled across the Alps to Italy, from where he managed to get to London on the last civilian train through France before war broke out.

'A Child of Our Time' was consciously modelled on Handel's Messiah and the great St John and St Matthew Passions by Bach.  Despite Tippett's harsh dissonances, the echoes of Handel and Bach are sometimes obvious, not least in the fugal writing of some of the choruses.  What I like most about the piece is Tippett's use of African-American spirituals in place of Bach's chorales, to punctuate the narrative and provide pauses for reflection.  He chose these to make the point that oppression echoes through human history and reflects the same 'dark side' of human nature, whoever the perpetrators and the victims might be.

Tippett's do-it-yourself libretto has been much criticised.  His friend and mentor T. S. Eliot famously turned down Tippett's request to write the words, leaving him to do it himself.  As an outspoken anti-Semite, T. S. Eliot would seem an odd choice for this job, so I can't help thinking the piece is better off without him, despite his superior poetic powers.  I wonder whether anti-Semitism could have been Eliot's real motive for refusing the work.

In the penultimate chorus, the choir sings of "an abiding hope, The moving waters renew the earth, It is spring" and I am struck by how jarringly optimistic these words seem in the context.  It is worth remembering that 'A Child of Our Time' was written between 1939 and 1941, when the Nazi regime's murderous intentions had become clear but nobody knew the horrific scale of methodical slaughter that was to follow.  It is hard to imagine this or any other oratorio being composed in 1945 after the liberation of Auschwitz and Belsen.

I am glad that there is a great piece in the choral repertoire that commemorates this history and is regularly performed, and for me it is a rare exception in relating so closely to my own family background.  But that makes it uncomfortable.  When Bach calls for his chorus to be an angry mob baying for Christ's blood, I can do my best to get into character and deliver.  But when Tippett has us sing "Burn down their houses! Beat in their heads! Break them in pieces on the wheel", that's a challenge I haven't met before as a choral singer, because this is a drama of events within living memory, and "them" is my own parents.

Stephen Engelhard, Bass 2

(Brighton Festival Chorus is preparing Tippett’s ‘A Child of Our Time’ for the closing concert of the 2019 Brighton Festival on May 26th).

Posted on 28th February 2019


post image

San Nicola 2017

In May 2017 my husband and I participated in a Pilgrimage to Bari, in Puglia, Italy, which culminated in a magnificent three day festival including a concert in the Basilica San Nicola: ‘The Story of St Nicholas’, portrayed through piano, tenor and narrator (in Italian of course, so I needed to be familiar with the story!) The next evening saw a street procession bearing the icon of St Nicholas. This included trapeze ‘fairies’ supported by helium balloons. The next morning a further procession bore the icon from the Basilica to the harbour (see image above) where there was a firework display in broad daylight, along with a Mass and Blessing of the Sea. The fish market added another colourful ingredient! That evening a further procession bore the icon onto a boat in the harbour. Further fireworks made for a stunning display along with an aerial display in a flyover above Bari.

On the third day, the festival concluded with the Mass of the Holy Manna in the Basilica San Nicola during which there was an extraction the “Manna” from the sealed box containing the relics in the crypt. It is said that the production of this liquid remains a mystery. A further display of fireworks brought the festival to a close.

So you see, the Saint for whom Britten found fit to compose, is truly revered in Bari to this day.

Many legends grew up around him, often featuring the number three, e.g. he was believed to have rescued three girls from prostitution by his gift of three bags of gold for their marriage dowries; to have restored three boys to life after they had been murdered in a brine tub by a butcher; to have rescued three sailors from drowning; and to have saved three men unjustly condemned to death.

The text in our scores brings to life the rescuing nature of Saint Nicolas!

Kate Belfield, Alto 1

Tickets for our concert

Posted on 8th February 2019


Britten’s War Requiem: a message of hope

One hundred years on from the end of the war it portrays, Benjamin Britten’s greatest choral work remains as poignant as ever, says Emma Gregg

Benjamin Britten’s astounding War Requiem is both a roar of protest against the horror of human conflict, and a heartfelt plea for peace. It was commissioned at a time when memories of both World Wars were still raw, and the words Britten chose – some drawn from the Latin Missa Pro Defunctis, others from the First World War poetry of Wilfred Owen – are drenched in anguish. There are moments of spitting anger, in which the soloists express fury at the betrayal of an entire generation. Chillingly, at times, you can hear bugle calls in the orchestra, and the sickening thud of artillery. When at last, in the closing movement, serenity comes, you’re left drained by the emotional impact of what has gone before.


I can still remember the half-terrifying, half-thrilling feeling of leaving my choral score behind in the dressing room, ready to perform this richly challenging work by heart


Today, Armistice Day, Brighton Festival Chorus is preparing for its second performance of this monumental work in 2018, the 100th anniversary of the end of the First World War and the choir’s own 50th anniversary year.

At the Brighton Festival in May, we joined forces with Dutch conductor Arie van Beek, the Britten Sinfonia and the Orchestre de Picardie, which is based on the River Somme in Amiens, for a concert in which we sang the entire War Requiem from memory.

I can still remember the half-terrifying, half-thrilling feeling of leaving my choral score behind in the dressing room, ready to perform this richly challenging work by heart. A score can be many things – a prompt, a prop, even a shield to hide behind. But after hours of painstaking study and rehearsal under our musical director James Morgan, I was ready.

Winston Churchill visits the ruins of Coventry Cathedral in September 1941, ten months after the Coventry Blitz

Our forthcoming concert is set to be every bit as powerful. This time, we’ll be performing in the space for which the War Requiem was commissioned in the early 1960s, Coventry Cathedral, together with the Coventry Cathedral Chorus and Choristers and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra.

The date of our concert, Wednesday 14 November, is profoundly significant. It was on the night of 14-15 November 1940 that much of Coventry city centre, including its Gothic cathedral, was ruined by devastating bombing raids.


Among the many people who sprang to the aid of others during the bombardment was a local doctor, less than a decade into his career


Numerous stories of that fateful event survive, but one in particular is very close to my heart. Among the many people who sprang to the aid of others during the bombardment was a local doctor, less than a decade into his career, whose actions that night earned him the George Medal. According to the official report published in the London Gazette, this young man “showed a high degree of courage and resource which contributed to the saving of a number of lives.”

“While fires were raging and bombs falling,” the report continues, “he coolly continued to go, partly on foot and partly by bicycle, from one incident to another, administering morphia to those trapped in the wreckage, and applying first aid under conditions of extreme difficulty, with complete disregard for the intense bombardment and for the very real personal danger entailed.”

The thought of that young man pedalling through the Coventry Blitz with his doctor’s bag on the back of his bike gives me shivers. And it’s his story that I shall be remembering on Wednesday. His name was Henry Norman Gregg, and he was my grandfather. Family folklore has it that his hair turned white overnight.

The ruins of Coventry's Gothic cathedral, a lasting reminder of the 1940 Blitz

Since, for our Coventry performance, we’ll have our scores back in our hands, I’ve been scribbling new notes into mine. Some are suggestions from Britten himself; remarkably, a 1963 recording exists of the composer delivering rehearsal instructions to the Bach Choir in clipped, mid-century tones.

Several conductors have led us on our journey to Coventry, each armed with fresh passion and insight. Back in the spring, James Morgan helped us visualise the Requiem’s harrowing context via a series of wartime photographs, and Arie van Beek brought us his own, distinctively European, perspective.


Try singing mechanically, as if you’re neither awake nor asleep, neither dead nor alive


Last month, our guest conductor Murray Hipkin, assistant conductor of the English National Opera, offered us little snippets of information about the ENO’s new interpretation of Britten's War Requiem, the preview of which will take place at the London Coliseum on the night of our concert. “At this point, our chorus are all lying flat on their backs”, Murray said of the first movement. “Try to imagine that. Try singing mechanically, as if you’re neither awake nor asleep, neither dead nor alive.” This is not the kind of direction we're used to. But we dug deep.

Our last rehearsal on home turf was on 6 November, exactly 100 years and two days after Wilfred Owen’s tragic death on the Western Front. Coventry Cathedral’s musical director Paul Leddington Wright, who will conduct us on Wednesday, paused in the lull before the last passages of poetry. “It’s so evocative, isn’t it?” he said. “You can almost smell the smoke of the battlefield. You can see and feel the devastation.”


"The audience will be able to look over your heads to the floodlit ruins of the old cathedral beyond." In my mind’s eye, we were already there.


Explaining that the War Requiem is as much a cultural artefact of the modern cathedral as its Graham Sutherland tapestry, its John Piper stained glass, its Elisabeth Frink lectern and its Cross of Nails, Paul helped us picture the performance to come.

“We’ll be staging it back to front, if you like. Instead of placing you in front of the altar of the modern cathedral, you’ll be at the west end, so that the audience will be able to look over your heads to the floodlit ruins of the old cathedral beyond.” In my mind’s eye, we were already there.

Britten's War Requiem was commissioned for the consecration of Coventry's new cathedral in 1962

Could Europe ever be drawn into the terror of war once again? As we progressed from movement to movement, the question kept returning. For much of the last seven decades, it’s been unthinkable. Collective memories, kinship and a shared love of music are just a few of the many threads which bind our continent together.

We may be bobbing on a tide of uncertainty, but, like Britten, an ardent pacifist, we must hold on to hope. It’s what my grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s generations, who fought so hard for peace, would have wanted. And it’s what my generation wants, too.

Emma Gregg, Alto 1

Paul Leddington Wright, Kerry Beaumont and Simon Over will conduct the Brighton Festival Chorus, Coventry Cathedral Chorus, Coventry Cathedral Choristers and Royal Philharmonic Orchestra in their performance of Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem at Coventry Cathedral at 7pm on Wednesday 14 November 2018.

As well as commemorating Armistice Day and the Coventry Blitz, this concert is part of the year-long Plumb Line Festival ( marking 100 years of the Diocese and Cathedral of Coventry.

Posted on 11th November 2018