It’s finally happened: I’ve been to Mass in my carpet slippers. One Sunday morning I found myself at a lovely house party, staying with friends not far from Dundee. In previous years a convoy of vehicles has trundled down the drive towards the nearest church, but the preaching style of the parish priest and the liturgical arrangements into which the devotional life of the local community have settled are not necessarily to my hosts’ tastes. As it happened there was a priest among the guests, and so we kept it all in house – literally.
Nestled in its elegant alcove, the enormous dining room sideboard was cleared of its elegant domestic accoutrements save for two candlesticks at either side. As the de Lászlo dowager on the wall above looked on, an altar stone and missal were introduced, and then a small crucifix. Our friend’s holdall seemed like Mary Poppins’ famous carpet bag: next came vestments, which were laid out on the hall table; then purificators and lavabo towel, and finally vessels for water and wine – Pinot Grigio from the scullery fridge.
We came as we were, from drawing room, kitchen and bedrooms – hence the slippers. I did wonder whether someone should have gone up and down the staircase ringing a bell. It used to be said that the high-Anglican Viscount Halifax (he of the doomed Malines Conversations with Cardinal Mercier in the 1920s) had a butler who went around first thing on Sunday mornings asking guests still abed whether they intended to receive communion later. Those who said no were given a cup of tea, and those who said yes got a glass of water.
At least the local church is still open – for now. Further north, in the heart of the Cairngorms, I was driving along the B9008 one sunny afternoon when I spotted a pinkish-granite façade on the other side of the Livet. Firmly neo-Gothic, with shades of vernacular Strawberry Hill, and with a modestly sized house next door, it could hardly have been anything else but a place of worship. I briefly wondered if it might be the conventicle of some obscure Scottish Protestant sect, but something visceral stirred and told me that it would be worth a detour.
And so it was that after a couple of twists and turns, I stumbled on the Church of the Incarnation, Tombae. A spot of iPhone research told me much of what I needed to know: in penal times, a priest had ministered covertly in the area from 1745, the year of the final fall of the Jacobite cause. The present building dated from 1829, the year of Catholic Emancipation. It had served the area until 2012, when it was closed and put up for sale.
As I wandered through the churchyard, then, my heart was far from light; although it was interesting to chance upon the grave of George Smith, founder of the nearby and now world-famous Glenlivet distillery. In my mind, I imagined the worshippers of yesteryear making their way to Mass down the lanes from their cottages and through the fields from their farmsteads, in sun and storm, wind and rain. I thought I was alone in my reverie, until I rounded the north-west corner.
A young man in overalls was sanding a piece of wood, using coffin trestles as a workbench. Having startled each other, we exchanged greetings; he had an obviously American accent. It was a moment when that difficult and dangerous question, “But where are you really from?” suddenly came into its own. His name was Dominic Gaffney; although raised in California, his family hailed from the valley in which we were both then standing.
The graveyard is full of his ancestors; his parents had been married at the Incarnation, and their children baptised there. Far away on the other side of the world, Dominic had learned that Tombae Church had been abandoned – it was by then in a parlous state of disrepair – and had resolved to buy it and restore it to use. He kindly gave me a full tour. Clearly it had once been very beautiful, with gold stars all over the blue vaulted ceiling, some lovely stencilling (with more being uncovered and restored) and exquisite moulded plasterwork.
Bit by bit, its new owner is bringing the place back to life; it shows every sign of being beautiful again in the not-too-distant future, when the restoration is complete. With an eye on making it pay its way – understandably – Dominic has thought of running it as a weddings-and-functions venue. I’ve no doubt it would be popular, but here’s hoping that the Diocese of Aberdeen might also ask to reinstate a regular Mass there as well. It could be celebrated on the handsome stone altar which, for reasons I cannot fathom, they abandoned when they left.
(Photo: Kevin Philpott / Church of the Incarnation, Tombae / CC BY-SA 2.0)
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