The Dark Monk, Bradwell Abbey

There’s a storm raging today. The wind had kept me awake through most of the night, a howling around the house punctuated by violent rattles of heavy rain thrown at the windows front and back, as if the storm was deliberately attacking from every angle. He’s one of those named storms we seem to be getting more often every year – this one’s called Darragh, and he definitely didn’t want me to sleep. Feeling rather groggy and sleep-deprived I decided that, despite the weather, what I really needed was a walk to blow away the cobwebs. I’m in the depths of an exceptionally immersive podcast at the moment, so as soon as it got light enough, I wrapped up warm, settled my headphones in and headed out into the storm.

I knew exactly where I was going to go for the right atmosphere – Bradwell Abbey. It’s somewhere I’ve visited often, more so over the last year as I’ve been walking to calm my thoughts and work through life’s more complicated challenges. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while (actually, a very long while – to be honest, I’m not really sure if anyone has been reading that long, but there we go!) then you might remember that back in January 2018, I had something of a strange experience there while I was looking for inspiration for stories for my MA. I’ll let you read that account if you’d like to, but the chapel and the ruined abbey grounds have a reputation for being haunted, and I’ve always found it a compelling place to spend some time. There are usually plenty of people around at the weekend, walking dogs or visiting the discovery centre nearby, but today I had it all to myself. I wandered around the ruins taking photographs, battered by the wind and getting thoroughly drenched, most of my attention on what I was listening to, miles away with the congregation in a strange little town by the sea.

I was just about to head for home when I noticed something strange about a motionless cowled figure lurking over by the centre buildings. Half-concealed in the tree-line, he’s stood there for as long as I can remember, a holy book clenched tight in his bony hands. He stares darkly, implacably looking out over the old abbey site with a forbiddingly grim expression on his wooden features. It’s always hard to shake the feeling of those hooded eyes following you and as I slowly drew closer, I realised what was so different about this sinister figure today. Well, as you can see from the before and after photographs I’ve shared above – he’s taken on a significantly darker shade 🙂 Yes, the abbey monk statue has had a fetching make-over! Every time I’ve visited before, he’s looked increasingly weather-beaten and worn, the elements taking their toll by silvering his robes and erasing his features down to an unsettling blankness. He’s now looking very smart with his new paint job and even seems to have acquired a bit of a suntan but those dark eyes remain as shadowed and haunting as ever. I’m never sure whether I prefer to think of him as the guardian of the ruins or the embodiment of a spectre.

I rounded off my wanderings with a quick jaunt through the spooky railway tunnel that I’ve also written about before. The river underneath has risen to the highest I’ve ever seen it, and although it wasn’t in danger of flooding the footbridge, I didn’t want to linger. Darragh is supposed to continue his violence for the rest of the weekend and it wouldn’t surprise me if the river overflows its banks again so I took my sleep-deprived self home for warmth and coffee. As I turned for home, I couldn’t help picturing the dark monk behind me, eternally observing his silent vigil and weathering the storm.