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Published: November 16th 2011
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“So, who was St. Fillan?” I asked this question as I tried to peer through the bars and cross-shaped metal adornment that blocked the opening of his ‘cave’. My host Richard and I had been wandering through the tiny, and beautiful, coastal village of Pittenweem, Scotland when we happened upon this famous – at least to Scots and the religious – site. According to no less an authority than the BBC, St. Fillan spent most of his remarkable life “…as a hermit in the cave in the fishing village which came to be named after him (Pittenweem means ‘place of the cave’), it was said that he managed to pray and write in the secluded gloom of the cave by means of a light which glowed from his left arm as he wrote with his right.” (http://www.bbc.co.uk/scotland/whereilive/coast/stages.shtml?walk=centralandfife&stage=5). Man, I sure could use that light attachment for reading and writing on all my overseas flights.
Anyway, St. Fillan is also supposed to have convinced a wolf who killed an ox to get on the straight-and-narrow, and because he is the Patron Saint of the mentally ill – and thus I suppose academics such as myself – his cave was reckoned to
be a place in which healing of their mental instability could take place. To accomplish said healing, the mentally ill were bound, placed in the cave and left overnight. If their bonds were gone in the morning, they were considered healed. But, I would sure not want to have been the first person in the door the next morning, given that the alternative to healing was that there was an extremely angry, and now free, psycho loose in the cave. Fortunately for Richard and me, if there was an escaped loony in the cave this particular morning, they were locked behind iron bars.
Since I did not have a great deal of time before I was to meet my train back to Edinburgh, we left the cave unexplored and kept meandering through the backstreets of Pittenweem. In fact, we had not spent too much time in any of the villages as we wound our way from St. Andrews along the North Sea coastline. The wind tore at our coats each time we stepped out of Richard’s car, matching well the atmosphere and wonderful names of the villages that dotted the coast – Crail, Cellardyke, Anstruther, and of course Pittenweem.
Place names that seemed to drip with antiquity and to speak of a culture tied to the sea. Buildings, though most often well-maintained, showed evidence of the weathering effects of the North Sea storms. Signs fastened to ocean-facing walls were the best indicators of the ferocity of the weather. But, what a majestic place it was; forlorn and windswept, yet, somehow embracing of the onlooker. I don’t know if I could survive as a local, but something inside of me wanted to try.
Our next stop reminded me of one way in which the residents buffer themselves against the North Sea ‘breezes’. They accomplish this through the liberal application of the fry-elated arts. Richard explained that no trip to this portion of the world would be complete without a visit to the Anstruther Fish Bar, the ‘UK Winner: Seafish Fish & Chip Shop of the Year 2008/09’. This was a dream come true for me. I wept gently as we stepped across the threshold of the Fish Bar and smelled the odor of steaming, crispy-golden chips, vinegar and battered fish parts bubbling in vats of boiling oil. I did not mind that Richard felt that the quality of the
food had decreased somewhat when the original owner sold the fried goldmine after winning accolade after accolade. I was in heaven, and when the food arrived and I doused the fish liberally with vinegar and then started shoveling it in, I was transported on wings to the place that pre-cardiac patients love to go. I knew what my physique would be if I lived within waddling distance of the Anstruther Fish Bar – all I had to do was glance around at the other patrons – but I assure you I would not care. Such are the fickle fates that control us, and I live across a very wide ocean from this particular version of Nirvana, but someday I will return and feast once more.
Time was running out on our foray down the eastern Scottish coast, but Richard had one more place he wanted me to see. As we drove into the village of St. Monans, he mentioned that this particular venue had hosted the legendary Johnny Cash, being used as one location for Johnny’s 1981 Christmas Special. As we rounded a corner, St. Monan’s church and cemetery suddenly appeared, back-dropped beautifully by the overcast sky and the
white caps of the North Sea. It was one of the most remarkable settings I have seen for a place of worship. Legend has it that St. Monans’ Parish church had its beginnings in 1346 because one of two arrows shot into David II miraculously fell out on its own when he made a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Monans. He was so grateful to be rid of the protruding shaft/head that he commanded that the church be built. I am just glad that someone had sense enough to choose such a lovely setting to commemorate his de-wounding. I am especially glad that such a flawed, wonderful human being as Johnny Cash once filled the church’s void with his rich music.
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Calum
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Johnny Cash in St Monans
I was at that 1981 recording of the Johnny Cash Christmas Special in St Monans church.. my grandparents lived in the village at the time. I was only 10 years old so don't have a detailed memory of it, other than numerous retakes of Silent Night! But I did get his autograph that day, which I still treasure. The show has never been shown in the UK as far as I know, so I've never seen how it turned out (or if me or my Granny appeared in any crowd shots!)