 |
| The Godfather |
Paddy embraced the abbey’s gruelling routine wholeheartedly, taking a vow of silence and leaving all his worldly ways on the mainland – including a steady girlfriend.
As a concession, he could talk to family once a year, but only when we visited the island, as I did with my mother in the 1960s. I have shadowy memories of our trip and my uncle seemed a mysterious figure with shaved head and billowing white robes. My brother Rod was even more dazzled. “Is Uncle Paddy an island,” he asked on the ferry over. All he knew was that we were going to see Paddy and we were sailing towards an island.
 |
| Me (far left, in brown coat) with Mum, brother and grandparents… and Paddy |
Now here I am, decades later, returning to Caldey to celebrate my uncle’s 80th birthday – along with his wife, children and six grandchildren!
So, Paddy eventually turned his back on a life of silent devotion, but thank goodness he did, as he’s been an invaluably articulate influence in countless lives ever since. He did, however, spend a number of years as a monk there and his nearest and dearest thought it would be a fitting way to salute his four score years.
 |
| One of the Abbey's driftwood crosses |
We charter a private boat to take us over to the island – his own family, plus a gaggle of nieces, nephews, cousins, and Pad’s remaining siblings – Michael, 83, from Australia, and Josephine, 86, from the USA. The tide is out so we are transferred to the boat by an amphibian rib we had to clamber aboard, certainly no picnic for my aunt Jo.
 |
| Departure from Tenby shore |
After a brisk, bumpy crossing we land on a sandy beach that may well be the one described in my uncle’s memoir of his time on Caldey. Try a Little Lowliness (by Patrick Lyons) recalls swimming lessons set up by the Abbot as a safety precaution, which – unhappily for the Abbot – turn out to be an unexpectedly pleasurable interlude in the monks’ austere existence.
 |
| Arrival on Caldey island |
And very quickly we are passing the front of the monastery and circling round to the guesthouse to meet Brother Titus, the ‘guest master’. He’s the client-facing monk on the island and, as such, is able to converse freely with all and sundry. His sleeves are stylishly folded and his cap sits at a rakish angle. We soon find out that this Dutchman was a F1 driver in his former life. “Too many friends died,” he says, shaking his head. A book of his photography lies on a coffee table. He urges us to make ourselves at home, giving us the run of the lounge and kitchen. He exudes warmth and congeniality. Then he hurries off to prayers.
 |
| Paddy revisits his past |
 |
| Welsh-dragon door knocker at the guesthouse |
We explore the island on foot, visiting the old medieval priory, gathering on the cliffs for our family photo call and wandering through the churchyard of the new priory, where Paddy soberly reflects on the graves of all his fellow monks. “If I’d stayed on, I’d be lined up next to them by now,” noting that the frugal diet, sleep deprivation and hard labour of life as a Cistercian was not the recipe for a long life.
 |
| We walk on roads that Paddy originally helped to build |
 |
| Inside the old priory |
 |
| Window of the soul |
Brother Titus gives Paddy and his sister Jo a lift down to the pier to catch our boat back to Tenby. I’m told the former racing driver kept the speed below 30mph.
 |
| Paddy and Brother Titus say goodbye |
