I opened my rucksack and took out my kit: the tiny silver chalice and dish, the picnic flasks containing water and wine, the crumpled napkins, the battered Prayer Book, the priest's wafer, already broken. From my wintry study, I imagined a balmy spring April morning, with my congregation warmed by the rising sun, so glad they were not in Helmsley a-bed.īut as Holy Week began, I crept away from home at 6.15 am in a blizzard and cycled into a Rievaulx carpeted with snow. As Lent began, I had planned a dawn Eucharist for Holy Monday in the ancient and holy ruins of Rievaulx Abbey. Of my twelve Easters as Helmsley’s vicar, the one that sticks in my mind is when a chill east wind brought Arctic weather which made even the stoic daffodils shiver. He would remember and diplomatically spare me any embarrassing repetition: ‘We’ve got some new stock in, do you fancy one of these?’ I used to ask Ken Claridge, the owner, what card I had bought for my wife’s previous birthday. The crowds of visitors return after their long winter hibernation, defrosting in the cafes and gift shops and Claridges, the friendliest and most interesting bookshop in all the world, with a personal service second to none. Even the grey limestone walls of the castle, church and sundry cottages turn a cheering yellow. David Wilbourne, author of Shepherd of Another Flock, recalls a memorable Easter from his time as Vicar of Helmsley.Įastertide is one of the best times to visit Helmsley, with the rapidly flowing brook that bisects the town festooned with daffodils, giving the whole place a sunny feel.
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