“Papists!” my grandmother, God rest her soul, would practically spit at the merest mention of the Roman Catholic Church. She had been raised a Methodist, and viewed even the rather middle of the road Anglican church in our hometown as suspiciously “high”. I can only speculate what she might have said when, on 29 March 2025 – and in Brompton Oratory no less – my girlfriend (now wife) and I were received into the Catholic Church.
If all roads lead to Rome, I can only say that most of the ones I tried to take were diversions. Entry was difficult. There were many U turns. I remember, for example, my first visit to my local Catholic parish when I was a teenager. I was under the impression that Catholic worship was everywhere a thing of great external beauty, reminiscent of the medieval period I continue to love. I was quickly disabused of this notion. Instead of marble or stone there was a garish red carpet; instead of chant, hideously saccharine hymns and pop songs with guitar accompaniment; instead of veils and leather shoes and reverent silence, yoga pants, fluorescent trainers, constant chit chat.
