There are days which seem, at first, quite ordinary in their intention, and yet unfold into something far richer—days in which different strands of experience quietly converge into a single, meaningful whole. This past Sunday was one such day: a day that began in liturgical solemnity and ended in poetic reflection, and which, in its own way, became a kind of double pilgrimage.
It began at St Dominic’s Priory in Belsize Park, a place I had not previously visited, though I had long intended to do so. The priory stands as one of the great Catholic churches of London, a vast and beautiful structure in the Gothic Revival style, built in the nineteenth century when Catholic life, long suppressed after the Reformation, began to return to England. There is something already significant in that fact alone: that where once there had been a complete rupture—when all monasteries and priories were dissolved and monastic life extinguished—there are now again places where that ancient rhythm of prayer has been restored.
St Dominic’s Priory, for the Dominicans, is in fact one of a small handful of major priories and monasteries in London. Among these are Ealing Abbey, run by the Benedictine monks, a place we have also visited, as well as the Franciscan friars in Erith and the Benedictine nuns at Tyburn. These few houses stand today as the principal bearers of a tradition that was once widespread throughout the city which in mediaeval times had over fifty communities of religious orders.
What struck me immediately upon entering St Dominic’s church was not only the sense of space and order, but also of restraint. It was Palm Sunday, and the statues throughout the church were veiled in purple cloth following the old Passiontide custom. This gave the entire interior a muted, almost hushed atmosphere, as if the building itself were entering into the solemnity of the coming events of Holy Week.

Beyond the nave and aisles lies one of the priory’s most remarkable features: a sequence of chapels dedicated to the mysteries of the Rosary. These chapels extend along the main body of the church, forming a devotional pathway through the Joyful, Sorrowful, and Glorious Mysteries. The Luminous Mysteries, introduced in modern times by Pope John Paul II, are not represented in chapels, and instead there is a small garden area, with a lovely statue of the Virgin, which serves as a place of quiet reflection for these newer meditations.

Again as we were now entering Passiontide the chapels were shrouded with purple curtains and not visible. The very architecture of this church with its fine chevet concluding a noble nave invites meditation; it is not merely a place to attend Mass, but a place to dwell, to move, to reflect.

Before the Mass began, we found a tray of palm leaves. My companion—my wife, Alexandra, who is far more adept than I in handicrafts and artistic activities—set about weaving them into small crosses. With a series of careful folds and turns, she produced something both simple and beautiful. I, by contrast, proved entirely useless in this craft, but I admired the result. There is something quietly meaningful in these small acts—taking a natural object and shaping it into a symbol of faith.

The procession began not within the church itself, but in the nearby hall, where we gathered and waited. The prior arrived, accompanied by a small choir of friars and young singers. Then the chant began—Gregorian chant, flowing and unforced, without theatricality. We processed into the church, palms in hand, and took our places.
The liturgy that followed was notable not for any grand display, but for its coherence and dignity. There was no sense of improvisation, no unnecessary embellishment. The Lord’s Prayer was said without exaggerated gestures; the congregation remained composed, hands together rather than outstretched. The sign of peace was offered simply, without turning the moment into a social exchange. Communion was received along the altar rail, kneeling side by side in a continuous line, rather than individually in procession.
All of this contributed to a single effect: a deep stillness. The ritual did not draw attention to itself; rather, it created the conditions in which attention could be directed inward. The chant, the structure, the gestures—or lack of them—worked together to produce an atmosphere that felt, in a very real sense, timeless.
And yet, of course, Palm Sunday itself contains a tension. It begins in apparent triumph—the entry into Jerusalem, the waving of palms, the cries of Hosanna—but it moves inexorably toward the Passion. The Gospel reading makes that trajectory unmistakable. What begins in celebration ends in suffering. One leaves the church not elated, but reflective.

PALMS

I was standing by the east gate
when I first saw him pass.
Could this man sow so much hate
and yet unite all class?

Through the thick crowds I caught his face,
and for one fleet instance
it seemed he could replace
death itself with his glance.

People had cut down palm boughs,
waving them before him
with hosannas and solemn vows
in one rapt, festive whim.

Sat astride the colt of an ass,
prophecy-fulfilling,
he rode through the acclaiming mass
like a king returning.

How would this local triumph end?
No blood had yet been spilled.
Would it forever transcend
the man, the god they killed?

All we knew was that we seemed free—
our happy feast had come.
Yet wine and bread would never be
the same again for some.

***

Stepping out into the London afternoon, we were met with cold wind and low cloud—a sharp contrast to the interior warmth of the priory. From there, we made our way by bus toward Hampstead, passing through streets alive with cafés, pubs, and the quiet commerce of a Sunday. We stopped briefly at a Marks & Spencer food hall, where another kind of observation presented itself.
Hot cross buns, traditionally associated with this very season, were displayed in a bewildering array of flavours—chocolate, tiramisu, and others that seemed far removed from their original form. The traditional bun was still there, but surrounded by variations that felt almost like reinterpretations of a tradition whose original meaning had become obscured. The quality was high, certainly, but the prices were equally notable. It raised, in passing, a question about modern retail: whether it is wise for Marks and Spencer to close so many of their clothing shops, given their long-standing reputation in that area, and to move increasingly toward these extensive food halls.
We did, however, enjoy our hot cross bun—taken not indoors, but at a small garden fountain just outside the food hall, near the Royal Free Hospital. There was something quietly pleasant about sitting there, despite the cold, continuing the day in a simple and unhurried way.
From there, we continued on foot toward Keats Grove, climbing gently through Hampstead’s streets until we reached the small, unassuming house where John Keats once lived. It is a modest place, but one charged with extraordinary significance. For it was here, in a brief period in 1819, that Keats wrote some of the most remarkable poetry in the English language.

Standing in that house, one cannot help but reflect on the intensity of his achievement. In the space of a single year, he produced works that have endured for over two centuries—poems that do not merely describe feeling, but evoke it so directly that the reader enters into the experience itself. His language is not ornamental; it is sensuous, immediate, alive.

I have also visited his tomb in Rome, in the non-Catholic cemetery, where those famous words are inscribed: “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.” That earlier encounter adds a further depth to the experience of standing in his house in Hampstead, connecting the place of his greatest creativity with the place of his final rest.
And yet his life was tragically short. He died at the age of twenty-five, attended by his friend Joseph Severn. His epitaph suggests a fear of oblivion that history has emphatically disproved. Few poets have left so lasting an impression in so little time.

***

There was something deeply fitting in moving from the priory to Keats House. At first glance, they belong to entirely different worlds: one religious, structured, communal; the other artistic, personal, expressive. And yet both, in their own way, open a space for contemplation. Both invite a slowing down, an attentiveness, a deepening of feeling.
In the priory, this is achieved through ritual and chant, through a shared form that has been shaped over centuries. In Keats, it is achieved through language, through the precise and evocative use of words. But the effect is not entirely dissimilar. In both cases, one is drawn out of the ordinary flow of time and into something more enduring.
As the day drew to a close, we made our way to a nearby station and began the journey home. There was a quiet sense of satisfaction—not the excitement of novelty, but the deeper contentment that comes from having experienced something meaningful.
It had been, in the end, a day of two halves: one rooted in the sacred traditions of the Church, the other in the enduring power of poetry. And yet these were not separate experiences, but complementary ones. Each, in its own way, revealed a dimension of what might be called the religious sense—not confined to doctrine or institution, but present wherever there is depth of feeling, attentiveness, and a sense of the transcendent.
It was, quite simply, a very good Sunday.