SAINT BOGWOLD OF LOUGHTON

Back in the days when Bletchley was a cow-shed just outside the thriving metropolis of Fenny Stratford, Bogwold came to live in Loughton and be a hermit. Nobody really knew where Bogwold had come from; some said from London, others from Birmingham. Because he took a vow of silence for eleven months of every year, and only spoke in Latin for the other month, it was very hard to tell what his accent was. He settled down in a wattle-and-daub pigsty, round about where the Badminton Centre is now, and devoted his time to meditation, prayer, and chasing the pigs away when they came after his lunch.

Bogwold made an impression on the natives in the first year that he was in Loughton. He took a walking day-trip to an area of forest that is now Bradwell Common. Not seeing any livestock of any interest in the area, he miraculously created the shapes of five or six Friesian cows out of the trees around him, using only his bare feet to carve the wood. Bradwell was famous thereafter for what became known as the Monk-feet Cows.

Bogwold came to the notice of Ogfric, king of Mercia, a man of almost saintly piety who wished to understand some of Bogwold's simple and godly way of life. The king summoned Bogwold to his court in Lichfield. Since Bogwold had taken a vow of walking everywhere, it took him three months to arrive - unfortunately, too long, as Ogfric had been killed in a Viking raid two days after Bogwold set off. Bogwold had brought with him a prophecy, which he had written on a scroll the day he set off. It simply read "Go to Birmingham for three months - you'll be safe there." Ogfric's younger brother Egfric took over the throne. He asked Bogwold for a prophecy about himself, but unfortunately Bogwold was only halfway through his eleven month silent period, and had taken a vow of not writing things down. His prophecy, "Don't eat the prawns," came only a month too late to prevent Egfric dying of food poisoning.

At this point, Egfric's evil younger brother Atric took over as king. Bogwold spent his entire speaking month in denouncing Atric's drinking, murdering and pillaging ways. Fortunately for Bogwold, by the time the court's wise men had translated his flowing Latin into Anglo-Saxon and found out what he had been on about, he had already set off on the long trek back to Loughton. This time his journey was made even slower by a vow he had taken to hop everywhere.

Back in his pig-sty, Bogwold found new divine guidance in his mission. For six days every week he was silent, but every Thursday afternoon, between midday and sundown, he provided oracular guidance to all those who sought it. In after years, some of his prophecies were written down by the Bradwell monks, who passed them down for centuries. At the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the monks hid the scrolls in earthenware jars, which were only discovered when the foundations were being dug for the Shopping Centre. Some of his prophecies still have almost frightening meaning for us today:

"In a time to come, this whole land shall be filled with people from the land of Cock-Knee. And they shall return to their homeland every day, and return at night tired."

"Don't get into ice-rinks; they'll never make any money."

"A man called Turing shall save this land in years to come, and behold the nation shall be happy to let his workplace fall down, and only the chosen will care."

"If you build a giant pyramid, and light it up at night, you'll be able to see it all the way from Buckingham."

Like Saint Paul before him, Bogwold had a thorn in the flesh. Well, in Bogwold's case it was more like a thorn in the nose; he suffered from hayfever. The faithful brought him handkerchieves as presents, and when he had used them they took them away again, hoping that through his sneezes, the hermit's holiness would somehow attach itself to the hankie. In subsequent centuries, the Holy Handkerchieves of Saint Bogwold were held to be a sure cure for ghostly apparritions, sweating sickness, and almost any ailment except hay fever.

But Bogwold's time was running out. Atric was after him, breathing murderous threats because of what Bogwold had said about him. The holy man could have hidden himself, but instead he sat in his sty, quietly meditating, passing on his mystic knowledge to his followers and annoying the pig-farmer by never paying any rent. The day that Atric's men arrived, Bogwold had just made a vow of keeping his eyes closed and never listening to the command "Duck!". This was unfortunate, as it turned out. The first swing of the Anglian Monk-axe took off his head. The soldiers returned to the king, their duty done.

Bogwold's followers gently laid his body and severed head in the coffin, and started to dig his grave,. But for a man so saintly, this was not the end. The sound of psalm-singing from the coffin made them realise that Bogwold's head was still going strong. For the next six weeks, the head told them the secrets of this world and the world to come. Meanwhile his body had a successful stint playing in midfield for Milton Keynes Village football team. The manager reckoned his workrate and ball-control were excellent, but he wasn't too good in the air.

Finally, after wishing his followers a final farewell, the holy man closed his eyes for the last time, and they buried him where he would have wanted to lay - in the middle of his pigsty. As the fulfilment of Bogwold's final prophecy, King Atric was unexpectedly killed a few days later when a pig fell on him. And so divine judgement was passed on an evil king.

They said that many miracles took place in that pig-sty in the years after Bogwold's death. Those who ate Loughton pork lived to a great age, and never suffered from swine fever. At first the church did not really want to make a saint out of a bloke who sat in a pig-sty and talked rubbish. But then the bishop realised he could make a small fortune flogging Bogwold's hankies, and his place in glory was assured.

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