THIS IS a shrine I built in my garden to house the souvenirs of my travels. It has warped a little: the oak is okay but the Bramley apple wood that formed the base, though more than 10 years in the drying, has nevertheless curved. (You can click on the image and make it much bigger.)
It is dedicated to the Blessed Joana of Portugal, who “died in an odour of sanctity, and miracles followed her decease”. Her beautiful, calm portrait, attributed to the 15th-century Portuguese court painter Nuno Conçalves, hangs in the museum in Aveiro, Portugal, in the former Convent of Jesus. The oldest daughter of Afonso V, Joana retreated to the convent in 1472 and lived there until her death in 1490.
Another Portuguese souvenir is the small tile at the back, from Henry the Navigator’s School of Navigation in Sagres in the far south west of the country, indeed the farthest southwest corner of Europe. The other tile, on the right, is from Istanbul. I think it is the Sultan’s signature, or tugra, which can be seen in Haghia Sofia.
The other postcard is from Montserrat in Catalonia. I love these naive ex-voto paintings. Hanging up are some Greek worry beads, a nazar boncugu (a blue bead from Turkey that protect against the evil eye), a small pendant from St Dimitrios in Thessaloniki, a Russian icon and a plastic rosary from Puerto de la Cruz in Tenerife.
On the floor are relics of the True Cross (actually shards of a rusting Turkish cannon from Methoni in the Peloponnese), a sacred alabaster scarab beetle from Luxor, mummy figures from Nefertari’s tomb in the Valley of the Queens and a shell from the sunken city of Aperlae on Turkey’s Lycian coast. Hidden behind the vase is my own ex-voto, a plump, sequined red heart, bought just before Valentine's day from a tat shop in Canary Wharf.
Amunet, the winged Egyptian deity, was placed here by my neighbour, Mike, who lives on the alternative edge (or is that hedge?) in our lane. She was the goddess of air, and I like to think she looks after us when we are flying. People are asked to contribute objects. When I have the courage, and when Joana stops looking so mournfully at me, I will add one of those hookers' cards that you find in Soho phone boxes.
I light the candle in the shrine when I — or any family member — am going away, or when we safely return. I am neither religious nor superstitious, but I like my shrine, and the ritual is pleasing.
