Feature: Dean, fast cars and Madam Pin Up

Over the years there’s been a brush with the SAS, and he can also give first hand accounts of wild and wacky goings on at Glastonbury’s first festival.

Last year this venerable clergyman, beloved by family, friends - and staff at his regular coffee stop - stole the scene in the Cathedral Close where he was spotted noisily revving the engine of an Aston Martin.

The retired Dean, who served at Hereford for 10 years, has clearly given new meaning to the popular notion of ‘all gas and gaiters’.

To put the record straight, the sight of eight gleaming cars 'a la James Bond' outside the cathedral was a surprise treat for Peter’s 90th birthday celebrations.

Before he got behind the wheel of a sleek Vantage Volant, capable of speeds up to 165mph, the cathedral had echoed to strains of ‘Happy Birthday’ at the close of a special service in his honour.

Peter was pictured in the car with present Dean, the Very Rev Michael Tavinor, and with customary wit, declared them to be ‘Duo-Deanal’.

At the grand age of 91, Peter has just sold his Mercedes sports car and he has recently dismantled his train set.

However, the impressive model he built of a 'Mighty Mogul' engine - which still plies the Severn Valley Railway line - remains a focal point in his home.

This enduring love of railways, sparked by a visit to Bristol Temple Meads as a small boy, came even before his first ponderings about entering the priesthood.

Taking shelter from the bombs over Bristol during the war, Peter and his family stayed in Clevedon, where he met a retired Congregational minister.

“He was a dear old clergyman. I think talking to him gave me the first idea I might be drawn that way," he said.

Now a ‘dear old clergyman’ himself, he can look back at a life well lived.

During the war he served as a wireless operator and air gunner with RAF coastal command, and later went on to study theology at Cambridge. It was here that he met his late wife, Ruth.

“I still miss her,” says Peter, though he is in constant touch with their two sons, Richard and Michael, as well as four grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. “Ruth was much brainier than me, a great linguist.”

She also made delectable fudge which was snapped up with alacrity on open days at the Deanery.

“People would pay to come in to see the railway around the garden and buy Ruth’s fudge, it was all for the cathedral appeal,” he added.

It was Ruth who stepped in to help a pregnant woman in Glastonbury for the first festival in 1970.

Peter had just become vicar, and some “50 or so” young people had gathered for the event.

Peter was concerned they were sleeping rough. “One young woman about to have a baby told my wife she lived in a bush,” he says.

Ruth arranged for her to be admitted to the local hospital for the birth, and Peter was asked to baptise the baby.

On the day, a strangely clad group entered his church, one godparent in a full suit of armour. “When he had to make his promises, he lifted the visor and said ‘I do’, and then snapped it shut again!” says Peter, still tickled after all these years.

The infant's chosen name, 'Amen' prompted Peter to enquire why, the father replying: “It’s because he’s bloody well the last!”

Meanwhile, the Bishop was concerned about festival-goers sleeping out in cold weather. “He gave me £100, enough to buy 100 blankets and we went around distributing them.”

After a four-year incumbency, he was astonished to be promoted to Archdeacon at Wells, and it was from here that he came to Hereford as Dean.

“It was nice to be coming to another cider county,” he says. “I’d never been to Hereford and was agreeably surprised. We were given a great welcome and as we got to know it, we loved it.”

Peter was Dean at Hereford for 10 happy years, retiring in 1992. One of the trickiest times was the proposed sale in 1988 of the Mappa Mundi, a plan aimed at paying for hugely expensive repair bills for the cathedral. “There was a lot of hostility,” says Peter. “It had never been part of the historic archives, and the plan had been to sell it to keep the cathedral going.”

Largely overlooked in a choir aisle, the Mappa Mundi's proposed sale by the Dean and Chapter received “100 per cent” backing from the then Bishop, the Rt Rev John Eastaugh.

The Dean found himself “like a prisoner in the dock” defending the strategy before Hereford City Council.

Dating back to 1300, the relic had actually been floated on the Stock Exchange. Amid tight security, a London stockbroker gave it the codename ‘Madam Pin Up’ - an anagram of Mappa Mundi.

Share certificates were offered at £100. Though the venture lasted just a short time, it produced a quarter of a million pounds. Most investors waived the offer of being paid back, hence the Mappa Mundi Trust got off to a racing start.

The oldest medieval map still in existence, the Mappa Mundi was making headlines. Billionaire Sir Paul Getty offered a huge donation, and support was pledged by the National Heritage Memorial Fund.

By 1996, a magnificent purpose-built home for both map and Chained Library was in place, and the manner of worship in the cathedral was revolutionised.

“We actually did the Church of England a favour,” says Peter. Hereford’s efforts paved the way for others, persuading the Government to give grants in worthy cases.

At the time, the map’s major benefactor requested a private viewing, so it was parcelled up and laid in the Dean’s hallway, ready for a trip to his home.

Not surprisingly, it was bristling with security wiring, and Peter recalls the moment he reached for his cassock hanging in the hall.

“I was getting ready for Evensong, and I inadvertently broke the circuit,” he says. “All hell broke loose!” Within minutes, his home was filled with SAS soldiers rushing to avert a perceived threat to the Mappa Mundi. “We have had our moments!” says Peter.

He exudes love and humour, and he’s happy to laugh at himself. When his granddaughter announced plans for her marriage to an Israeli chiropractor, Peter began brushing up on his Hebrew.

“They wanted a service of blessing in their apartment and a number of relatives from Tel Aviv came,” he explains. “I was very rusty but I did prayers in Hebrew.” The groom’s mother was reduced to tears.

“But later I was told she’d never heard such terrible Hebrew!” he says guffawing with laughter.

Loved and admired by an ever widening circle of friends, the Emeritus Dean is indeed a treasure himself.