Raised from the dead: The lessons of the medieval calligrapher are being followed to the letter by a monk at Ampleforth Abbey. Iain Gale watched Fr Simon Trafford at work, and was transported to another age

'I CAN'T paint or draw,' says Father Simon Trafford. 'I'm not an artist'. But judging from the evidence which surrounds us in his small study bedroom at Ampleforth Abbey, this honest monk is not being altogether truthful. Fr Trafford's walls are covered, not with pictures but with pages of lettering. The eye is drawn in particular to a beautifully written manuscript of the words of St Augustine: 'A person who cannot read may look at the lettering in some faultless manuscript; he may praise the handicraft of the scribe because the sheer loveliness of the written shapes moves his admiration, but what those shapes are for, what their meaning is - this is beyond his grasp.'

Fr Trafford is a calligrapher. He is one of the few monks in the world still practising an art form which for centuries was the preserve of the monasteries. Sitting at his desk, clad in a black robe, Fr Trafford becomes a figure from another age: the St Jerome of countless Renaissance paintings or Prior Laurence of Durham at work on his Psalter. Like his medieval counterparts, Fr Trafford learnt his art from his abbot. The art of the calligrapher and illuminator can be taught only by such practical means and it seems quite natural that, in order to understand, I too should assume the role of pupil. 'Do you really want a lesson?' asks the incredulous monk, but once prompted he is unstoppably enthusiastic.

Before starting the lesson, Fr Trafford shows me a recently completed manuscript of ordination for the local bishop. 'The first thing to be done is the illumination.' He points to the top left of the page, where the first letter of the document is preceded by an elaborate coat of arms, a rampant black lion on a silver ground, surmounted by a cardinal's hat. The manuscript is, literally, illuminated. The silver (in fact aluminium) leaf, its curving edges catching the light, is so highly raised from the page that it seems almost molten.

'It's not very elaborate, says Fr Trafford, modestly. 'Not being an artist myself I don't introduce pictures.' But the lion is undeniably figurative. 'Well it was copied from another lion in a book of heraldic devices and traced through carbon paper.' It may not be entirely original, but that's exactly what was done in medieval times when miniaturists copied from one another's work using transparent carta lustra. The sequence followed by Fr Trafford also sticks closely to that used in the middle ages. 'You have to put the metal on first, because if one was to put the colour on first the metal would stick to the colour.'

It becomes clearer when you see how it is done. Fr Trafford produces a glass eggcup containing a sticky pink liquid. 'You start with gesso, which any calligrapher worth his salt makes himself, from plaster of Paris to make it hard, glue to make it flexible, and sugar to help the gold to stick. You stir it up with water until it's creamy and lay it on the paper, building it up. Then you take the gold.' Opening a drawer he takes out a tiny sheet of gold leaf, thinner than paper; almost weightless. 'This is very risky. Gold is liable to go wrong.' He breathes on the gesso. 'I don't know whether this is going to work.' The gold sticks. 'Good. Now, with this crystal paper and a burnisher we can start the polishing process.' The result, an initial 'I', is as lustrous as any medieval manuscript.

The gold finished, it is time to write. 'A quill writes beautifully' says Fr Trafford, handing me one of the long feathers from a pot on his desk. 'You can get it really sharp without it digging into the paper. You also get a stroke which is slightly concave. It's rather attractive.' Where does he get his quills? 'Well I read up on how you make quills and then I went down to the village poultry farm and bought a sack of goose wings - it was Christmas. I started by trying to pull the feathers out, but lesson one is that you have to boil the wing for the flesh to become soft.'

Once again we are back in the middle ages, and Fr Trafford is the classic artist-cum-alchemist. 'Get a tin full of sand and heat it up to 150 degrees,' he tells me. 'Push the feathers into the sand. The protein of the wing becomes very hard. There is a kind of a skin on the outside which you have to scrape off and a membrane inside which you have to scrape out. I use a paper clip. Then it's ready to cut. You never use a quill with feathers. They're wonderful for films, but they just get in the way.'

That's the pen, but where's the ink? The answer is predictable. 'You make your own.' He produces another box and holds up a small black slab. 'Chinese stick. Solid carbon.' He pours water into the box. 'It's a special slab. You have to grind for a bit.' After a few minutes he stops, dips the end of the quill into the liquid and makes a practice stroke which is rewarded with a perfect black line. 'If you use distilled water, like the old scribes, it will last for centuries. I don't bother. I don't expect my work to be required in centuries time.'

Having been working flat on the desk while illuminating, Fr Trafford now props up his manuscript at a 45 degree angle. 'Because you are holding the pen more or less horizontal you have much more control. It is also much less tiring than leaning over your work. Medieval scribes seem to be even more vertical.' Fr Trafford begins to write with a careful, steady hand, producing perfectly formed letters which, though of a uniform size, are each slightly different. It is this idiosyncracy which gives handwritten script its beauty.

As he works Fr Trafford continues to explain. 'You do the black writing first. I use two styles. One is the Roman Foundational. Does the name Edward Johnston mean anything to you?' It should. It was Johnston who, in the 1890s, almost single-handedly brought about a revival of calligraphy in the west. The art had died out following the spread of printing from the 16th century and, in the atmosphere of late-Victorian medievalism engendered by the Pre-Raphaelites, Johnston re-invented the tradition, simplifying the script he found in a 10th- century Winchester manuscript into a hand which he called the

Foundational.

'I would use his Roman for anything dignified. If you want something graceful and light, italic is the hand to use. I'm very traditional. Modern calligraphers are rather like modern artists. They produce some things with strange shapes. It was the Carolingian Minuscule which was used at Winchester. It was a particularly good school of scribes. It's regarded as about the tops'. Fr Trafford talks with some admiration of the Winchester monks, as if they were his contemporaries. And he shares their sense of humour. Looking at a facsimile of the 12th-century Winchester Bible, I point out a witty marginal drawing reminiscent of the tiny personal motifs which Fr Trafford sometimes includes in his work. 'Oh I'm not for grave solemnity. It's got to be dignified, but one should have little private jokes.'

Would he ever consider producing something as elaborate as a letter from the Winchester Bible? His eyes light up. 'I'd love to do that. But my problem is time.' It seems surprising. Such commissions as the Bishop's ordination document and transcriptions of prayers are rare, and however much Fr Tafford may resemble a medieval scribe, there is no practical need for him to copy the Bible. However, his services are in demand for such uses as Christmas cards and programmes for school events. Fr Trafford's art may be rooted in the 11th century, but he is adapting it to survive the 20th.

Examples of Medieval manuscripts can be seen at the British Museum and in cathedral libraries. The Winchester Bible is on display at Winchester Cathedral. Aspiring calligraphers should contact the Society of Scribes at 54 Boileau Road, London SW139BL.

(Photographs omitted)