“So how do you like the old place?” My friends John and Sue looked thoroughly pleased with themselves as we pulled up in front of a magnificent looking old farmhouse. The sun was fading and the artificial glow of the streetlamp they had erected in their garden reminded me how long it had taken to reach their new home. A far journey by train from London where they had collected me from the station to spend a weekend of sea and fresh air with good company. Removing the cases from the car they ushered me in through a low stone-lintelled doorway through which I had to stoop to enter. “It dates from the late fifteenth, early sixteenth century according to the agent and we’re looking forward to our time down here”, Sue gushed,” John will show you your room while I get the kettle on.” John motioned me to follow him up a narrow, winding stone staircase with dark, wooden panelling on one side.We turned a bend to the left and John pointed to a panel that didn’t seem to fit in with the rest. “Have a look in here,” he whispered, and pushing one edge of the panel it swung out towards us. Looking through the gap I could make out a small, coffin-sized room without any windows or furniture. “What do you think of this?” “It’s an actual priest hole, my very own piece of history, can you imagine the thoughts going through the mind of the Jesuit priest concealed in here to avoid capture by the King’s agents.” “His own haven in the cruel times in which they lived”.