So far as I can see, old men are the same whether they’ve spent a life in prayer or in banking. Obviously, some of them become ga-ga, and then – to be frank – their childhood years and memories are much more clear in their heads than the long decades they spent in psalmody. Even the most compus mentus of the old seem more direct than younger people are, and more direct than they used to be when they remembered that being circumspect is necessary whether in monasteries or businesses.

As piles or teeth or arthritic limbs caused them gyp, my elderly charges quite often muttered an audible and often quite basic Anglo-Saxon curse, and it was a pleasure to hear them do so.

It is a bit of problem to know whether the very nearly daft can be spiritual. Certainly, I have seen lots of courage and a lot more to admire in old monks as they face death. But I’ve seen wonderful quality in secular men and women too. But I am not clear which were the more spiritual. I think spirituality is a matter of living life (as Thoreau might have said) in a deliberate way. That takes mental strength.

It was always doubtful to me that the old promise of monasticism could honestly be made in our time. The old idea was that monasteries “were hard places to live, easy places to die”. It was presumed that a monastic life could be a sort of guarantee that unpleasantness and penitence now would be rewarded by a quick march into heaven. One of the reasons I left my monastery all those years ago was that I had great difficulty with both sides of this deal: I didn’t believe we had to do special suffering here and now to guarantee speedy bliss in the here-after.

I don’t, by the way, believe that these old boys wasted their lives by staying in the monastery I abandoned. I still believe that a life of prayer is valuable.

Did I love these old men? I am not sure that I did. But then, I am an ex-monk. I am not any more engaged on a mission to love the world. I am pretty happy to have done at least some of my duty, as I perceive it.

I joined my Benedictine monastery in the 60s as a young radical, a romantic, a seeker after truth. I return now as a “carer”. The community I left was never large and it still numbers about a dozen. A steady trickle of youngsters has joined, but most leave after a few months. Even amongst the older ones, there’s a bit of attrition as love of various sorts – or loss of faith – takes men away.

But how the old linger on! My community (yes, it is still mine) has some old boys who have been “old” for 20 years and more. That is, they have been somewhere between a bit weak and pretty well bed-ridden since the late 1980s.

I go back to lend a hand with these old timers every Christmas and New Year. Some of them have social services assistance, but the Abbot has the enlightened policy of sending some younger men home to their families for the holidays. This was unheard of in my day and is disapproved of by some even now. Anyway, it produces gaps in the housekeeping and personal care regime of the monastery and I go along and help fill them.

In case you are kind enough to wonder why I do this work, here’s the reason. Years ago I struck a deal with the monastery – I mean also with myself – that I would swap ordinary secular commitment for the monastic one. Though I lost my faith – or most of it – after I’d been ten years in the monastery, I still felt that my underlying commitment to lead an isolated, removed and devoted life should stick. It was partly a matter of honouring the commitment the monastery had made to me: they kept their part of the bargain, and I felt I ought to keep as much of my side as I could. That was compounded by the pain I caused my family by not being around for my own father’s last illness and death. I felt and still feel that my being away from him then created an obligation that I be available to other people in their hour of need.

In short, I am still some sort of monk.

The crew has gone ashore and will be getting drunk. It’s not often they can all leave the boat and risk mild incapacity. In normal times, they have to be ready to take the boat to sea at short notice. But here in the repair yard, the main engines have been shut down and all but immobilised. We have domestic supplies only. The crew call them “hotel” services. 

Normally, when the owner’s aboard, the place is all subdued bustle. When he’s not around, there’s usually someone somewhere playing music. Often several, almost competitively.

But now, all is still and silent. It was all dark until I put on a reading light to tap this out. It did me good to let the gloaming take over.  

I try not to wonder about myself and my tastes too much. It’s a waste of time. But a note in a radio schedule reminded me that next month is the 40th anniversary of Thomas Merton’s death in Bangkok.

It is unwise to blame any particular person for one’s desire to be a monk. But I would blame Merton if anyone in my case. The more I know about him, the less I am inclined to really admire him. But that is not remotely the point.

When I first read Merton as a very young man, he struck me as embodying spirtuality as it applied to young people who wanted to be both modern and devout. Even now, I can’t rewind my initial impression of him. An idea of him is lodged in my person and perception and won’t be budged. Similarly, I think he threw a switch in me, and I am pretty sure I can’t find it and wouldn’t flick it the other way even if I could.

What is so odd is that I remain in many important respects the monk he made me. I have lost most of my faith and changed some of my opinions. But I remain loyal to the idea of a solitary person risking everything to pursue one rather odd approach to taking life seriously and trying to be useful. I find the shape of Benedictine monasticism still fits me. It remains the history that I want to add another soul to. 

A lot of people who have come to me for spiritual counselling have wanted to talk about their sex lives. So you may gather I am a bit of an expert in the field. The first thing I’d say is that you can never predict from appearances who likes to use prostitutes. The second thing is that it’s impossible to predict what fantasy will turn on whom. So when we come to the Max Mosley case against The News of the World, I have views:

It wouldn’t be his fault if Nazism looms large in his life
Everyone knows the Nazis were sexy – all that leather and doing the dark thing
One can do Nazi sex fantasy without being a Nazi
Anyone can do Nazi sex fantasy without having a fascist father
Doing a Nazi fantasy is nobody’s business but one’s own
Newspapers shouldn’t be allowed to prey on Nazi fantasists
He wasn’t doing anything even like full-on Nazi fantasy

On the other hand, it may not matter if Max loses because:

He could go on leading Formula One without difficulty
It’ll give us all a chance to show we don’t give a damn
It’ll remind us that all our games may become public and none of it matters