Torrential rain fell from a brown-grey sky. Impromptu streams formed themselves inthe middle of the roads, making driving difficult. It was very cold.
I have often had the experience, in my researches, of penetrating into ever more remote areas of the county, only to find even more obscure communities that lie beyond. Just as you think you know a region, it surprises you with yet another aspect that appears, as if from nowhere.
Such a district is the south-easternmost part of the escarpment (the hills peter out, but unexpectedly appear again, at a lower level, hidden by trees). This group of wooded hills is crossed by a confusing cats cradle of lanes between two market towns. There is an unsettling quality to the atmosphere in this locality, almost a creepiness - not entirely unpleasant, but there are places you would not want to stay after night has fallen. An example being the village I went to last Sunday.
It comprised a tiny estate around an Edwardian hall, the village all of a piece architecturally. The village was at the base of a small valley, with a sluggish and meandering river going through it. Steep slopes to the sides of the valley, very green fields, hedgerows bordering the lanes with oak trees dotted along them (the trees so swathed in ivy they appear to be choking). There were a few large farmhouses, and a short street of cottages, all built in a picturesque style (knapped flints, redbrick quoins, high gables). The cottages were physically small, but had a grandiose appearance, as if they were miniature mansions - the rooms inside these cottages must be miniscule(the picturesque life was always uncomfortable). Out in the fields, placed strategically for theatrical effect, were isolated cottages, now ruined and tumbledown, sheep looking inquisitively out of the gaping holes where the front doors would have been.
Crossing the river over a small humped-back bridge, I entered a world that was cold, damp and beautiful. There was an extremely sharp bend to the road, and then the little village street with the main entrance to the hall at the end (the hall was a jewel of Edwardian architecture - an expansive, self-satisfied sort of building, built for a banker in 1905 and allowed to run-down in recent years following the death of a young heir in a car crash). To one side of the hall gates was the Church, high on a bank, with a round tower and heavy buttresses supporting thewalls.
I got the key to the Church from a nearby bungalow, standing in the rain while the elderly lady searched for it, then continuing to stand in the rain while she chatted about the village (I was right about thehouses being damp - the closeness of the river and the canopy of trees create a densely moist environment). The grass was very spongy in the rain, and the path up to the Church porch was slippery. The lock was stiff, and I struggled for a while with the ancient key.
Eventually the key turned and I pushed open the heavy door. Immediately inside the door it was dark, and the darkness became intense after the door swung shut behind me. Moving forward, I entered the main body of the Church where a brownish light came through the windows from the wet afternoon sky. The rain thundered down on the roof.
The interior was basically one large room divided into a nave and a chancel. The furnishings were sumptuous Victorian, with brass chandeliers suspend ed over the chancel like golden crowns (looking up at them through the murky light I saw that they held candles, so yet another building in the twenty-first century lit by candlelight). Some indifferent medieval wall paintings, preserved more for their great antiquity rather than any artistic merit.
I had walked about halfway down the length of the Church, when my intuition told me, insistently: something is behind you . Looking round I saw the upper half of the west end was filled by a gallery, and on this gallery I could see dazzlingPre-Raphaelite figures (highly coloured with golden halos). In the gloom I thought for a moment (an unpleasant moment) the figures were alive (it was a real Da Vinci Code moment!), until rationality gained control andI could see that they were painted on a huge elaborate cabinet, of immense proportions, contain ing the Church organ.
Returning the key to the bungalow I again stood in the rain (not so heavy) while the old lady talked about the village. The parish had been dominated for over a century by a dynasty of Rectors who passed the Living down, father to son, in a sort of ecclesiastical monarchy. The organ was one of the treasures of the area, and had been brought to the Church during the Second World War when the village it was previously located in had been taken over by the military. There had been a long feud between the Rectors of the Church and the lords of the manor, and one of the more irascible occupants of the Hall had been buried just inside the Church door so that everyone entering the building stepped on his grave. I jotted down all her stories into my notebook, the falling spots of rain making the ink run. Just as I was leaving I asked her about a reference I had read in an obscure local History that the parish had once had two medieval Churches, and that the ruins of the other Church could still be seen.
Ah, but it's no longe r in ruins she said mysteriously. It's been restored in the last few years. The restoration has been a labour of love by one man. It's up on the ridge by the old bridlepath. It's not easy to find. You can't drive there, you'll have to park up at the field gate and walk.
I wrote down her directions and a rough map so that I could find the way if I ever returned to the village.
Personal blog http://www.afroml.blogspot.com
Author:: Andrew Amesbury
Keywords:: History,Travel,Church,England
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