August 21, 2024
In Bury St. Edmunds: Church Going
I wonder who / Will be the last, the very last, to seek / This place for what it was -Philip Larkin
I woke up around five this morning for the usual reasons, and when I went back to bed I noticed that there was a full moon beaming in the window. I thought I should get up again and get the camera, but it was still pretty dark out and the moon was high enough up that it didn’t seem worth the shot. An hour later though when I woke up again conditions had improved.
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As a lead-in to today’s post I want to pass on this reading of Philip Larkin’s poem Church Going, a poem that Graham Finch shared in a comment after that last visit to the church in Lusby, the one with the sheep blocking the door. Larkin himself is the character in the video, with Sir John Benjamin reading.
I read poetry when I was younger and even tried writing it for a time until it became clear that I’m no poet. I may have read a few of Larkin’s poems back then but I feel pretty sure I’ve never seen this one. I wonder though if it’s not one that’s commonly taught in the U.K. and isn’t one many of my generation but were raised here are familiar with.
I’m not a believer, and haven’t been since I was a teenager and old enough that my parents let me make my own decisions about religion. Before that though we went to church most Sundays since my early childhood (Baptist back in West Virginia, and Congregationalist in Seattle). I was an usher for a year or two and even taught Sunday School one year as a way out of having to sit in the pew listening to another sermon. None of it had any appeal for me though. I didn’t believe, and I resented the loss of my Sunday mornings. It was like being in school - I’d just look out the window wishing I was out exploring the world.
Somehow though I keep seeking out these spaces when we come to Europe. We’ve been to so many churches, chapels and cathedrals here, and especially here in England where they are found in such density, but somehow I still find myself drawn to stop for a look around, admiring the details of the structures themselves, the lichen encrusted, tilting or fallen stones in the graveyards, the craftsmanship and art work in the interiors. I’m awed by the human cost and labor that went into their creation centuries ago, much as I am by the stone walls defining boundaries and running up to the edge of the moors in places like Yorkshire. And I’m made reflective by the transience of it all and the blistering rate at which our world is changing before our eyes.
I’m grateful that Graham passed Larkin’s poem on, because I was quite touched by it. It expresses better than I can some of the thoughts and emotions I feel, some of which I wasn’t aware I had of until hearing this. I imagine I’ll look at these places just a little differently in the future, for a while anyway.
So today’s agenda. First, Rachael’s off walking again on a twelve miler with a familiar script - a mix of fine countryside walking along the Lark and some annoyances or frustrations. Today the main disappointment is that her walk is cut short when she comes to a tree felling project that’s closed her path. She improvises and still gets her full quota of miles in, but they’re not the ones she hoped for.
My plan for the day got hatched by a church we biked past nearing town yesterday - one with a round tower that I’d have stopped for if we weren’t late for lunch and if I didn’t have the thought that I’d just bike over later.
It was easy enough to locate by looking over our track - it’s the one in Little Saxham. When I read up on it though I saw that there’s a second round towered church just two or three miles away in Risby. So the plan is that I’ll check them both out and then make a loop out of it by a visit to Lackford Lakes to check out the bird situation. I’m time boxed by a 3:00 haircut appointment (sorry, Patrick and Rich), but it’s only 28 miles. With my 10:30 start that should be enough time.
It doesn’t take me long to make my way back to Little Saxham and that round-towered church we passed with a sideward glance yesterday. It takes me awhile to get away from it though. It’s a small place but I’m probably there for twenty minutes or more admiring its unusual architecture and exploring the interior. I’m intrigued most at first by the tower, proudly described in the pamphlet for sale on a table inside:
THE TOWER is the crowning glory of our church. Of the 41 round towers in this county it is certainly amongst the finest, and in his Buildings of England series, Nikolaus Pevsner calls it the most spectacular Norman round tower in Suffolk. The lower part is probably Saxon and was built for defence purposes against Danish raiders. Later, in the early 12th century, the Normans added the superb blank arcading round the bell-stage - its wide mortar joints indicating its early date. Originally the tower was probably detached, with access by a rope ladder to the opening, which is now on the inside of the church, above the tower arch.
The other detail that really stands out for me is the pews, with their obviously hand carved bestiary figures adorning their arms. The pamphlet confirms that they were carved by a parishioner about a hundred and sixty years ago. If I’d have been a churchgoing boy here I’d have wanted a seat on the aisle - so I could let my imagination work with the figure next to me, and so I could make a quick escape when the service finally wrapped up.
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3 months ago
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When the time comes to leave I look across the road at the other structure that caught my eye biking in here - the fine, well maintained thatched roof home across the street, possibly the rectory in its time.
It’s only about three miles to the next dot on my route map, Risby. On the way there though I stop to admire attractive Honeyhill Farm and another fine thatched roof house. I stand at the entrance to the driveway and take a half dozen shots of the scene from different angles, and when I’m done I turn around and there’s a tall, gaunt elderly man standing there in the middle of the street, his eye on me as he puffs away on his vape pen.
Why are you taking pictures of my house, he wants to know; so I give him the honest answer - he’s got a beautiful place, I’m not from here, and it’s a novelty to me. There’s more exchange while I give him some background on myself, where I’m staying, where I’m going. He’s reassured that I mean him no harm, and I’m soon on my way again.
It took me awhile zooming in on the map to locate Risby’s Saint Giles Church. I knew it was here from the reference I found when I researched round towered churches, but it finally shows up on the map so I can route to it. It reminds me of its nearby neighbor of course, but it has its differences. For one thing, the small churchyard is more overgrown, and there’s a sign by the entrance indicating that this is intentional so that it will foster a bit of wildlife.
The main thing that attracts me though is in the interior again, where I’m surprised to see there’s still some faded artwork painted on the wall. And there’s a table for visitors here too, with a pamphlet about the place. There‘s also a request to drop a contribution in the safe, which makes me feel guilty because all I’ve got with me is a few twenties and I can’t quite bring myself to dropping one that large off. I should remember to carry some smaller bills with me for visits like this.
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I’m at this second church for at least as long as the first one; and as I pedal off I check the time and realize that it’s not really going to work to go look for birds at Lackland Lakes if I’m going to get back in time for my haircut appointment. So that four mile detour gets lopped off the itinerary and I just bike the roundabout way back to Bury St. Edmunds. That will still leave me time to stop off for things along the way, like one more neat thatched roof.
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What I didn’t expect though was that a third old flint church would suck me in, but with the one in Frampton staring me right in my face when I bike up it feels disrespectful not to stop. And this one really does feel like it’s going back to the wild, with ivy climbing the walls and weeds growing tall and all but obscuring some of the gravestones.
Inside, there’s the usual pamphlet about the church itself; but there’s also a foldable plastic brochure with photographs of the plants and animals you might hope to find in one of these pocket green spaces, and some words about how to approach them:
Churchyards, cemeteries and burial grounds are found in all areas of Britain. There are over 20,000 of them and they have become living sanctuaries for wildlife, unspoilt by agriculture and development. These are historic sites where we find flowery grassland, ancient yew trees, lichen covered stonework and a variety of animals, which find refuge within the boundaries.
Equally important are the man-made structures; the carved memorials and monuments, lychgates, medieval stone crosses and mausoleums.
These sites are important to the local community as places for burial, the interment of ashes and for quiet reflection and remembrance. Whilst exploring and discovering these fascinating places, please do so with a spirit of respect.
And the interior has its own unique surprise too, with the pews lined with needlework embroidered boxes, each with a label on the backside identifying it as a memorial to someone.
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Now I’ve really blown my time budget though so I just bike home, permitting myself a few quick snap stops but bypassing three more tempting churches in just the next five miles at West Stow, Ampton and Great Levermere. The density of ancient churches here is really noteworthy. As I bike, I take note of what fine cycling country this seems to be, its gently rolling hills intermixing wood lots and open spaces making for a more interesting terrain than the flats around Ely.
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So I do well and make it back to the apartment to shower and shave so I’ll look and smell my best before walking over to David’s place, the barber shop I think I’m booked for at 3:00. Rachael’s back by now and there’s a few minutes to spare so I start weeding through the day’s photos when I realize I’ve lost track of time and am nearly late.
I’m in plenty of time though, because I’ve misremembered the appointment. It’s actually not until 3:30, and with another customer due first they encourage me to go find a spot to hang out - which I do, at a nice cafe around the corner that sells me an americano and cherry almond croissant. Afterwards I head back and get my ears lowered and my eyebrows trimmed and enjoy a conversation with the barber, a man who loves the road himself and has seen a lot of Europe and America from the saddle of his motorcycle.
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3 months ago
Love the first photo. We’re you using burst mode to capture the bird in the right spot or was it a lucky photobomb?
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Someone once described the English character as being "Larkin, without the poetry" (a worrying thought). This is perhaps relevant to the observations on visiting religious buildings as an agnostic. I can certainly relate here, though I was never a believer - and in that I'm fairly typical of the UK, which (though census data can struggle to capture this) is one of the least churchgoing countries in Europe - despite the technical state-sanction of the Church of England, and the huge number of religious buildings. Larkin's attitude was similar: a Tory Anglican, who kept returning to the theme of churches, at the same time intensely dismissive:
That’ll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark
About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds
from "High Windows". I love the ending of that one:
Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.
Those last lines - beautiful.
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