This week's post has particular resonance for me. I did one of Martin's courses - a series of weekends in a spooky old manor house on the edge of Dartmoor. The group of students from that course, people from all over the world, are still in touch with one another and re-listening to all the stories he told. Both you and he have the power to create communities through what you say and write. Thanks to your posts about Walsingham, I have embarked for this Lent on as much of a walk as I can manage in that direction. On the stretch between Stansted Mountfitchet (amazing church and effigies at St Mary the Virgin) and Saffron Walden, I found myself behind a couple, similar age to me. I lost them by misreading my map and heading off in the wrong direction, but when I finally made it to Saffron, there they were in (another) St Mary's. (A lot of them in that part of the world and this one has an amazing rood screen or at least the upper bit of it with Christ on the cross). We fell to talking and discovered we were both Paul Kingsnorth fans. They'll have hit Bury St Edmunds by now. I hope to do so by next weekend. It's an extraordinary journey. Thank you for inspiring it.
This morning - Sunday 23rd - before having looked at anything on the computer - just out of bed, in fact, I found myself singing "Widdicombe Fair" to myself, a song that I have known well for most of my life. I thought of going on to the internet to find out more about its origins and where I might have heard it first - but then decided not to, because why do I need to add yet more facts to an already crowded mind? Then at breakfast I read your latest post, which not only describes your visit with Martin to Widecombe but also links to the Wiki article with all that information and more. Is Widecombe, or you, Paul, or somebody/something else trying to tell me something?
Thanks Paul for this fascinating piece of writing - as ever. I now have lived in Spain for almost 20 years now but one of the few things I miss about modern England is country churches, which when I lived in the UK I would brake from my journeys to spend a little while inside. RC ones are not the same, frequently too much gold and gore for me. Perhaps growing up in Wareham Dorset where I would visit the Saxon church of St Martin there from time to time and spending periods in the nearby village of Studland with a Norman church on a Saxon site where my grandparents lived and where I spent my teenage years. A tiny church that drew my back time and again later in life is in the middle of a grassy field just outside Swinbrook in Oxfordshire. I am not a practising Christian, though I grew up as one and am fascinated by its history, particularly the pre-bible roots. I have always lived in or within walking distance of the natural world and feel a deep connection to it but do not label myself as any -ism or -an. Keep writing and best wishes, Keith.
Re: . RC ones are not the same, frequently too much gold and gore for me.
Spain's apogee of wealth and power coincided with the Baroque era in the arts. Baroque art (but not music!) is a terribly bad fit for Christianity which is at heart an ascetic religion, and at second remove one influenced strongly by the ethos of Hellenism, ("Nothing in excess"). Still there are some older Spanish churches which survived without a lot of Baroque modifications. The Cathedral in Toledo (built in the Romanesque with later Gothic flourishes) is one.
I can't stand baroque. St Paul's in London (and indeed St Peter's in Rome) are both baroque and I find them cold and repulsive. Gothic though, as you say, is somehow a perfect fit with Christianity.
Wonderful writing and wonderful conversation in the pub today. I know it was not planned or intentional, but toward the end as you talk about the work of the early church, it was fascinating that the music in the background was the song the glory of love. Seemed like an appropriate "hymn" to close the conversation.
Once again Paul, your writing and images have set the tone for my day! Such a reverent and delightful analogue to my morning prayers, and far more entertaining and well crafted. I was really struck by Martin’s likeness to members of my own family, who like me share his surname. I’m counting him as a distant cousin now.
The words and the pictures really describe the atmosphere that one can feel in ancient churches like this one. But for me, it's sitting in still silence in one of these churches, imagining all the ordinary people who have worshipped there over the centuries, sitting in the same pews in their ancient garb. One can imagine all their experiences, joys, hopes and sufferings, their prayers, and to know that they are now alive in heaven, but united in their experience of this place. In these places the veil of separation is a thin one and that's what I feel there, but only in silence. It's almost like their prayers are still echoing around the old walls.
you have given us so much here in story, image, history, and a veritable ocean of hyperlinks for me to return to when time and curiousity realign...
I feel I owe you more than a subscription!
Thank you, for giving so much of yourself to this work, that someone like me (as far away in the old colony of British Columbia), can just begin to taste my own English ancestry.
it whispers mysteriously, increasingly, around the cold edges of your tales this year. There is some sort of comfort my ancestral blood takes in this misty coldness; something I cannot explain, quite.
There is something deeper than the marrow of my bones that calls back, as your stories call out to my heart in ways greater than the sum of your many beautifully storied parts, herein.
Love this! As a creator/craftsperson, I especially relate to the “bosses” on the ceiling. When I am working on a crochet project for example, my mind riffs joyfully on all sorts of little details and references I can work into it. Some actually make it into the project, some don’t. Some I have in my mind from the beginning and some only occur to me through the process. I can easily imagine a carver working on the bosses and having a “oooh what can I do here” moment. Maybe on some level it is serious and symbolic, but I intuit playfulness (which is not the same as irreverence: play can be reverent or irreverent).
I like that idea of a "totem church." I always refer to the church where I was baptized as my "home parish." I think a lot of us converts may feel that way because the experience of becoming an Orthodox Christian is so transformative that it gets attached to the place and the people where it happened and remains special, even if we cannot attend services there all the time.
What a wonderfully rich conversation you shared with Martin Shaw!
This is beautiful. My wife and I were almost forced to sleep rough in Widecombe back in 2009 during a failed effort to hike across Dartmoor. In the end, we only made it from Ivybridge to Bovey Tracey with several detours.
Ah, delightful stuff here. Though I’ve a couple decades on both of you, I know we live in the same Dreamtime and places therein…beyond the threshold. Onward then, further up, further in. Patrick, an anonemoose monk in the best sense… }:- a.m.
I am a Northern California “moose” descended from Clan O’hUaruisce of Dalriada and later the Watters of the Rowte, Country Antrim…Dunluce and Bushmills, United Irishmen. And my
maternal side Germans of more deep time and mysticism. Slainte and beannacht.
This week's post has particular resonance for me. I did one of Martin's courses - a series of weekends in a spooky old manor house on the edge of Dartmoor. The group of students from that course, people from all over the world, are still in touch with one another and re-listening to all the stories he told. Both you and he have the power to create communities through what you say and write. Thanks to your posts about Walsingham, I have embarked for this Lent on as much of a walk as I can manage in that direction. On the stretch between Stansted Mountfitchet (amazing church and effigies at St Mary the Virgin) and Saffron Walden, I found myself behind a couple, similar age to me. I lost them by misreading my map and heading off in the wrong direction, but when I finally made it to Saffron, there they were in (another) St Mary's. (A lot of them in that part of the world and this one has an amazing rood screen or at least the upper bit of it with Christ on the cross). We fell to talking and discovered we were both Paul Kingsnorth fans. They'll have hit Bury St Edmunds by now. I hope to do so by next weekend. It's an extraordinary journey. Thank you for inspiring it.
I'm honoured to have inspired your pilgrimage! And this story made me smile.
Wonderful, vividly engaging account. Made my day two hours before the sun.
This morning - Sunday 23rd - before having looked at anything on the computer - just out of bed, in fact, I found myself singing "Widdicombe Fair" to myself, a song that I have known well for most of my life. I thought of going on to the internet to find out more about its origins and where I might have heard it first - but then decided not to, because why do I need to add yet more facts to an already crowded mind? Then at breakfast I read your latest post, which not only describes your visit with Martin to Widecombe but also links to the Wiki article with all that information and more. Is Widecombe, or you, Paul, or somebody/something else trying to tell me something?
There is no such thing as a coincidence...
Thanks Paul for this fascinating piece of writing - as ever. I now have lived in Spain for almost 20 years now but one of the few things I miss about modern England is country churches, which when I lived in the UK I would brake from my journeys to spend a little while inside. RC ones are not the same, frequently too much gold and gore for me. Perhaps growing up in Wareham Dorset where I would visit the Saxon church of St Martin there from time to time and spending periods in the nearby village of Studland with a Norman church on a Saxon site where my grandparents lived and where I spent my teenage years. A tiny church that drew my back time and again later in life is in the middle of a grassy field just outside Swinbrook in Oxfordshire. I am not a practising Christian, though I grew up as one and am fascinated by its history, particularly the pre-bible roots. I have always lived in or within walking distance of the natural world and feel a deep connection to it but do not label myself as any -ism or -an. Keep writing and best wishes, Keith.
Re: . RC ones are not the same, frequently too much gold and gore for me.
Spain's apogee of wealth and power coincided with the Baroque era in the arts. Baroque art (but not music!) is a terribly bad fit for Christianity which is at heart an ascetic religion, and at second remove one influenced strongly by the ethos of Hellenism, ("Nothing in excess"). Still there are some older Spanish churches which survived without a lot of Baroque modifications. The Cathedral in Toledo (built in the Romanesque with later Gothic flourishes) is one.
I can't stand baroque. St Paul's in London (and indeed St Peter's in Rome) are both baroque and I find them cold and repulsive. Gothic though, as you say, is somehow a perfect fit with Christianity.
Loved that. Thanks for inviting us into the pub - precious.
Wonderful writing and wonderful conversation in the pub today. I know it was not planned or intentional, but toward the end as you talk about the work of the early church, it was fascinating that the music in the background was the song the glory of love. Seemed like an appropriate "hymn" to close the conversation.
I hadn't noticed that!
Once again Paul, your writing and images have set the tone for my day! Such a reverent and delightful analogue to my morning prayers, and far more entertaining and well crafted. I was really struck by Martin’s likeness to members of my own family, who like me share his surname. I’m counting him as a distant cousin now.
fascinating! Also the talk from the pub...
The words and the pictures really describe the atmosphere that one can feel in ancient churches like this one. But for me, it's sitting in still silence in one of these churches, imagining all the ordinary people who have worshipped there over the centuries, sitting in the same pews in their ancient garb. One can imagine all their experiences, joys, hopes and sufferings, their prayers, and to know that they are now alive in heaven, but united in their experience of this place. In these places the veil of separation is a thin one and that's what I feel there, but only in silence. It's almost like their prayers are still echoing around the old walls.
What a warming delight when two or three far from me gather in Christ - so appreciated you shared with us 🙏🏼☦️♥️
My word, Paul.
you have given us so much here in story, image, history, and a veritable ocean of hyperlinks for me to return to when time and curiousity realign...
I feel I owe you more than a subscription!
Thank you, for giving so much of yourself to this work, that someone like me (as far away in the old colony of British Columbia), can just begin to taste my own English ancestry.
it whispers mysteriously, increasingly, around the cold edges of your tales this year. There is some sort of comfort my ancestral blood takes in this misty coldness; something I cannot explain, quite.
There is something deeper than the marrow of my bones that calls back, as your stories call out to my heart in ways greater than the sum of your many beautifully storied parts, herein.
thank you, brother.
-Mark Basil
Love this! As a creator/craftsperson, I especially relate to the “bosses” on the ceiling. When I am working on a crochet project for example, my mind riffs joyfully on all sorts of little details and references I can work into it. Some actually make it into the project, some don’t. Some I have in my mind from the beginning and some only occur to me through the process. I can easily imagine a carver working on the bosses and having a “oooh what can I do here” moment. Maybe on some level it is serious and symbolic, but I intuit playfulness (which is not the same as irreverence: play can be reverent or irreverent).
As usual, beautiful pictures and moving commentary. A Sunday is hardly complete without one of your portrayals.
I like that idea of a "totem church." I always refer to the church where I was baptized as my "home parish." I think a lot of us converts may feel that way because the experience of becoming an Orthodox Christian is so transformative that it gets attached to the place and the people where it happened and remains special, even if we cannot attend services there all the time.
What a wonderfully rich conversation you shared with Martin Shaw!
This is beautiful. My wife and I were almost forced to sleep rough in Widecombe back in 2009 during a failed effort to hike across Dartmoor. In the end, we only made it from Ivybridge to Bovey Tracey with several detours.
Ah, delightful stuff here. Though I’ve a couple decades on both of you, I know we live in the same Dreamtime and places therein…beyond the threshold. Onward then, further up, further in. Patrick, an anonemoose monk in the best sense… }:- a.m.
I am a Northern California “moose” descended from Clan O’hUaruisce of Dalriada and later the Watters of the Rowte, Country Antrim…Dunluce and Bushmills, United Irishmen. And my
maternal side Germans of more deep time and mysticism. Slainte and beannacht.