This is a patch of Norfolk entirely new to me. It was ten miles of pure loveliness, and, I must say, a few surprises along the way.
I parked up in Pulham St Mary. Deciding to save the best till last, I made my way alongside the stream running down towards the Waveney, heading towards Tivetshall. Passing the outskirts of Pulham Market, which I would return to later, I could see a ‘dismantled railway’ labelled on the map. Thanks to Dr Beeching, disused railway lines abound in Norfolk. I wondered what remains there would be of this branchline to Beccles.
Pulham Market Station is now a private house, but its owners have preserved (or restored) it magnificently. The signal remains, as does the platform clock, and all the accoutrements you would expect from a small, branchline railway station in the 1960s. Only the track was missing. My train-mad four-year-old would adore this.
Pulham Market Station
But we are here for churches. Across fields and beyond the little settlement of houses are the ruins of Tivetshall St Mary. This is a relatively recent ruin. In 1949 (you’ve guessed it) the tower fell down. Two churches, both remote, served effectively one village, and the building was left to deteriorate.
This is a good ruin, insofar that it feels both romantic and prayerful. I got talking to a cyclist later in the day who confessed she is slightly obsessed with photographing this ruin, because it seems to change with the seasons. I can understand this. The experience of being here on a clear, cold winter’s day with a low sun and deep frost would be entirely different from today.
Looking through the priest's door at Tivetshall St Mary
I would never want a church to fall into ruin, but there is nonetheless something wonderful about the roof coming off, and the building forging a new relationship with nature. It’s a new chapter in the life of these holy stones. As human beings surrender responsibility, God does something different with it.
As if to prove this, I discovered I had company in the form of a muntjac foraging in the vegetation under the tower. My instinctive response was to quote Psalm 42: ‘As the deer longs for running waters, so longs my soul for you, O Lord.’ In a place where once divine encounter happened through sermon and sacrament, today God was allowing nature to stir things inside me.
Less than a mile away is Tivetshall St Margaret, hidden in a thicket of trees. There are a lot of churches round here dedicated to St Margaret. I wonder why?
Tivetshall St Margaret
Because I had initially planned only to visit the Pulhams, I hadn’t looked this church up before arrival. I crossed the threshold to discover a stunning, unspoilt interior: carved bench ends, simple medieval font, faded rood screen, and an Easter sepulchre in the chancel. Above it all is the most wonderful Elizabethan tympanum. Dated 1587, it shows Elizabeth I’s coat of arms, and, beneath, the Ten Commandments. Earlier this year I saw the superbly restored tympanum at Morston on the North Norfolk coast. Tivetshall’s isn’t as grand, but it has the advantage that it’s much lower, and therefore easier to view. Inevitably, it has been repainted in later centuries, and a trapped bird has defecated on it. I wonder how it would look if it received the same care as Morston’s.
There was something else unexpected about this church: it was incredibly peaceful. That may sound like an odd thing to say; I have visited an enormous number of peaceful churches over the last few weeks. But Tivetshall St Margaret’s peace had an added dimension, as if these walls were protecting something untouchable.
Tivetshall St Margaret's tympanum
My route took me to the village itself, which, although tiny, has a school. There are fewer than 30 children on the roll. And then through fields to my next stop. Pulham Market sounds like it should be a town, like its East Anglian namesakes Downham and Needham, but it’s just a large village. I approached from Guildhall Street, so it must have been a place of importance once.
This is reflected in the church of St Mary Magdalene, Pulham Market, with its confident, fifteenth century tower. Above the west door medieval statues in niches have (just) survived, which is a rare sight in English churches. Flushwork is a feature in these parts (see yesterday’s walk), and there is a fine example on the porch, giving a tantalising taste of what was to come at Pulham St Mary.
Pulham Market's tower
This is a busy church inside, but pleasingly so. I nosily flicked through the annual report. The church is building up its children’s ministry, raising its profile in the community, and getting involved in its school. There’s a desire to grow. And there’s a service at the same time every Sunday, so, in my view at least, they’ve got a fighting chance.
The Harleston Road would have taken me into Pulham St Mary, but, on a walk already blessed with more footpaths than country lanes, I took the scenic route through fields of rapeseed and paths lined with nettles.
Porch at Pulham St Mary
I’m glad I did, because it meant that my approach to Pulham St Mary was from the south-east. This must be one of the finest of East Anglian porches, rich with carved stone and exquisite flushwork. The spandrels (what a great word) above the door show the Archangel Gabriel on one side, unfurling a banner which reads ‘Ave Maria’. Opposite sits Mary, a lily emerging from the folds in her robes, receiving the angelic salutation. I’m not sure what is more remarkable: the medieval craftsmanship, or 500 years of survival in the elements.
Inside is all asymmetrical. There is an aisle only to the south, and the chancel isn’t central to the nave. The great Victorian architect G. F. Bodley was given the task of restoring this church, and it is the first of his work I have seen on my travels. You would need a head for heights to be a bellringer here. A timber staircase starts at the west end of the aisle, and traverses the west wall to a door half way up the tower.
Chancel roof, Pulham St Mary
This was almost the end of the walk. However, a few hundred yards up the road was a bonus church. As the road forks, a striking modern atrium concealing a red-brick Victorian school comes into view. Interesting enough. But, as I passed, I caught sight of what looked like part of a church.
Sure enough, this building originated as the Guild Chapel of St James. It was built in 1401 by a guild of milliners, which was dissolved in 1547. Willian Pennoyer, a Puritan merchant, made a bequest to enable a school to operate out of the redundant chapel. Extended in 1870, the school closed in 1988. For two decades it stood empty. Instead of allowing it to be sold to a developer for yet another ‘Old School House’ dwelling, the village rallied around and formed a project to restore and extend the building for community use.
The former Guild Chapel and school, Pulham St Mary
It is now a café, meeting space, and museum, buzzing with activity. I finished my walk with a cup of tea and a piece of flapjack, rejoicing in the gift of community spirit.
And what about the dog rescue?
During this walk, strolling through fields, a young dog bounded up behind me. Expecting an owner to emerge from round the corner, I waited a few moments. The dog sprinted off into the crops, and returned to my side. She had a collar, but no label. Still no owner. I googled a business on an industrial unit at the nearby farm, and gave them a call. They knew the dog. She belongs to the landlord, and is given a free rein around the estate. I was given his number, but no answer. I decided that she wasn’t far from home, and she was used to finding her way back.
On I went. The problem was, I had clearly made an impression, and the dear thing reappeared at my feet every 30 seconds. Within a few minutes I was effectively walking her. Every attempt I made to shrug her off was unsuccessful. The best part of a mile later I approached a busy main road. ‘There’s a gate,’ I exclaimed with relief. I hurried through it, pleading with her not to follow me. But she found a gap under the fence, so I hastily retreated from the articulated lorries roaring past.
Bear in mind, Reader, that I am not a dog person. I do not understand canine ways. One thing I felt certain of: If I crossed that road, she would follow me, causing enormous risk not only to herself, but also the motorists travelling at 50, 60, 70 miles per hour. I tried to phone the owner again, to no avail. I tried waiting it out for twenty minutes, to see if she’d get bored and trundle home. She was having none of it. Every time I made a move towards the gate, she’d appear from the barn she was exploring, ready to come with me.
On the verge of retracing my steps – and adding a good mile-and-a-half to my walk in the heat of the day – I phoned the business again, and explained my plight. The person answering the phone was based in a different office miles away, but after a flurry of phone calls and text messages, I was assured help was on the way.
Ten minutes later, one of the employees arrived in her car, via the same main road. The dog, delighted with the attention she was getting and the fuss caused, leapt into the car, and greeted this young woman like a long-lost friend.
I was beyond thankful that my walk could continue, and not a little embarrassed by the inconvenience I had caused. But I had no need to be. It turned out that the dog was less than a year old, and was already gaining a bit of a reputation for her escapades. Apparently I was the one who needed thanking. ‘If it wasn’t for you, she’d be as flat as a pancake.’
I realise that is a long story, and has nothing to do with churches. But my new canine friend taught me something. One of the joys of a sabbatical is the gift of time. There’s a saying in Norfolk, ‘Slow you down.’ If I had been doing this walk as part of a day retreat from my parish – which is what I do when I have a ‘quiet day’ – I would need to get back in time for nursery pick-up, or a meeting. This delay would have been infuriating. Today I had no reason to rush.
Earlier in my walk I had been praying a prayer common in these days leading up to Pentecost: ‘Come Holy Spirit, and kindle in us the fire of your love.’ The dog taught me to cherish this freedom I have been given, and to allow the Holy Spirit to choose the pace of my walks. Dogs can’t speak. But this one, tearing around like a wild thing, was whispering in my ear: ‘Daniel, slow you down.’
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