Till in the dimmest place of all
The train slows down into a crawl
And stops in silence… Where is this?
Dear Mary Wilson, this is Diss.
So ends John Betjeman’s poem to Mary Wilson, which I quoted in Sunday’s blog in his honour. Arriving, by car not train, I remembered a conversation I had with an old boy sitting next to me at Carrow Road a decade ago. At half-time he asked where I was from. ‘London,’ I replied. His questioning continued: ‘But where in Norfolk are you from?’ I answered that I wasn’t from Norfolk. He couldn’t compute that someone not born and raised in the county could be a Norwich City fan.
With another ten minutes till the teams returned, I asked him where he lived. ‘Diss,’ came the reply. He then went on to describe in great detail where Diss was, assuming that a ‘furriner’ would have not the slightest clue of the location of any town smaller than Norwich. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, not only did I know exactly where Diss was, I had come through it that morning on the train.
I arrived on Monday morning to a town so busy and bustling I thought it must be market day. It wasn’t. So many small-to-medium sized towns can feel rather depressing, with shops boarded up and ‘To Let’ signs prevailing. Not so here. The streets leading up from the Mere, the big lake to the south of the town centre, were full of people - young and old - going about their Monday morning business.
Diss Church
St Mary, Diss is a proper town church, set in the centre of quaint, medieval streets. It has a big, cupola-topped tower, and a(nother) fine flushwork porch. Many of Norfolk’s big town churches are beautiful outside, but disappointing inside. Town churches were more vulnerable both to the heavier-handed Victorian restorations, and, later, sitting-room inspired re-orderings of twentieth century liturgical renewal. Happily, the nineteenth century and the 1970s have both been kind to Diss, and you step into a light, uncluttered interior.
A pair of grandparents were taking a small child round the church (or perhaps it was the other way round) during my visit. As I left and walked through the churchyard, two young men on bikes were marvelling at the knapped flint on the east wall. I couldn’t help but interrupt. They were friends who had decided, it being the birthday of one of them, to take the day off work and go for a cycle. The birthday boy told me there were still some knappers (is that the word?) in Norwich, who knap flint for restoration projects. It was refreshing to find people younger than me so interested in Norfolk’s built heritage.
Diss Church from across the Mere
The road leading east out of Diss possesses plenty of interesting, historic buildings, including a Quaker Meeting House. There’s been a lot of bungaloid infilling too, which would disappoint Betjeman.
Frenze Church
I crossed the railway into fields, and over a ford to the remote church of St Andrew, Frenze. This tiny church, in the care of the Churches Conservation Trust, has just a substantial farmhouse for company. It is as simple as it is lovely. A beautifully aged family pew faces a similarly crafted pulpit, both Jacobean. There are lots of medieval brasses in the sanctuary, and a pre-reformation altar mensa.
Frenze, interior
This would normally be an exquisitely peaceful spot, but today the churchyard lawn was being mowed. A perfectly reasonable noise, of course. A gentleman, in his 70s at least, paused his work to talk to me in broadest Norfolk. He’s a volunteer. ‘I’ve lived in the parish fifty year. It’s the least I can do.’ It’s hard to believe anyone lives here. He nodded towards the lawnmower, still chugging away. ‘But it goes at pensioner speed.’
Heading towards Scole I noticed a ruined church on the OS map which I hadn’t spotted when planning this route. I wondered if the extra ¾ had been worth it when I arrived at the very scant remains of St Mary, Thorpe Parva. Parts of the north and south sections of the round tower remain; almost mirror images of one another. I said my usual ruined church prayer, and began to walk into Scole. Coming in the other direction was an elderly woman on a bicycle. We got talking, and she remembered, as a girl, the west section of the tower being in place, joining the two parts that remain. This connection with the past made the detour worthwhile. It’s why I’m walking these routes, rather than whizzing around by bike or car. You learn so much more.
The remains of Thorpe Parva
Three very different churches so far. And a fourth awaited at St Andrew, Scole, which was devasted by fire in 1963 and almost immediately restored. The first sign of a modern interior as you enter is that it doesn’t smell like a church! The restoration is unashamedly contemporary, and rightly so. It is perhaps remarkable then that the subsequent addition of blue upholstered chairs looks as awful as it does in any other church. Why any DAC allows them is entirely beyond me.
Much better is the east window by Patrick Reyntiens, drawing on fiery biblical themes. Better still, this church feels alive and active.
Interior, Scole
I sat and had lunch on the bench outside. Up the path came an elderly man, bunch of flowers in one hand, an old plastic milk bottle full of water in the other. Fifteen minutes later I had heard in some detail of his recent scan at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. I hadn’t disclosed I was a priest, and I didn’t mind listening one bit. It was another example of how open Norfolk people are, and perhaps also an example of the prevalence of loneliness among the elderly. The other advantage of walking is that these people I meet so seamlessly get woven into my prayers as I walk on.
My route so far had been along the Angles Way, meaning well-maintained, well-used paths. I crossed the River Waveney into Suffolk, and onto less-used footpaths. For the umpteenth time in the last few weeks, I was having to navigate my way through crops, and clamber over tree trunks and brambles. Round-towered All Saints, Stuston is well-hidden too. Inside, even on a gloriously bright afternoon, the nave is gloomy, lit by only a few stained-glass windows. The chancel and north transept are Victorian, with polychrome pillars more suited to Kensington than rural Suffolk.
Stuston Church, in Suffolk
This felt like a lonely place, so I was glad to walk into the village itself, with its pretty cottages. Then through the woods and across the fields towards the railway line. I saw a beekeeper tending to his hive. I didn't realise till later that it was National Beekeepers Day. I paused at the level crossing for the Norwich to London train to pass, and then on to St Peter, Palgrave.
Here is another flushwork porch; a miniature of Pulham St Mary’s last week. This time, the spandrels portray Michael and the dragon, again perfectly preserved. Inside is the most remarkable font, Norman, with big faces staring out from the four corners. Next door, the CofE primary school was kicking out. I hope all the children come into church for the RE unit on baptism.
The font at Palgrave, Suffolk
Re-crossing the Waveney I returned to Norfolk, and, not longer after, to Diss itself. By now the town was quieter, and I had time to wander its historic streets. East of the parish church, opposite the Corn Hall, is a medieval building with carvings of the Annunciation and the Nativity of the Lord in its timber corner posts. I would have been unobservant enough to have walked past them had I not watched Betjeman’s Something About Diss at the weekend. Perusing the Oxfam shop a few doors down I found a collection of Betjeman’s writings I didn’t already own. I’m trying not to buy books at the moment, but it seemed wrong not to.
The King’s Head, North Lopham awaited me for the night, and I stopped en route at St Andrew, South Lopham. If you have seen a Norfolk Churches Trust leaflet you will recognise this huge, Norman tower. I find it amusing that someone in the fourteenth century couldn't resist adding some flushwork battlements, as if this tower wasn't already fine enough. There’s a small Saxon window, early eleventh century, on the north wall of the nave, and, inside, you walk through generous Norman arches under the tower.
The tower at South Lopham
South Lopham reminds me of an amusing, although almost certainly apocryphal, conversation between a vicar and a visitor to his church. ‘You have a beautiful church, Father,’ the visitor remarks. ‘It’s Norman,’ replies the Vicar. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ says the visitor, ‘You have a beautiful church, Norman.’
I found myself driving past South Lopham again a few hours later, returning from my evening meal in Roydon. The sun was just setting, and the sky was a fabulously fiery honey-bronze. I couldn’t help but stop, and photograph both the sky and this ancient tower, now picked out in a pinkish hue. By my maths, the sun has set on this tower approximately 334,000 times. That puts into perspective the Christian legacy we have inherited.
From the rising of the sun to its setting
let the name of the Lord be praised. (Psalm 113.3)
Walk: 10 miles https://explore.osmaps.com/route/21646406/diss-
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