Another unseasonally cold and wet day in mid-June. I began at Beeston St Lawrence, which keeps a lonely watch over the fast traffic of the A1151, much as East Ruston Church does over the B1159 five miles north of here.
The round tower is Saxon in origin. The fourteenth century nave must be significantly bigger than its predecessor, as the tower is markedly off-centre. If you stand in the south-east corner of the churchyard, the perspective makes the tower look like little more than a turret poking up beyond the nave.
The church was restored in 1803 by the Prestons of Beeston Hall, so it has a restrained regency feel about it inside. The Preston monuments which fill the chancel range from 1673 to almost the present day. A marble plaque, rather more modest than many of his ancestors', remembers ‘Sir Ronald Preston, Seventh Baronet of Beeston Hall, Foreign Correspondent,’ who died in 1999. Pauline Jane Preston, his ‘relict’ – a word which I thought had disappeared from funerary vocabulary long ago – followed him to the grave in 2010.
Most churches have plaques and tablets recalling significant contributions to their construction or restoration. I’ve never before seen one which makes reference to the augmentation of the living. A ‘messuage’ (a portion of land with property) and eighteen acres were purchased for £400 in 1741 for this Rectory. It was an eighteenth century version of match-funding: half came from Isaac Preston and half from Queen Anne’s Bounty. The latter, a fund set up in the early eighteenth century to augment the incomes of less wealthy clergy, has made headlines in recent years for its links to the slave trade. Some people would have this tablet torn from the wall. For me, its presence helps me reflect on – and repent of – the sins of our forebears.
Surely this church can’t be far off redundancy. There is no village here to speak of, and the church isn't close to the Hall. A sign which advertised a monthly service is now stored in the base of the tower. The altar is not dressed. Lumps of plaster, like broken pieces of a meringue, line the back pew. And – the real tell-tale sign that no religion happens here – there are no hymn books or service sheets at the back of church. The name of the new incumbent is in the porch, but surely it would be kinder to relieve him of this church, and give the keys to the Norfolk Churches Trust.
But onwards to the goal of this particular pilgrimage, St Michael and All Angels, Barton Turf. I waxed lyrical about Ranworth’s rood screen in Walk 26, and this one is just as good, but for different reasons.
It is of a similar date, but not the same artist. It is entirely different in context and scale, belonging to a smaller, more isolated church. It feels to my amateur eye less damaged and defaced by iconoclasts. Of the twelve faces, only two have been scratched at. Otherwise it’s hard to believe anyone has touched it for over half a millenium.
It’s uniqueness is in its content. Nine of the twelve panels represent the Nine Orders of Angels in their three hierarchies of choirs: Powers, Virtues and Dominions; Seraphim, Cherubim and Thrones; and Principalities, Angels and Archangels. The level of detail and the vividness of colour are utterly exquisite. An armour-suited Raphael stamps on the devil bearing his teeth. Virtues are represented by an angel almost entirely clad in blue feathers which are so realistic he might fly off the screen any moment. Thrones holds a throne, gothic and gold, in one hand, and scales of justice hang from the other. (I'll upload more images to @walkingnorfolkschurches on Instagram tomorrow.)
Like Ranworth, this screen drew me to my knees, both in wonder and worship. I have a strong devotion to the angels. I was baptised and formed in the faith in a church dedicated to St Michael. A couple of decades later I was sponsored for ordination by another. Years later I met an angel at the scene of a road traffic accident. (A story for another time.)
Again, like Ranworth, I found it hard to leave. I was moved to sing the ninth century hymn Stars of the morning, so gloriously bright, and prayed the Collect for Michaelmas:
O everlasting God, who hast ordained and constituted the services of Angels and men in a wonderful order: Mercifully grant that, as thy holy Angels alway do thee service in heaven, so by thy appointment they may succour and defend us on earth; through Jesus Christ our Lord.
I had one regret at Barton Turf. Signing the visitors’ book, I wish I had visited a day earlier. Eamon Duffy, the historian whose The Stripping of the Altars is the seminal revisionist history of the English Reformation, was here on Tuesday. Was his visit for interest or research? What a privilege it would have been to explore this screen in his company.
I had good footpaths on this walk. Reaching the A149, I took the scenic route to Smallburgh, avoiding the roads. I had never seen Highland cattle gallop before – to or from what I have no idea – but I was glad they were properly fenced in.
At St Peter, Smallburgh, there was a bicycle parked in the porch. Had you asked me, in the style of Through The Keyhole, what sort of person rides a bike like this, I would have described an old Norfolk boy, broad accent, bicycle clips around his ankles, who cycles at no more than walking pace.
I haven’t seen the speed (or lack of) at which Geoffrey Dixon, churchwarden of Smallburgh, rides his bike, but I couldn’t have been more right otherwise. Standing at the lectern, looking for a page in the Bible, he looked up and beckoned me in. ‘Welcome,’ he cried, as if he was expecting me.
I explained what I was about. ‘Do you have time for me to give you a tour?’ he asked. Well, of course I did. This is not an especially large or notable church, but what a pleasure it was to be shown round by someone who loves it so much, and understands its purpose so well.
Geoffrey, now 88, worked in education, and was headteacher of Mulbarton Middle School. He then went into Voluntary Service Overseas, taking him to far-flung places across the world, before coming home to Norfolk. He’s been here for a mere 24 years, and knows this building like the back of his hand.
He’s still a teacher at heart. ‘Look at those rood screen panels mounted on the wall,’ he said. ‘Now stand here,’ – moving me into the centre of the nave – ‘and can you tell me why there are there?’ This was an A-level test in Norfolk churches. ‘I’m going to guess that your rood screen ran behind where the organ now is,’ I replied, gesturing to the south-east corner. ‘And why do you think that is?’ he continued. ‘Well, I said, because I was in Ranworth yesterday, and I can see a piscina on the wall.’ I think I passed.
In 1677 (you guessed it) the tower fell down, destroying the western-most bay of the nave. 225 years later this part of the nave was rebuilt, with a bellcote instead of a tower. A Victorian vicar, according to Geoffrey, wanted to build three steps in the sanctuary for the altar. Apparently the Bishop said, ‘Smallburgh’s low church. You can only have two.’
I wondered how much time Geoffrey spent in this building. He’s created a display at the back of church with helpful information and history. He’s set up a little table with a notepad for people to leave prayer requests. The latest addition is from his own hand – ‘Thank you for these prayers. Geoffrey’ – leaving supplicants in no doubt that their requests are offered. At the moment of my arrival he was preparing for Sunday’s Morning Prayer, which he is leading.
Geoffrey is a modern-day Simeon, ministering in the temple. I told him that I say a prayer in every church I visit. ‘I’ll leave you to your prayers,’ he said. ‘Actually,’ I replied, ‘I’d rather say it with you.’ It was a privilege to pray ‘bless those who worship and minister here today’, and to add, ‘especially Geoffrey.’
This was one of my shorter walks, and just three churches. Geoffrey suggested I didn’t return to Beeston St Lawrence using the country lane I had planned, as it’s beloved of HGV sat-navs. In a day when angels had featured so prominently, I took his warning like that given to the magi leaving Bethlehem, and returned by a different route. This took me past the moat of Old Hall.
There had been heavy rainfall earlier, and yesterday, and I turned a corner to find the lane ahead of me to Beeston flooded. In a day when I had seen no wall paintings of St Christopher, I became a living depiction. The angels must have been attending me as they surely attended him; it was nowhere as deep as it looked.
Walk: 6.5 miles https://explore.osmaps.com/route/21995847/barton-turf-3-churches
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