I get annoyed when people say Norfolk is flat, and I always correct them. Parts of Norfolk are flat, but most of it is gently undulating. In fact, it’s become a bit of a marital joke. Whenever we are in the car and there’s a steep(-ish) hill, or we see a view across a valley, my wife and I will invariably say in unison, ‘Gently undulating.’
The area around the upper the reaches of the River Bure prove my point. I would even go so far as to drop the ‘gently’. This is rolling countryside. I began my walk at its highest point, the churchyard at Corpusty. For reasons which will become clear, I left this church till the end.
Heading south, this route begins on country lanes, eventually circumventing Heydon Hall to reach one of Norfolk’s most bucolic villages. The Hall creates a dead end, so Heydon is unspoilt by passing motor vehicles. On one side of the street are the pub, tea rooms and a smattering of boutique shops. On the other, the village green surrounds a canopied village pump, beyond which is St Peter and St Paul, Heydon.
This is one of the great East Anglian wool churches, forming a tremendous trio with Salle and Cawston (see Walk 11) nearby. Sadly for me, I was met with a notice stating that the church is temporarily closed, 'with apologies.’ I admired from outside, for there is much to admire. The south porch is still accessible, and has a fine vaulted ceiling with roof bosses. These are, frustratingly, obscured by fairy lights.
There is a permissive path through Heydon Hall Park, taking you past the Hall’s stately Elizabethan frontage. Crossing the B1149 and, almost immediately, the disused railway line to Melton Constable, I reached the tiny village of Oulton.
St Peter and St Paul, Oulton is like a lot of Norfolk churches: it is fairly unremarkable, yet utterly lovely. Most significantly, despite the small size of the village it serves, it maintains a weekly Sunday service. Bishop Jane and I spoke about this topic at length yesterday, and I am increasingly convinced that rural churches will only grow if there’s weekly worship, preferably at the same time every Sunday. This parish is part of the Aylsham Team Ministry, which seems to be a fantastic example of what used to be called ‘minster ministry’ working really fruitfully.
Half a mile north of the village is Oulton Chapel, a Dutch-gabled, congregational chapel built in 1728, and now in the custody of the Norfolk Historic Buildings Trust. It is entirely hidden from view by a plantation of trees, which I guess was a necessary protection from establishment unfriendliness. It is open to visitors on the second Sunday of the summer months, from two o’clock to four o’clock, but it is possible to peer through the windows at the eighteenth-century furnishings. It is a peaceful setting, but I tried to imagine the fiery sermons preached from that pulpit, and the full-blooded hymn-singing from ground floor and gallery.
Preparing to turn left onto a footpath, I bumped into a couple walking with their dogs. He, judging from his accent, a Yorkshireman, and she Latvian, with the laudable aim of visiting every Norfolk village. They warned me against the footpath, citing impassable stingy nettles which had caused them to take a road-based diversion.
I decided to give it a go, and it wasn’t as bad as I feared. The area with the highest vegetation was mercifully nettle-free. A problem with poorly maintained footpaths is that it increases the chances of giving wildlife a shock. A well-mown path means that mammals and game get a good sight of you, and make their escape.
A stag was submerged in undergrowth only four or five feet to my right. Stunned into action, the poor thing initially got his antlers caught in some brambles. To both my relief and his, he freed himself and scarpered up the field. And then he did something I have never heard a deer do: he barked. I made the assumption he was warning his mate, and, sure enough, after I made a few tentative paces, a doe appeared to my left in the meadow below. She barked back, and skipped towards the stream. I quickened my pace, hoping that their separation would be short-lived.
Minutes later, a cock pheasant flapped dramatically out of the undergrowth mere feet away. This was not a path for the weak-hearted. As I reached the field edge, lane in sight, I realised I had gone off-course from where the path was meant to be. I leapt over a ditch, but the earth on the other side was so soft I lost my footing and fell backwards. Having avoided nettles so far, the wretched things got me as I scrambled up to the lane.
Right knee stinging, a sight for sore eyes greeted me. The Walpole Arms is the quintessential country pub, with three or four local ales on the go at any one time. I rewarded myself with a pint of Lacons Encore. The Walpole from which the pub gets its name is the Revd Robert Walpole, who was vicar of St Mary, Itteringham from 1809 until his death in 1856.
There is a rogues’ gallery of incumbents in the chancel, which gives a glorious history of clerical dress. Walpole steps out of an Austen novel, with neckerchief, buttoned waistcoat, and overcoat. His successor is wild-looking: he has a big, white beard, black trilby, and the rest of his attire is obscured by doting dogs. Then the first priest wearing a clerical collar, pipe in mouth. The next is wearing a frockcoat, academic gown, and mortarboard, every inch the scholar priest. A dashing, young parson wears collar, suit, and pocket handkerchief; the height, no doubt, of sacerdotal fashion. Then comes the rather excellent and eccentric combination of double-breasted cassock, Victoria Cross, and biretta. The next two wear full clerical collars, one with tweed jacket, the other with a black suit over a grey, V-neck sweater. Cassock alb and cope (and a smile) precedes chasuble and stole completes the set. More recent successors have evidently escaped the camera.
The Guide to Norfolk Churches by Mortlock and Roberts has been a constant companion, but I couldn’t help but think that they had been uncharacteristically cursory with some of today’s churches. Here they fail to mention that there are ruins of a north transept.
Opposite Mannington Hall are the remains of St Mary, Mannington. This evidently became a folly, and from every angle one approaches the church through gothic arches. Evidently, the Earl at the time was a master at ecclesiastical reclaim.
From here I took the path through Mossymere Wood, then leading to Strawberry Lane (no sign of strawberries), and Monks’ Lane (no sign of monks). From the latter, Corpusty Church came back into sight, standing proud above the valley.
But there was another church to visit before climbing the hill. The villages of Corpusty and Saxthorpe sit either side the Bure. They are, in essence, one village. Corpusty has the school, village stores, and, in former times, a railway station. Saxthorpe the mill, church, and, until recently, petrol station.
St Andrew, Saxthorpe is a pretty church. It is homely inside: there are blankets draped over the pews for worshippers, and toddler’s tricycle had been discarded in the nave from today’s coffee morning. Mortlock doesn’t make reference to the excellent collection of corbels in this church, several of which are at eye-height. Like all of today’s working churches, it is well cared for, and feels well prayed in. The Dean of Norwich is leading Evensong on Sunday, according to the notices.
As a child, in the late 1980s and early 90s, Corpusty was the destination for (at least) annual family holidays. My parents became friends with Robin and Sally Sizeland, who ran the village shop, and they had a son, Charlie, who was my age.
This was the first time I had walked through Corpusty for three decades. I had forgotten how wholly wonderful it is. There is a small green opposite the cottage we hired, with swings, and stream tame enough to paddle in it. Beyond, in the village centre, a larger green, where they used to have a massive bonfire on Bonfire Night, with a proper Guy sizzling in its flames. Behind the school, a lane leads to the old railway station, tiny, but on a platform long enough for an express. Here is more green space, flat enough that we used to kick a ball around, dreaming we’d one day play for Norwich. I was sometimes envious of schoolfriends in our urban Reading, jetting off to Tenerife for package holidays. Looking back, I had the better deal.
I had cause to revisit the village shop; this is where you can ‘sign out’ the key to the church. The reason for parking in the layby near the church was so that I could drive the key back, rather than adding a mile to my route by having to double-back on myself.
St Peter, Corpusty is at the top of a hill, overlooking the valley of the Bure. Its location could not be strategically better in terms of prominence and position; it couldn’t be worse in terms of usability.
Corpusty and Saxthorpe need only one church, and regular services ceased at St Peter's in the mid 1960s. It became a focus for vandalism, including several arson attempts. On another occasion, the font was smashed to pieces. Tiles were lifted from the floor and stolen.
I can picture it in the 1980s, viewing it from the back seat of our car as we drove past on the main road to Norwich. I don’t think I had realised before that a church could be redundant. On a grey winter’s day, there was no sadder sight in rural Norfolk. Its broken windows filled with chipboard, and its fabric on the verge of dereliction, it was hard to imagine any future for this church.
But, even at this stage, things were looking up. Its inclusion in A Passion For Churches (during the scene about death) and the pluckiness of a concerned local raised awareness of Corpusty’s plight. Lady Harrod got involved. The Friends of Friendless Churches took it on in 1982, and stabilised the fabric. The Norfolk Churches Trust, whose very existence was inspired by this building, took over the lease in 2008.
Today Corpusty Church has a new lease of life. The Norfolk Churches Trust has partnered with the Lettering Arts Trust, and the church and churchyard are now home to seventeen letter-carving installations on the theme of memorials. An annual service takes place every Petertide.
On the south wall of the chancel are Betjeman’s words which accompanied this church fifty years ago:
And should we let the poor old churches die?
Do the stones speak?
My word, of course they do.
Here in the midst of life they cry aloud,
‘You have used us to build houses for your prayer,
You have left us here to die beside the road.’
Today’s walk took place amongst beautiful, undulating countryside on a warm, breezy summer’s day. The active churches I visited were cherished and full of faith. And here in Corpusty, I felt that a small miracle had taken place. I don’t think any of the ‘redundant’ churches I have visited have really felt ‘redundant’; they’ve all been exceptionally easy to pray in. But Corpusty was on a different level. Left to die beside the road, here it was quietly and assuredly speaking of resurrection.
Walk: 11.5 miles https://explore.osmaps.com/route/22095489/corpusty-6-churches
All very fascinating and huge progress at Corpusty since I visited a while ago.