The second of two walks as part of a 48-hour retreat in North Norfolk took me to this group of rural villages beside the A1065 a few miles south-west of Fakenham. (Walks 35 and 36 took place on consecutive days; I’ve just been very tardy in writing the latter up.)
St Martin, South Raynham is found at the very end of a country lane, behind the large Georgian parsonage which plays host to a church fete in A Passion For Churches. ‘Most people have got a particularly soft spot for South Raynham Church,’ says the Rector opening that fete, and I can see why.
It has been my discipline to pray the first verse of Psalm 84 as I enter each church. Here it is inscribed on a scroll in the porch over the door. ‘How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of hosts.’ Amiable indeed is this tabernacle.
Its treasure is undoubtedly its rare and ancient mensa (the horizontal surface of an altar). These were summarily removed and often destroyed during the Reformation, and replaced with wooden Communion tables. South Raynham’s was preserved as a step not far from its original location, and in modern times restored to its rightful place. The dogtooth carving around the mensa’s edge, characteristically Norman, is exquisite. I found it to be a powerful and moving link to our Christian past. Who were the priests who first stood at this altar? Whose hands first moved over this less-weathered stone, handling holy things? How many are the souls fed from here?
I was concerned that the OS map suggested there was no access between the church and the footpath 400 feet to its east. On the contrary, the map just doesn’t register where Church Lane ceases to be a lane as such, and becomes an obscure track leading to a stile into the field. There was, however, an obstruction. A herd of cattle, with calves, was sheltering from the rain under the tree the other side of the stile. One of them was patiently guarding the adjacent gate.
I am naturally very cautious of creatures which are bigger than I am. Nevertheless, my wife and I had recently binge-watched Clarkson’s Farm. So I decided that if Jeremy Clarkson can walk through cattle unscathed, then so could I. Keeping as calm as I possibly could, I climbed over the gate, and walked round the cows. To my relief, they seemed entirely uninterested in my presence. Or so I thought.
Half way across the field I looked back over my shoulder. The cow which had been guarding the gate had slowly followed me rounded her pals and followed me. And, behind her, the others were following her. (I have done more reading on cows since. There is, it turns out, always a lead cow who the others will follow. A bit like sheep, I suppose.) I quickened my step, deciding not to cross the field diagonally, but to keep close to the field edge, so that, if I needed, I could leap over a fence to safety. Thankfully, the procession behind me slowed to a halt, presumably at the point at which I was no longer a threat. Heart racing, I crossed a pair of stiles to the safety of the next field.
Here I had hoped to cross the Wensum to walk on its eastern edge towards my next Raynham. However, the bridge was out of action for repairs. I remained on the path running parallel to the river on its west side. I reached the final field before East Raynham only to find that, in the far corner of the field gathered around its exit was – you’ve guessed it – another herd of cattle.
I contemplated retracing my steps back to South Raynham, but, with the bridge closed, this would mean revisiting the first herd. Reminding myself that cattle are perfectly safe as long as you don’t walk between a mother and her calf, and muttering my Hail Marys, I began to cross the field. My prayers, I thought, were answered, when I spotted, beyond the cows, human activity. I could see a tractor, with a trailer, and a group of farmers. Surely, I thought, they will see me, keep the cattle in order, and allow my safe passage.
As I got nearer, I realised there was not one, but two tractors and trailers. And not just a few farmers, but thirty or forty of them. They were chatting animatedly among themselves, and then – to my horror – boarding the trailers. At this point the cows turned their attention from the sea of tweed jackets and flat caps, and began making their way towards me. Convinced that I had ridden my luck already, I decided there was nothing for it but to clamber over a barbed wire fence into the adjacent arable field. Only at this point did one of the farmers see me, who waited to board her trailer until I emerged onto the road.
‘Are you walking?’ she asked. It seemed a very odd question. Dressed as I way, carrying an OS map, what else could I possibly be doing in the rain? ‘They seemed interested in you,’ she continued. By this point I was more interested in what all these farmers were doing. ‘We’re on a farm crawl,’ she explained. This was a day organised by the Morley Agricultural Foundation, an East Anglian charity which supports farming through research and education. She climbed into the trailer as the tractor’s ignition was turned on, and off they went before I could seek any cattle-related advice.
St Mary, East Raynham is the estate church for Raynham Hall, one of Norfolk’s great houses. The church was built in the 1860s, but, from a distance, it is a remarkably convincing copy of a medieval Norfolk church. Entering through the south door I was taken aback by the sheer size of the place. It gives the visitor a window into the scale of the estate’s workforce in the second half of the nineteenth century. In the following century, judging from a commemorative board, 101 men from the estate served in the First World War.
How glorious this church must have been, particularly at the great festivals, when the whole estate gathered in its pews. The present congregation must surely rattle around this vast space.
Although the shell of the building is Victorian, there are survivors inside from a previous church, including an elaborate Easter Sepulchre in the sanctuary, dating from 1499, and a charming little sixteenth century brass of a gowned figure.
Passing through Stableyard Farm towards the river I reached my next field, and – yes – my next herd of cattle. Again, they were entirely blocking my way. Becoming progressively less brave, I decided to turn back and replot the route using the road into West Raynham.
South Raynham is tiny, and its church tucked down the end of lane. East Raynham village straddles the main road half a mile from the Hall and its church. West Raynham is the only village of the three which has the traditional character of a village, with houses, school and converted shops gathered around the village green. Its ironic, then, that it is this church which is ruined. I can see why the church next to the hall would have been the focus of these villages once. But today it is the church which, if its had a roof, would stand the best chance of thriving.
That must have been the thinking behind building West Raynham Methodist Chapel, ‘erected to the Glory of God’ in 1875, smack bang in the middle of the village. Methodism is suffering quite badly in North Norfolk. This chapel is not yet a private dwelling – there is no fence around its boundaries, and I could spot Gopak tables stacked against the wall inside – but nor were there signs of any Christian activity. If I was the priest for this benefice, I think I’d find it maddening that arguably the best located church building in the benefice – and certainly the easiest to maintain – was the one building which wasn’t mine.
The benefice is, in fact, vacant. During my sabbatical I had provided priestly in two of its other villages, Tattersett and East Rudham. The vacancy has been protracted, and I’d promised back then to pray for them. At the time of walking, the post (full-time, but time-limited) was being advertised, so it was good to be praying not only more purposefully, but also while treading the parish’s turf.
As early as the turn of the eighteenth century St Margaret, West Raynham was abandoned in favour of St Mary’s by the hall. But these are evocative ruins, the tower half-tumbled, and the walls variously ranging in height. The churchyard has been rewilded, and sheep (thankfully not cattle) apparently graze here, although there was none at the time of my visit. Display boards – and a recent burial – remind the visitor that this is still consecrated ground, and that services still take place here. The original font remains, and the modern altar is a replica of that at South Raynham. However, the church itself is roped off at the moment, owing to risk of falling masonry.
There seems to be an admirably vigorous ‘St Margaret’s in Ruins Conversation Trust’, whose laminated QR codes around the churchyard invite donations. Ironically, the optics would suggest there’s more energy and interest in this building than any of the non-ruins I visited today. Is this simply a case of ‘Location, Location, Location’, or a sign of the times?
On I walked beyond the Raynhams to All Saints, Helhoughton. I think the best word to describe it would be diminished. The tower has been shortened to a stump, and on its east wall you can see the line of the roof of an earlier nave. Its aisle-less replacement is diminutive in comparison.
Yet I have never visited a Norfolk church which is not interesting once you get inside, and this was no exception. The 1790s rebuild included raising the level of the floor, which means, entering through the tower, you then have to walk up steps into the nave.
Like at South Raynham, there are contents older than the walls, most notably the rustic thirteenth century font. The chancel presumably was not rebuilt, as both the piscina in the south wall and the aumbry in the north are still at their original heights. The raised floor means that they almost touch the ground. The aumbry has been repurposed in modern times for reservation of the Blessed Sacrament. The priest must have to kneel to access it, which I guess is oddly appropriate.
According to the church guide, the 1790s rebuilding was carried about by a furniture maker, Custance of Fakenham, who had limited experience of building churches. The nave windows have wooden frames – which gives credence to the story – and add an oddly domestic feel. The east window – again according to the guide – was redesigned at this time by workmen who had no idea how to build a tracery in the gothic style. And, rather charmingly, it shows!
Having walked to Helhougton using the footpath by which I had intended to walk back to the Raynhams, I decided to return via the quiet country lane which connects the villages. As I did so I ran into a couple coming in the other direction. In conversation it transpired that they were active churchgoers, and, like a dog-walker I had met outside the church, grateful and surprised in equal measure that I had been praying for a new priest for the benefice. Their hopes, however, did not seem high, owing the post being time-limited. This is the challenge of what has become known as ‘interim ministry’. I think this model of ministry only really works if dioceses have identified interim ministers who feel called to move parishes more frequently than usual.
I passed back through West Raynham. The (current) Rectory is on the road leading south out of the village. I wonder if this is the only multi-parish benefice in the country where the parsonage is in the village of a ruined church.
I returned to the car damp (but not wet through, like the previous day), and glad to have visited villages I have driven past countless times. I was glad too to have prayed my way round this benefice, but aware of how great the challenge which awaits its next priest. Not one of the three churches I visited had advertised service times, and everything felt like it was at a low ebb.
My overriding emotion was relief at not being mauled by angry cattle. If anyone reading this has experience with cows and wouldn’t mind giving this townie a lesson in cow-safety when he is back in North Norfolk, please get in touch!
Walk: 4 miles https://explore.osmaps.com/route/23537731/helhougton-and-the-raynhams (Note: This route supposes the bridge has been repaired, and you’re ok with cows.)
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