Wiggenhall St Peter
Simon Knott, a doyen of East Anglian churches, was one of many people to be extremely helpful when I was preparing for this project. He looked through my proposed list of walks and sent insightful notes about churches which are only open some days, or where I might locate a key. Next to Wiggenhall St Mary, which purportedly has the finest bench ends in the county, I have a note which says, ‘Key kept at house at the top of the path down to the churchyard – friendly!’
I had booked a bed and breakfast to enable two consecutive walks in the Norfolk Marshland. As I turned the corner towards St Mary’s Lodge I had a good feeling that I was staying in the very house. My joy in discovering it was so ('I don’t even have to knock for the key!') was short-lived. Last month an inspection on the church revealed some loose corbels. St Mary’s is shut until further notice!
Scilla Ash, and her husband, Simon, are excellent hosts. Most of Simon’s career in farming was spent with the Ministry of Agriculture. I know precious little about farming, so was fascinated by Simon’s recollections. I was struck by the parallels between the life of a farmer and that of the clergy: the mixed blessing of tied accommodation, the sense of rarely (if ever) being off duty, and the way in which one never really retires. Simon always has a tractor project on the go. Another similarity, which both Scilla and my own wife prove, is how common it is for the daughter of a farmer or priest to marry one!
You will not be surprised then at both the quality and the quantity of my breakfast. I felt like I should be preparing for a day of ploughing, or milking cows, or shearing sheep, rather than a piddly eight-mile walk.
Wiggenhall St Mary the Virgin from the other side of a drain
The Wiggenhalls are a set of delightful villages either side of the Great Ouse. (Does English word ‘ooze’ come from the river, or is it the other way round? Or neither?) The Terringtons and Tilneys have been largely spoilt by bungaloid infilling between period properties. These Wiggenhalls feel more homely. The landscape too is warmer.
As I made my way south on the west bank of the river a sparrowhawk caught my eye, suspended in midair. For a good ten minutes he edged ahead of me along the river, occasionally darting over the water to survey the bank, before returning to hover over his prey. When he eventually decided that my human company was a hindrance to his elevenses he flew down river. I felt like I had lost a walking companion.
Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen is the southernmost of these villages. ‘Magdalen Church’, as it is known, has a fine, lofty nave, so much so that the weeping chancel beyond feels inferior in comparison. This church feels very active. I’m not sure I would choose to have multi-national flag bunting in the nave, but the children’s banners on the pillars are delightful. The south aisle was set up with tables and chairs in readiness for ‘Tea, Coffee and a Mardle’ that afternoon. It’s good to see the local dialect surviving too.
I was very struck in this building by the legacy of Marjorie and Peter Gagen, who died in 2019 and 2022 respectively. Their names appear everywhere. Marjorie was organist for over 50 years. Plaques commemorate Peter’s lifetime of bellringing, and, in 2011, 50 years of service as churchwarden. They presented the font cover in 2005. Hassocks embroidered with their names and images of musical notes for Marjorie and bellropes for Peter now sit side by side on the organ bench. They were clearly the couple who did everything, and devoted their lives to God’s work in this place. They must be sorely missed.
As I crossed the river a man came towards me with a camera round his neck. ‘Birds?’ I asked. ‘Bumblebees,’ came the reply. In turns out that the banks of the Ouse are home to some of the rarest species in the country, one of which is entirely black. Bumblebees come out of hibernation at this time of year, and, much like me when I wake up in the morning, they are rather dozy and don’t move around very much. This makes them as easy to photograph as it does, alas, to step on or mow them.
This led to a fascinating conversation not only about their importance in the ecosystem, but also the spirituality of bees. This is something which is not lost on the Christian tradition. Only a few weeks ago, I explained, I had stood at the front of church at the Easter Vigil and sung these ancient words of the Exsultet:
Therefore, heavenly Father, in this our Easter joy accept our sacrifice of praise, your Church’s solemn offering, this wax, the work of bees and the hands of your ministers. As we gaze upon the splendour of this flame fed by melting wax conceived by mother bee, grant that this Easter candle may make our darkness light.
Stopping to talk to a person who was clearly a wildlife expert had other benefits. A heron soared over our heads, and then I heard a sound I had hitherto only heard emanate from a clock: the call of a cuckoo.
I walked north, now on the east bank of the river, to the ruined church of Wiggenhall St Peter. Inside ivy, nettles and untidy shrubs are beginning to take over. However, climbing the base of one window was a clematis in full flower, an unexpected burst of colour in the monochrome of green. I wonder what colours were on these walls and in these windows in times past? A photograph exists of the exterior before it fell derelict a century ago. But the interior of this building is as forgotten as those who worshipped here. I am praying in every church I visit, but, as I have said before, there is something especially poignant about praying in a ruined church. The souls of those whose voices once hallowed these walls may be forgotten by mortals, but they are not forgotten by God.
Taking the country lane towards the next Wiggenhall I began to reflect on how, in all the village churches I had visited in the last few weeks, I had seen little evidence of weekday religion. A few benefices have a midweek Communion, but nowhere have I seen daily prayer advertised. Church of England clergy are bound by Canon Law to say Morning and Evening Prayer. I would have thought that, given clergy are so thinly spread on Sundays, the daily office would be a good vehicle of providing regular worship at least in the parish in which the parson is resident. I feel a blog post about this coming on, but for another time.
Wiggenhall St Germans is the largest of these villages. Its church, like St Peter's, nestles very close to the river, a raised footpath protecting it from being submerged. It has a very marvellous set of medieval bench ends, which assuaged my disappointment over Wiggenhall St Mary the Virgin. The pews on the south side of the nave are more richly carved. Each bench end shows, either side of a finial, an angel and a deadly sin. Two or three are missing, but the surviving ones show a person (or two in the case of lust) committing the sin in question while being swallowed in the jaws of a devouring beast.
Imagine my delight, while wandering around, to discover that this was a church which offered daily prayer. At 9.30am every day the monastic office of Prime, according to the 1928 Prayer Book, is prayed. (I didn’t even know Prime was in the 1928 Prayer Book!) In the side chapel is a handful of orders of service, and some Manual of Plainsongs open. What is more, this is a parish which, even though it is vacancy, is committed to having a service at the same time every Sunday. It’s a Eucharist once or twice a month when a priest is available, and a lay-led service on the other Sundays.
As I experience rural ministry in these months, I am becoming more and more convinced that churches which have weekly Sunday worship have the best chance of survival or growth, particularly if people are unable (or unwilling) to attend services in other villages. I think the Wiggenhall St Germans model is a good one. It is telling that, in the very simple one-sided parish newsletter, Sunday attendance is reported to be increasing. February was ‘double the size it was ten years ago’, and March was ‘a record in recent years’. Go figure.
I completed my circuit by admiring Wiggenhall St Mary the Virgin from outside. There are only a few houses here, and this church is in the care of the Churches Conservation Trust, formerly known as the Redundant Churches Fund. Happily, the bottoms of the clear-glassed nave windows are at the eye-height of someone who is 5’11, so I can claim to have seen the bench ends if only from a distance.
Given my misgivings, these two walks exploring the gems of the Norfolk Marshland have been rewarding. The eagle-eyed among you will be wondering about the Walpoles and West Walton. I’m saving those for another day.
Walk: 8 miles https://explore.osmaps.com/route/21333411/wiggenhalls
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