Questioning the validity of the electoral college that forms the Church of England general synod

Article on the front page of today's Guardian questioning the validity of the electoral college that forms the Church of England general synod.

Logically if this vote was invalid because of the flawed nature of the General Synod, then every decision taken by the General Synod under this system must have been invalid including the original decision to consecrate women priests.

They can't have it both ways.

NB - this is not being anti-women priests this is being anti-cant, anti-hypocrisy, anti-gerrymandering.

Half-page article by Zoe Williams in today's Guardian with lots of helpful advice about what Anglican feminists should do following the decision on women bishops.  The only problem with this advice is that Zoe Williams is an atheist (has self-identified as such in an interview on television).  So she is not exactly the best person to offer impartial sympathetic counselling.

Of course, she could be posing as a "friend" of feminist Anglicans, keen to help them maintain their Anglican integrity, and some Anglicans might be attracted by her arguments - but as Edith Wharton said:  I am sure the rabbit finds the anaconda fascinating.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/nov/23/female-bishops-feminist-christians-defect

The vote on Tuesday was, in its way, a mini-reformation

It is a little disturbing to see in the media reports that Tuesday's vote of the General Synod on women bishops may be either set aside or the vote carried out again until the desired result is obtained.

This is the sort of electoral jiggery-pokery that has so discredited the European Union (you will keep voting until you vote the way you are told). 

The vote on Tuesday was, in its way, a mini-reformation with the laity rebuffing the hierarchy of black coated priests.  For the hierarchy to keep on about the votes of the diocesan synods (as Bishop "Tom" Butler did on Thought for the Day this morning) may be unwise and invite scrutiny on how valid those diocesan votes have been.  Normally a constitutional vote of the kind we saw on Tuesday would effectively place the issue off limits for a generation.

To the argument that women priests are feeling hurt and disillusioned one could say welcome to the club - large areas of the Anglican laity have been feeling hurt and disillusioned for many years about the way the Established Church has given in to every trendy modish fad that has come along.

Now it seems a line has been drawn and the demands of the secular world held at bay.

The position of the refuseniks has been to say to the hierarchy:  you commit as much heresy as you like so long as you do not insist we join you.

No doubt there will be a lot of pontificating by atheists and non-Anglicans that the Church of England should now be dis-Established for its audacity in resisting equalities legislation (you will probably see an example of this arguing on tonight's Question Time with all sorts of socialists and atheists and anabaptists piling in to give us their views on how wrong the Anglicans are).

To the issue of disestablishmentarianism one can only say bring it on.

Dis-Establishing the Church of England will be such a fundamental change in the constitution that it would be inconceivable (and invalid) without a national referendum in England.

And I am confident that such a referendum will oppose disestablishment and reassert England as an officially Christian country - all the tests of public opinion suggest this will be the case.

The women bishops farrago

Bogus article by Andrew Brown on the women bishops farrago on the Guardian website:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/belief/2012/nov/20/women-bishops-debate-suicide-note

No explanations, no interviews, no interpretations.  He just told us he went to the General Synod, was bored, and concludes the Church of England has no future.  Perhaps he was so bored he fell asleep and then in a panic had to write his piece for a deadline?

Anyway, I have looked again to see if there is any information in the piece I might have overlooked.

There are fourteen repetitive paragraphs all of them saying how dull it was, how bored he was, how incomprehensible was the Synod.

And then it occurred to me that perhaps his piece was inspired by the Synod.  It is certainly a dull, boring and incomprehensible article (if you don't believe me click on the link and see for yourself).  I am judging it as journalism when perhaps all the time it is aiming to be a piece of performance art.

And heaven help us, even socialist atheist Owen Jones has an opinion on the subject (interestingly he uses the definite article and a capital C, so at least he is recognising the Established status of Anglicanism).

My fear is that it is going to be impossible to listen to Thought for the Day for the next month or so without an endless procession of earnest trendy inclusive clerics telling us how misguided the decision was.

And even now Giles Fraser is probably writing an admonitory lecture.

Candlemas

Above: earlier this evening I went to a Candlemas service at one of the central villages. The singing was exceptional and included Candlemas carols and a sung Nunc Dimittis. For a small village to produce such an event was both impressive and moving.



Above: scene at the end, when everyone was milling around chatting. The mood during the service had been serious. The whole church was lit with candles - formal candles on the altar, big candles that were being blessed and taken off to other churches, dozens of tiny candles on window ledges and every flat surface. The parish seemed to have made an effort over attendance as the little church was packed, every seat taken and people standing at the back. During Holy Communion the woman priest, in pale gold vestments, stood with her back to the congregation and held up an enormous Host which she broke with a snap that could be heard throughout the building. There was an attempt at a candle procession, but so many people were at the service that this wasn't really possible.

Candlemas is forty days after the Nativity, and marks the official end of Christmas. The period between All Souls Day (1st November) and Candlemas (2nd February) represents the darkest and dreariest weeks of the year. Throughout this bleak time the medieval church organised feasts and holy days, including the twelve days of Christmas, designed to raise people's spirits, organise communities into collective celebrations, and focus attention upon hope for the future.

Candlemas processions are mentioned by Bede, and so have been celebrated in England for at least one thousand three hundred years.

Christenings

Above: there are so many Christenings these days that locally they are being grouped into the third Sunday of every month. This is designated a Family Service (without Communion) and is characterised by lots of twenty and thirty year olds filling the front pews and taking photos of each other. More than three children being Christened and the side aisles are full - a phenomenon not experienced for many years.

A writer in yesterday's Guardian (I forget who - I think it was in the Family section) defended parents who suddenly express religious fervour as a way of getting their child into the local Church of England school. A Jewish school in north London has been accused of discrimination because preference is given to children who have Jewish mothers. No-one seems to be asking why the state primary schools are so bad.



Above: photographic display on the theme of Christenings. As a social custom it has great antiquity, although it tended to go out of fashion in the 1990s. Sometimes you see the parents getting married and choosing to have their child(ren) baptized at the same time.



Above: an elderly lady said "that one's mine. It's about a hundred years old. It's even been to Australia. It used to be for girls and boys but only the girls use it now. Boys these days have little suits."



Above: another gown in the display - the note says 67 yrs old.

High Anglicanism

Pope Benedict XVI has created an "Anglican Rite" within the Roman Catholic church for High Anglicans who wish to leave the Church of England.

Two things strike me about this announcement.

First that the Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church seems to have abandoned the idea that Anglicans are heretics and has, logically, conceeded High Anglican clergy equal status with Roman Catholic clergy.

Secondly, that inviting High Anglicans to enter the Church of Rome rather misses the point about High Anglicanism.

The Oxford Movement which developed High Anglicanism emerged from antiquarian research and philosophical enquiry in the 19th century that reached the conclusion that the Church of England WAS the true Catholic and Apostolic Church - purged of error, with the Apostolic Succession maintained, representing the purest form of the Christian religion (insofar as any Church can claim to have "the truth").

It's very gracious of the Pope to invite High Anglicans to join the Roman church, and no doubt we should return the compliment by inviting Roman Catholics to join ours.

The newspapers have generally written up this announcement as another episode in the "tottering" Church of England at war with itself over gay clergy and women bishops.

At the parish level this commentary has no meaning and is unrecognisable.

Tomorrow, across the land:



Above: the brass will be burnished.



Above: the flowers will be arranged (not normally in such a jokey fashion).



Above: the bells will ring.



Above: the candles on the altars will be lit (six candles for High Anglicans).



Above: the choirs will sing (this is actually choir practice - they will wear robes on Sunday).



Above: and the congregations will take their places as they have done for hundreds of years (these hassocks are stuffed with wool and date from the 18th century - they are very hard to kneel on, but the height of the hassock means you do not have to crouch on the edge of the pew).

Patronal Festival

Hot June day. I was in the county town this morning and went to Holy Communion at a church on the old Roman road leading south to London. The church has a narrow frontage on the street, with a Saxon tower, an eighteenth-century nave and chancel behind, the whole filled with Victorian high church paraphernalia.

The main entrance was through a narrow door under the west tower. It was the day of the church's Patronal Festival. A good attendance, the nave about half full, subdued noise of the traffic on the busy road outside.

We sang For All The Saints as the clergy processed around the church (And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long; Steals on the ear the distant triumph song...). I watched as the big silver cross led the way, followed by the priest in gold embroidered red cope, a censor spinning the thurible round in circles so that the bitter incense flooded the interior ("there's so much incense you can hardly see sometimes"). One of the children at the back began to talk excitedly, hushed by her mother.

The first reading was from Genesis and referred to Jacob's pillow stone. The second reading was from 1 Peter and referred to the stone that was rejected which became the cornerstone. The psalm was 122 - I was glad when they said to me, 'Let us go to the house of the Lord'.

In his sermon the priest talked of the church as a spiritual focus of the community, a centre of prayer for those who didn't attend services as much as for those who did.



Above: Looking towards the high altar you can see the six candles on the altar lit before William Watkins' elegant 1878 reredos. During Communion we sang Jerusalem the Golden (The pastures of the blessèd are decked in glorious sheen). The Eucharist was brought down into the nave for those too frail to walk to the altar.



Above: after the service came the bustle of the teas and coffees. There was a notice about a pilgrimage to the ruins of an abbey in the south of the county. In a glass case were old photographs of previous parish events.

Second Sunday after Easter

Second Sunday after Easter. I went to 10.15 Holy Communion at a commuter village near the southern boundary of the county. The sun was already high in the sky and the temperature was hot.

The small picturesque church is on a little slope just outside the village, overlooking fields filled with horses. Running alongside the edge of the churchyard is a Roman canal, a noticeboard describing its importance (just as well there was a notice as otherwise I would have dismissed it as an uninteresting ditch). The church is dedicated to a Saxon saint, and much of the fabric of the building is Saxon, with Norman extensions and thirteenth-century embellishments.

Cruiform in shape, inside it was small but well-proportioned. Light poured into the building, in particular through the great east window. This window was filled with Victorian stained glass of indifferent quality, and in normal circumstances would have presented a flat appearance. However the strong sunlight pushing through the reds and blues created a dazzling effect, especially as the kaleidoscope-image of saints and holy scenes was projected onto the whitewashed north wall of the chancel. All through the service this shimmering light show continued its preternatural performance. My words are unable to describe the beauty of this light.

There was a fair attendance at the service. The choir was on tour, which caused problems with the hymn Oh For A Thousand Tongues To Sing (it has an antiphonal chorus, and left to themselves the congregation got lost). There was a stand-in priest which was a bit disappointing as I had wanted to see the female vicar (who is apparently so High she would be at home in Forward With Faith).

Lots of candles in the chancel, including an enormous Paschal candle - the sight of lit candles in bright sunshine had an unusual, radiant appearance.

In the sermon the stand-in priest talked about the road to Emmaeus, relating the incident to his personal experience. At the Peace everyone shook hands with everyone else in such a thorough way the central aisle was a circulating hubbub of people. At the Eucharist I knelt at the eighteenth-century barleysugar-balustraded communion rail surrounded by the coloured lights streaming down from the east.

Well-attended, well-run, aesthetically very fine.

Mothers' Day

Mothering Sunday. I drove across to the stone heath, the last of the clifftop villages. The day was bright and sunny, a cool breeze blowing.



Above: after looking around the village (wide high street) I went to 9.30 Morning Service at the parish church. This building was at the end of a narrow lane, teetering on the edge of the clifftop. The tower you can see is the second constructed on the site - the first one tipped over the edge and crashed down.



Above: I was a little early, so I walked beyond the church to see the point where the road plunged down to the plain. The branches of the trees formed intricate patterns against the blue sky, matching the reticulated tracery in the windows of the church nearby. The whole world seemed fresh and new.



Above: going into the church, there was a lot to see, including this font which had been purchased from the 1862 Great London Exposition. It was in a sort of puginesque baptistry under the tower. There was a fair attendance for the Morning Service.



Above: I was interested to see that the Rood Screen (1911 by Temple Moore) had been linked to the fourteenth-century staircase (you can see the access), and presumably could be used in the medieval style although when I enquired about this I was informed the rood loft was only used to display Christmas trees in December.



Above: baskets of flowers for Mothering Sunday.

Two women priests presided - I knew the senior one slightly (a very formidable woman, academic and Protestant). One of the priests had brought her black labrador into the service and it sat quietly in the chancel apart from a single howl during the intercessionary prayers. Because it was Mothering Sunday baskets of flowers were blessed and then distributed to all of the congregation (this inclusivity on the grounds that we all had mothers who should be honoured).

In England Mothering Sunday is a traditional religious day that occurs during the sombre season of Lent and was designed to venerate family life (workers were given time off to visit their mothers). In America Mothers' Day is a secular and legal event that occurs in May. Over the years various elements of the American festivity have been applied to the English one (although according to some anthropologists the American day was based on European precedents promoted by lobbyist Anna Jarvis).



Above: Tescos and Starbucks have combined to run this Mothers' Day promotion. Starbucks chief executive Howard Schultz has helpfully described Britain as "finished" and is advising investors not to put their money into the United Kingdom economy. In a tiny act of retaliation I have been briefing creatives to use Starbucks coffee as a symbol of the over-priced over-hyped greed and excess that has got the world into such a mess.



Above: the Co-Op's window display advertises chocolates as a Mothers' Day gift.



Above: this window display is slightly more esoteric - I'm sure some mothers must want one of these twee teddies.



Above: the White Hart Hotel was running a lunchtime promotion.

From a marketing perspective, special events and traditional occasions such as Mothers' Day act as a spur and an impetus to the economy, encouraging expenditure and creating a modest "feel good" atmosphere. They are also useful community experiences. Given the importance of public mood on economic activity it is surprising that more is not done to encourage these little holidays (and perhaps revive some forgotten ones - the ritual year is full of them).

I would never have gone down this road ordinarily

I got up at 6.30 this morning and after a cup of milky coffee drove up onto the heaths in the centre of the county. Gradually I am workign my way through each of the villages. The village I went to today was right on the edge of the internal escarpment, so that the houses tumble down over the edge.

A finely-spun rain fell from the soft grey sky.



Above: Eight o'clock Holy Communion at the church. The building dates from 1864 ("the previous church blew down in a hurricane" the churchwarden told me later). Pevsner describes the architectural style as pre-archaeological gothic.



Above: a piebald pony watched as I parked my car in a sloping meadow (in the background you can see over the edge of the escarpement). A few other cars were parked nearby, so I assumed it was alright to leave my car there. A path led across the meadow to the church, which was ringed with sycamore and beech trees.



Above: inside the building was small - just a whitewashed nave and a chancel, dominated by the gothic chancel arch. A huge brass chandalier hung above the nave, the three tiers resembling a papal crown. No flowers in the church as it was the first Sunday of Lent



Above: either side of the nave were two Victorian painted glass windows. I am really disappointed at the washed-out appearance of this photograph as the colours in these windows were exceptionally beautiful. The blues in particular were so attractive that I wished I had a pantone colour chart with me to identify them.



Above: I took this photograph right at the end, after everyone had gone down to the west end to have a natter. The candles are still alight on the altar. I wanted to record these brass rods that were fixed to each of the pews, supporting candles (I have never seen this arrangement before, and would quite like to go back to the church to see them lit).

As you would expect at an eight-o'clock Communion in a small remote village there were only a sprinkling of people present. I sat near the back, on the right side of the nave. The pews each had doors to them, so once you were sat down you were shut in.

Leather-covered hassocks in the shape of firm cubes, so that you knelt about two feet above the floor.

The priest said the service, which took about forty minutes. No hymns. An elderly lady in a red-check coat made two attempts to stand up, and when she managed to do so (she seemed very frail) turned to face us to give the reading which was from Genesis and referred to the rainbow: I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.

As it was St David's Day in the Intercessionary Prayers we prayed for the Anglican Church in Wales. Also for Macau (in the Anglican cycle of prayer) and a remote parish down on the plain. During the Eucharist as I knelt at the altar rail my thoughts were distracted by the modern patio tiles that were used in the chancel floor.

Afterwards I joined the group at the west end and talked to the churchwarden. He was very intelligent and educated, and I wish we could have talked longer. He gave me directions to a farmhouse at the foot of the escarpment that he said was worth looking at.

To get to the farmhouse meant driving over the edge of the internal cliff and along a narrow straight road that reared up and down like a rollercoaster. I would never have gone down this road ordinarily as it was little more than a metalled track. Eventually I was down on the plain, in a green landscape entirely bereft of human life.



Above: the straight road ended in mounds and earthworks. A complex series of waterworks moats encircled the area. Presumably as the landscape was so flat moats were the principle means of defence.



Above: I came to a gap in the earthworks and managed to get a glimpse of the house, which was formerly the summer palace of the bishops (until the sixteenth-century) now reduced to a farmhouse. If you click on the image to enlarge it you might be able to make out the medieval tower on the right with a Tudor house attached. "Keep out" signs deterred me from going any closer.

Ash Wednesday

Above: the church blazed with light, the flag of St George flew from the tower, Ash Wednesday 2009.

Ash Wednesday is the start of Lent. I went to an evening service (7.30 start) at one of the heathland villages. A stone village on the stone heath, with an ancient stone church at its centre.

The church was small but seemed bigger because of the proportions of the architecture. Mostly fourteenth-century. Every candle in the building was lit, signifying this important day in the church calendar.

About twenty people at the service, all ages. Two clergy presided, a slightly hesitant woman vicar and a more senior priest who sat in chancel and watched. An urgent appeal from the Archbishops of Canterbury and York was read out from the chancel step - because of the parlous state of the economy in Zimbabwe funds were required so that the churches in that country could feed the people.

We were then formally welcomed and began by working our way through the ten commandments.

The reading was from Job: Blow the trumpet in Zion; sanctify a fast; call a solemn assembly...

The sermon started with the woman vicar talking about an elderly lady she knew: "She's getting on a bit so she told me she was only going to clear out her kitchen cupboards once a fortnight instead of once a week." This reference to extreme household cleanliness caused one woman in the congregation to giggle helplessly and for such an extended period that I wondered if she was becoming hysterical. The vicar used the anecdote to remind us of the greed, negligence and waste in the metaphorical cupboards of our own lives.

The "ashing" took place just before the Peace. We all went up to stand before the Communion rail and the priests made the sign of the cross on our foreheads using ashes (from last year's burnt palm fronds) mixed with annointing oil, and saying "Dust thou art, and to dust thou shall return..."

Holy Communion. The hymn Dear Lord and Father of Mankind. Sombre dismissal.



Above: Global Care send out useful Lent calendars. There are meditations and suggestions for each day. Global Care was founded by Ron Newby who died suddenly last year.

More on Ron Newby: http://www.coventrytelegraph.net/news/coventry-news/2008/10/29/ron-newby-a-life-of-caring-for-world-s-poorest-92746-22143267/

The first Sunday before Lent

Increasingly as people find out I am doing an (unofficial) inquiry into Anglicanism they have started to recommend specific churches and services I should go to. These commendations are given in the same way that a restaurant would be recommended (praise for the décor, clientele, atmosphere etc). Although it is not my intention to write a Michelin guide to the Anglican church, the service I attended this morning was possibly Three Star.



Above: gigantic heaps of sugar beet.

Because the service (the first Sunday before Lent) started at eight, I had to be up at six this morning. An hour’s drive took me to the middle heathlands, and then slightly down the escarpment past gigantic heaps of sugar beet. The tiny church was outside the village in open countryside, the small churchyard bounded by layered hawthorn hedges and dotted with neatly clipped yews.

Inside about fifteen people had gathered, with a few others arriving afterwards. The interior was almost entirely Victorian – whitewashed walls, bulky organ, rich pink brocade curtains at the east end, coloured and patterned encaustic tiles on the floor, low pews with a convenient ridge so you could prop up your service book, hassocks that were proper drum-shaped cushions (very comfortable). A dazzling amount of brass was in the church, well-designed and spotlessly clean (including two large free-standing six-light candelabras either side of the altar, a brass chandelier, and a set of brass vases).

The Vicar was a large lady in a rather shapeless white surplice and a green stole with rainbows at each end. Her manner had a pleasant sort of briskness, that reminded me of the Vicar of Dibley. We said the service, no hymns and no sermon, the communion cup a small silver chalice.

Everything about the service was faultless. Every detail of the church was perfect. The people were all very friendly and told me how “nice” the church was (as if congratulating me on finding out their secret).

As I was leaving the Vicar (who looks after six villages in all, as part of a team) told me: “You should come back for the August teas! Every Sunday in August between three and five-thirty they have the most wonderful home-made teas here. It’s their main fund-raiser, and people come to them from miles around”.



Above: the notice sheet included a recipe for pancakes – Shrove Tuesday is this Tuesday.

Early English

Earlier today I went to that central portion of the county which is not characterised by any particular feature (it is not heathland, nor is it hilly, nor is it escarpement, nor is it flat plain, nor is it freshwater marsh, nor is it saltwater marsh).



Above: there are a number of these second world war Nissan huts, reused as farm buildings.



Above: there are many ponds and pools in the fields, which indicates the area is used for livestock farming (there were a large number of ducks on this pond, but they flew off just before I took the photograph).



Above : lots of roadside stalls outside isolated houses selling potatos, other vegetables, jams and relishes (like the rain-drenched jars above - the cook has even created her own personally-signed brand-name "Tricia").



Above: I went to 9.30 Holy Communion at a farming village in the centre of this area. The church was on top of a hill, although the gradients were so even you only realised it was a hill when you were at the top and could see for miles. The weather was cold and wet, with a strong blustery wind blowing. The bells were ringing in this wind, so that the noise fluctuated as the deep booming and clanging was carried off with each new gust. Notice the heavily-buttressed Early English west tower. That little door is just for the bell-ringers - the main entrance is through a porch to the right.



Above: I was glad to get inside (notice the Norman arch in the west wall, infilled by an Early English gothic arch). Immediately I was welcomed by an elderly gentleman in a grey worsted suit, walking slightly with a limp (and supported by a walking-stick). He introduced me to a substantial silver-haired clergyman in a hefty black cassock ("This is our Reader..."). The nave and side aisles formed a big square area rising to a height proportional with the width, so that a cube was formed. Pevsner says the stone walls are mostly Victorian restoration, although the columns are medieval. The ceiling was eighteenth-century and painted cobalt blue with two large white plaster rosettes.



Above: there was a Della Robbia plaque of the Annunciation above a side altar. In the nave there was a silver flute with pink and white flowers (a bride's bouquet left as a gift to the church) and at the high altar there was a much bigger display of white chrysanthemums. I sat down near the back and waited as people came in (each opening of the door allowing a cold blast to enter).

About fifty people in all attended the service. There was no choir, but the organist was expert ("poor man, he does the early service here, then the family service at the next village, and usually an Evensong..."). The candles were lit in the dim sanctuary. The Victorian stained glass of the east window was backed by dull grey sky so that an oddly attractive grisaille effect was formed. The continual opening and closing of the door made the interior so cold I began to shiver (or was that the presence of the Holy Ghost?). The bells stopped, the last stragglers came in, the service began.

Because the Rector was ill the service was led by a retired Canon from Oxford. 25th January is the Feast Day of the Conversion of St Paul, so the theme of the service was the Pauline conversion on the road to Damascus. We sang the hymn Amazing Grace (the cold creating vapour from our mouths as we sang) and the Canon explained the similarities between the life of St Paul and the life of the hymn's author John Newton. A long list of ill people was read out during the intercessionary prayers. The Readings included one from Jeremiah ("Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, And before you were born I consecrated you...") and the Canon explained the relevance of Jeremiah to St Paul. In his sermon the Canon emphasised the Jewishness of St Paul ("I like the Old Testament - I think we don't get enough of it...").

Floral scents of elderly ladies coming up to shake hands during The Peace.

Above: the sanctuary after the service, when everyone was milling around (the candles are still lit). The rain had stopped and it had brightened up outside. Notice the forbidding slate memorials on the wall to the left.

Above: as I drove out of the village I passed this eighteenth-century house behind a screen of trees (if you click on the photo you might be able to see it clearer). In the walled garden small (but professional) opera productions are held during the summer. It's like a miniature Garsington.

Shrine

Above: Long Sunday afternoon drive to the east with Alan Nixon, his wife (who has multiple sclerosis) and her sister. The roads got more and more narrow until eventually they were meandering lanes. Eventually we arrived in a small village.

The village has an interesting history. In 1061 (Saxon period, just before the arrival of the Normans) the Virgin Mary is reported to have appeared in the village. Following the apparition the village became a place of pilgrimage and over five hundred years became one of the most famous shrines in Europe, with many claims of miraculous cures.

At the dissolution of the monasteries in the early sixteenth-century the priory was closed and the shrine destroyed. For the next four hundred years a continuous trickle of pilgrims visited the village, but the place mainly reverted to a rural settlement with an emphasis upon farming. In the 1930s the shrine was revived, as an Anglican establishment, and the pilgrimages revived (with the Roman Catholics and Orthodox also setting up their own shrines in the area).



Above: there is lots to see in the village - medieval ruins (the priory plus a friary), ancient churches, a small museum, the modern shrine, medieval remains in a neighbouring village connected to the shrine, interesting domestic architecture etc.

You have to pay to get into the priory ruins (they are in the grounds of a private house). In the picture above you can see the site of the medieval shrine - although it was two o'clock the light already seemed to be fading. Rooks cawed as we walked around (they build their nests on the tops of the ruined masonry).



Above: I walked around the damp landscape with Alan's sister-in-law and we stopped to make friends with these ponies. Alan joined us. I asked where his wife was, and he said she probably felt dizzy and had found somewhere to sit down.



Above: the ruins were very atmospheric and reminded me of the paintings of Casper David Friedrich (or Catherine Morland's expectations of Northanger Abbey).



Above: personally I have never been a big fan of crypts.



Above: on the way out we stopped to look round the small museum. There were photographic displays from the early days of the revived shrine. While we were looking around Alan's wife appeared and wanted us to hurry as a service started at the shrine in a few minutes.



Above: we walked round to the Anglican shrine which was a large 1930s basilica (the part in the picture is only the entrance) in the middle of a complex that included hostels, cafeterias, chapels etc.



Above: inside it was very High Church. A single bell was clanging. People hurried past us to go into the main body of the church.



Above: the High Altar of the church. It was completely packed with lots of people standing. This posed a problem as Alan's wife can't stand for any length of time, but luckily there were two free seats in the front row and Alan's wife and her sister took these. Alan got a seat in a side chapel. I had to stand in a side aisle. Not surprisingly the vast majority of people at the service were old and ill (at least half the congregation used crutches, many were in wheechairs).

The service took about an hour and a half and included hymns, a blessing with holy water, and Benediction.



Above: the blessing with holy water (which was the main part of the service) took place at the well which is located actually under the shrine itself. I took this photograph later to show the steps that lead down to the well and then up the other side. Long queues formed. Because so many people were ill and infirm progress was very slow. For those people who couldn't manage the steps the water was brought up. I would estimate about three hundred people were blessed with the water.



Above: after the Benediction the service ended and almost everyone left (you can see them going out in the photo - no-one else was taking photographs so I didn't like to take any of the actual service). The white wall you can see is the eastern end of the shrine (which is a building within a building). Although there had been a few hundred people at the service they seemed to disappear entirely, which made me think most of them were staying at the shrine hostels.



Above: another view of the outer wall of the shrine. The walls are studded with medieval masonry (possibly they are stones dug up when the site of the original shrine was excavated). The window is to allow people inside the shrine to take part in the main services.



Above: inside the shrine itself. The statue of the Virgin and Child was copied from the seal of the medieval priory. The hundreds of candles made the interior feel very warm, despite the cold damp day.

When we left the shrine it was already dark. Being a country village there were no street lights, and so we had to walk in complete darkness along a road to the only place that was open - the fish and chip shop. Despite my cholesterol warning I had a large portion of fish and chips.