On the estuary beneath the sea wall

Snow had fallen in the night and covered the fields around the house. The heavy winds and bitter cold of recent days had gone. Although there was no sun the snow reflected the available light so that everywhere was bright and without shadows.

I had a choice this morning - choral excellence or visual display. I decided on visual display and drove down onto the plain to a church right on the estuary beneath the sea wall. The church is very ancient (a former Templar presbytery) but so over-restored it looks Victorian.

Possibly the “highest” church in the county, although physically below sea-level. The congregation is a mix of locals, Anglo-Catholics who drive miles to get there, and retired clergy who are connoisseurs of this particular form of worship. The atmosphere was of an Essene-like community, with an emphasis upon purity.

I parked my car and walked through the snow and into the churchyard. Two elderly ladies were walking arm-in-arm to keep from slipping. Three bells were ringing (by one person operating a pulley system under the tower).

Inside there was a good crowd (not surprisingly, as it was Easter Sunday). The interior was very decorative, with colourful shrines along the side aisles, candles, flowers. Big Victorian Rood gleaming dull gold, stained glass representation of Melchizedek in the east window.

I sat in the nave, half-way down on the south side. Around me were couples, family groups, various isolated ladies (“safe with the love I was born to know”). A continuous juddering noise as the heating system filled the building with warm air.

Loud organ music, crashing a bit in places, as the processional hymn was sung and the choir and clergy (in lavish embroidered copes) entered. They passed along the nave in an aromatic cloud (an Anglican aromatic cloud). The big silver processional cross seemed to float over the heads of the congregation as the procession reached the wide chancel (by Temple Moore 1935 - one of his finest).

Hymns from the English Hymnal. Sermon delivered from the bowl-like Jacobean pulpit by the bearded middle-aged Rector, who talked about hope. Various notices.

Sung Eucharist. At the Peace we did not offer each other the sign of peace. A Hail Mary was inserted into the service (literally pasted into the service book). As we went up to take Communion the youth group sang alleluias to a piano accompaniment. In front of me a young mother, in a coat with a striking pattern of large black and white houndstooth, struggled to carry one toddler while leading another by the hand. Afterwards we sang the Regina Caeli.

Going out, a weak sun was shining. The snow was already turning to slush. An elderly lady walking beside me said: “It’s too cold to wait around for my husband… I’ve been coming here for fifty years… are you coming into the hall for a cup of tea?”