Field visit to village number 314
The village name is Norwegian, although the archaeology of the place is Roman (the masonry of the villas raided to build the church and at least three of the thick-walled farmhouses). Suffused light fell from the invisibly-clouded sky. The air was very warm.
Above: the church was neat and compact, on a very high churchyard (a sign of great antiquity), at the central crossroads. Smell of newly-cut grass. Intense sound of birdsong - so many birds singing at once I could hardly identify the individuals.
Above: as soon as I stepped into the church I knew I had been there before (this is not new-age karma mysticism - I had literally been there before and forgotten to write it up). I took about twenty photographs of the Norman south arcade capitals which are unique and highly-praised by Pevsner. The whitewashed walls made the light dazzle as it came through the windows.
Above: another of the Pevsner-endorsed capitals. The candles on the pulpit were used, so the Rector must read his sermon by candlelight at winter Evensongs. Embroidery by a Mrs Wellum.
Above: it was a warm day so I went into the Glass & Bottle next door for a (non-alcoholic) drink. The lunchtime diners were finishing their meals. There was a good crowd at the bar, with a soldier in uniform at the centre of attention (possibly an example of gordonian uniform-wearing). He was a corporal, a rank he had held at least twice, being “busted” for getting drunk and being late. He sat half-on a barstool, legs wide apart, arms often thrown wide in conversational emphasis, swivel-eyed as if wanting to see everyone at once. He complained about lack of experienced personnel (“all they keep sending us is sprogs”).
Field visit to village number 335
As I was in the area I drove on half a mile to the next village. Again the Roman road was the reason the village existed (although there are a few tenuous Iron Age traces). The only birds I could hear were woodpigeons cooing.
Above: forget-me-nots growing out of the dry-stone wall around the church, aubretia spilling over the dry-stone walls of the cottage gardens, white and mauve lilac waving in the wind and scenting the air with… er… lilac.
Above: the Norman arcade capitals in this church were much cruder, and have been laughed at by Pevsner (somehow I don’t think he would have had a very pleasant laugh). The roof of this church became completely riddled by woodworm and caved-in one day in 1939 (did they rush from the service thinking it was a German bomb?). The splendid organ with towering gold pipes was a gift from the Methodist chapel when it closed in 1991.
Above: heavy smell of manure as I drove up to Beehive Farm. They had some of last season’s honey for sale. The bees thrive on the surrounding fields of oil seed rape.
Above: out in the fields the village riding club was holding a training session. Flatwork and optional jumping (with qualified instructors). It began to rain despite assurances of high pressure by BBC meteorologist Matt Taylor.
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