The light was fading, so I didn't intend to do much more than reconnoitre. The region is fairly prosperous, the stone cottages mostly owned by commuters, the village pub famous for its English cooking. The river that runs through the village double-backs on itself, forming a sort of island which you reach across a eighteenth-century bridge.
Above: the light was fading as I drove across the bridge and started to look around.
Above: the path was lined by these antique sculptures - this one is of a naked woman kneeling and with her hands behind her head.
Above: from the bridge I could glimpse the gables and chimneys of the Elizabethan hall.
Above: the church was directly ahead (yes, that is my car, in much need of a wash). The tower is over the south transept, which is unusual. I thought I would try the door, not that I expected it to be open.
Above: the door opened and I stepped down into the half-dark interior. The stained glass was vivid in the dying light. I felt a definite sense that I was not alone - a curious presence rather than a hostile one, as if whoever it was wanted to know: what are you doing here.
Above: in the murky twilight I could see across into the shallow north aisle where there was a good set of eighteenth-century monuments.
Above: the flash from my camera lit up the monuments, which commemorated a family of doctors (I found out later they were by Nollekens - according to Pevsner).
Above: again the flash of my camera illuminated the 13th century font, and this freize of hooded medieval villagers kneeling in prayer.
Then I felt as if someone was standing by my elbow, looking over my shoulder as I checked back the photos on my camera, and suddenly I felt afraid (this is a hard admission to make - afraid of shadows) and I left the building in some haste. Outside in the cool evening air the last birds were singing as they settled for the night. I briefly considered going to the Hare and Hounds for a whisky but decided to go home.
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