to the cemetery gates before he is spotted and volunteered. He has taken the bearings of the in-laws, both distracted with other matters; Sam now holding court at the pub steps; Liz helping with the litter patrol. Already hisexcuse is mapped out should he be found and questioned: he was taking a long shit in the pub on account of the berry flan.
The church, originally Norman, with Saxon, Victorian, Edwardian and Silver and Golden Jubilee additions, stands at the bottom of the lane overlooking the cemetery, and beyond that, the Green and the pub. The path is a cut-through from one side of the village to the other, one that avoids the worst of the hill; the building itself is a local point of pride, with well-tended gardens and a row of highly polished slatted benches, but otherwise it is ignored bar Sunday ritual. Loved, but hurriedly attended to, like a long-standing pet slowly on its way out.
On previous visits, smug with newfound knowledge, he would take a detour whilst Claud and her parents meandered over misshapen vegetables at the organic market. His head rang as high and clear as that marvellous iron construction in the bell tower, devouring ornamental woodwork; dark, circular hymn tables and coved placards honouring mothersâ unions. Relishing the cool air of the chancel; feeling the smoothness of the stonework, and tracing his fingers over the deep-set engraving that adorned it.
The Tudors were ahead of the villageâs origins by a few hundred years, but everything here is in praise of the rose and more meadow flowers, as if, drunk on the beauty of the Downs, the stonemasons felt an obligation to incorporate the bucolic landscape within worship.
From a succession of furtive visits â a thirty-minute detour when work meetings were booked anywhere off the M25 â he has come to the conclusion that villages most often got the churches that they deserved. Half the reason he converted was not to pray within the sometimes handsome, but often utilitarian red-brick boxes of the modern towns. He appreciated a beautifully embroidered kneeler, but did not approve of an array of soft furnishings scattered across pews, or worse, rows of richly upholstered chairs in red or hunting-green gauze that smelt depressingly similar to the municipal furniture of conference centres or service stations. The no-nonsense stained-glass, thrifty in spirit and lacking in decoration, suited those streets lined with post-war semis and their Tudor gables and tightly paved driveways.
He can never admit to Ma and Puppa that it is architectural snobbery that has convinced him of a specific Christ, hardily worshipped from such taken-for-granted splendour as here. If Claudâs family had come from Milton Keynes he would have put up more of a fight, found a way to argue out of converting; treating the cultural clash like a structured debate with reasons for and against. There would be no emotional element, no epiphany or pull from his guts to illustrate his mindset; just blatantly taking advantage of those who disagreed with each other on how strength of belief should be measured.
Often he comes here, bored, angry, though those feelings never linger for long; not when there is so much to look at. Put him anywhere holy and he has the eyes of a newborn, constantly registering and filtering the surroundings.
It was the very serious curate leading his conversion who was to blame, developing his studied appreciation for something that had previously been passed off as a curiosity. A cursory forty minutes was spent at each class checking that he had done his homework. The remainder of the ninety minutes was taken with a series of antique art books with enlarged colour plates.
Christopherâs subject of interest was Russian icons. Probably the closest he would get to camp, he thought, during their discussions on religious art. English and Italian Formalists versus ostentatious works composed almost entirely in gilt. Now, as is usual,
The church, originally Norman, with Saxon, Victorian, Edwardian and Silver and Golden Jubilee additions, stands at the bottom of the lane overlooking the cemetery, and beyond that, the Green and the pub. The path is a cut-through from one side of the village to the other, one that avoids the worst of the hill; the building itself is a local point of pride, with well-tended gardens and a row of highly polished slatted benches, but otherwise it is ignored bar Sunday ritual. Loved, but hurriedly attended to, like a long-standing pet slowly on its way out.
On previous visits, smug with newfound knowledge, he would take a detour whilst Claud and her parents meandered over misshapen vegetables at the organic market. His head rang as high and clear as that marvellous iron construction in the bell tower, devouring ornamental woodwork; dark, circular hymn tables and coved placards honouring mothersâ unions. Relishing the cool air of the chancel; feeling the smoothness of the stonework, and tracing his fingers over the deep-set engraving that adorned it.
The Tudors were ahead of the villageâs origins by a few hundred years, but everything here is in praise of the rose and more meadow flowers, as if, drunk on the beauty of the Downs, the stonemasons felt an obligation to incorporate the bucolic landscape within worship.
From a succession of furtive visits â a thirty-minute detour when work meetings were booked anywhere off the M25 â he has come to the conclusion that villages most often got the churches that they deserved. Half the reason he converted was not to pray within the sometimes handsome, but often utilitarian red-brick boxes of the modern towns. He appreciated a beautifully embroidered kneeler, but did not approve of an array of soft furnishings scattered across pews, or worse, rows of richly upholstered chairs in red or hunting-green gauze that smelt depressingly similar to the municipal furniture of conference centres or service stations. The no-nonsense stained-glass, thrifty in spirit and lacking in decoration, suited those streets lined with post-war semis and their Tudor gables and tightly paved driveways.
He can never admit to Ma and Puppa that it is architectural snobbery that has convinced him of a specific Christ, hardily worshipped from such taken-for-granted splendour as here. If Claudâs family had come from Milton Keynes he would have put up more of a fight, found a way to argue out of converting; treating the cultural clash like a structured debate with reasons for and against. There would be no emotional element, no epiphany or pull from his guts to illustrate his mindset; just blatantly taking advantage of those who disagreed with each other on how strength of belief should be measured.
Often he comes here, bored, angry, though those feelings never linger for long; not when there is so much to look at. Put him anywhere holy and he has the eyes of a newborn, constantly registering and filtering the surroundings.
It was the very serious curate leading his conversion who was to blame, developing his studied appreciation for something that had previously been passed off as a curiosity. A cursory forty minutes was spent at each class checking that he had done his homework. The remainder of the ninety minutes was taken with a series of antique art books with enlarged colour plates.
Christopherâs subject of interest was Russian icons. Probably the closest he would get to camp, he thought, during their discussions on religious art. English and Italian Formalists versus ostentatious works composed almost entirely in gilt. Now, as is usual,
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