We stepped into the church at Heddenshow (we were off on one of our excursions) and it was dark and dozy as any other old parish crock. I signed the visitor’s book, she donated. Duty done.
The roof was being repaired as they always are and the building was the usual miscellany of the old and the young. In these places I have noticed time is often kinder to stone than precious stuff like gold or lead. The font of course was very old.
There was a huge black Bible on the lectern opened to Leviticus with a big bookmark hanging over the edge of the page. We wandered around the place half seeking half aimless, not knowing what to look for or to avoid. We reconnected at the pews, sat at the back, two sly girls trying to avoid the teacher. But who was the teacher in this empty old barn? this miscellany of stone? its chancel as per usual painted up into one enormous mass of stained-glass grief, of passion then redemption. But as the world now has neither the one nor the other I could see no point to the endless light pouring through the glass each day.
Later in the The Red Lion we took every vow of obedience haunting that cold place and warmed it up with good whiskey and white wine.
[ Heddenshow pronounced ‘head-en-z-how’ ]