The church of St Michael is about as friendless as you could imagine. Empty for over a decade, it lies low to the long valley-floor of Cwm Pennant next to a gurgling river. It’s surrounded by ruined buildings. The graveyard tells the story of a once prosperous valley.
The church is a long, simple single cell building or, as Archaeologica Cambrensis 1901 calls it “a poor church… with a clumsy transeptal chapel … scarcely any features which can be called architectural … with a roof which is rather inferior to the ordinary”.
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It goes on to tell us that: the altar is poor, the transept awkward, the walls low, the sacrarium common, the gallery of debased character, while the porch is without character.
(Tell us what you really think, Archaeologica Cambrensis!)
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For those who like facts, the church is 17th century in origin and was considerably altered in the 19th century, with the west gallery dated 1847. Further restorations carried out in 1888.
Here’s our photo of it from a summer’s day in 1980 -
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The church has been on the market for years. Access is difficult – almost impossible – so it hasn’t had any takers. We’ve been asked to take it into our care. It’s in poor condition, and there’s a queue of churches ahead of it.
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It’s clear that this church tells an important part of the social history of this North Wales slate mining area, and an area which has been nominated for World Heritage Site status...
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... Where, as John Ruskin wrote, “the Welsh slates… give rich harmonies of distant purple in opposition to the green of the woods and fields”.
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When a deathwatch beetle is in the mood for love, it bumps its head off the furniture. These beetles like to chomp through woodwork, and the bumping is their mating call through the tunnels in the woodwork. In the past, however, their tapping was thought to herald death.
This belief developed from sick rooms, where, in the long hours and stillness, those watching the dying heard the beetles tap out their cry for companionship from the long and lonely tunnels within the furniture.
When death hung in the air, it’s easy to understand how the watchers associated this sound with death knocking, or time ticking down… And hence, these tiny insects, earned the name, deathwatch beetle.
In the summer of 1985, a phenomenon struck Ireland.
Statues of saints were moving spontaneously.
In over thirty locations across the small island, holy statues swayed, prayed or wept.
Hundreds of thousands of people flocked to witness the miracle. 24hr vigils were kept.
Recently, a similar phenomenon seems to be striking our churches. Porches are getting restless, towers are getting twitchy, foundations are getting itchy feet. One way or another, our churches are on the move.
Though it’s less of a miracle and more of a nightmare…
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The tower at Papworth St Agnes church in Cambs has decided that it no longer wants to be attached to the nave and, in its desperate bid for independence, has started to wrench some of the nave masonry with it. It has split open the window, cracked the cill, torn the tiles…
At the bottom of a dead-end, tucked down a steep slope is St Jerome’s, Llangwm Uchaf. It’s a quirky-looking church with a 15th-century octagonal turret tacked onto an off-centre, defensive-looking tower. Turning the door handle, you really wouldn’t expect to see… this
Despite dating from 1128, the chief glory of St Jerome’s is the late 15th-century screen, one of the finest in south Wales. It fills the entrance to the chancel and is “superabundantly encrusted with carved decoration”.
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The screen is embellished with fleshy vines with small, tight bunches of grapes, a garden of floral bosses, and delicate architectural tracery.
We thought we knew the church at Caldecote, Hertfordshire like the back of our hand. But on a recent visit, we took a closer look at the 15th-century benches. We shone a torch into every corner and crevice... And gradually revealed a complete set of carpenters’ marks.
The marks are Roman numerals and were gouged into the timber to identify different elements of the structure. The elements would have been carved in the carpenters’ workshop and assembled at the church according to the numbering system. A sort of medieval flat pack.
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The eagle-eyed will spot that the number four is denoted by IIII and not IV, as you might expect. That’s because the IV numbering convention (and nine as IX) was only introduced in the 16th century, and of course, took time to be adopted throughout the country.
As day broke on 3rd May 1882, morning showers threatened the bazaar... but soon the azure sky appeared, and the sun shone out in warmth and glory. As two brass bands played, some more adventurous spirits attempted to dance on the wet ground under a goodly display of bunting.
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Laugharne's ladies were out in force to support the cause. The local newspaper reported the day in detail: Mrs Norton of Laugharne Castle had Stall 1, which boasted terracotta, medallions of stuffed birds, rare vases and a beautiful model of a ship full-rigged.
Nestling on the edge of the Thames is this little bargees’ church. To reach it, you must cross the vast Dorney Common, dodging cattle and catching glimpses of Windsor Castle.
The setting of Boveney church couldn’t be more bucolic...
This church was founded in the 12th century – and still has its massive tub font from that date. Originally, a wharf ran just outside the south door and was used for transporting goods. The church was built to serve the bargemen.
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The quay is long gone, but we do know that barges were loaded here with timber from the Windsor Forest for shipment downriver. A 14th-century brass at the nearby church in Taplow holds another clue to the wharf. This brass remembers Nichole de Aumberdene...