Culm - the refuse dust from stone coal (anthracite) - was mixed with local clay or mud and formed into oblong balls 'about the bigness of a man's fist'. Wet balls were then piled into a deep grate in a pyramid shape. They made a fierce fire with no smoke but a sulphurous smell.
'A fire made of this compost in the morning will often last for a whole day without being renewed or stirred: the fires are covered over at night with a stumming of the same material, on which they feed, and in the morning require only to be stirred for instant service.' (1849)
Culm was a valuable commodity. The Earl of Cawdor (whose arms emblazon the chancel floor of St Michael and All Angels', Castlemartin) gave out mining leases for culm as well as coal.
Hardy native Pembroke and Castlemartin cattle were used to convey coal and culm to market, and those desirable coal-black oxen were sold along with their burden.
Some homes had fires that had been burning for generations. It was said that the flame of a culm fire was never allowed to go out, or bad luck would ensue ... but if the worst happened, fire could be 'borrowed' from a neighbour.
I wonder — as I think about the chimney of St Decuman's, Rhoscrowther and the private box pew fireplaces at St David's, Manordeifi — did culm fires once warm the congregations there too?
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Recently, we’ve been up at the carved ceiling at St Mary’s, Long Crichel.
We’re repairing and redecorating the woodwork, where sections of oak carved with precision to create a jigsaw puzzle. Each section held in place with fine dovetail joints.
You see, St Mary’s, Long Crichel was once a grand medieval church in the chalklands of Dorset’s Cranborne Chase. It stood with Perpendicular elegance until the mid-1800s, when a fire broke out and gutted the interior. Just the tower and font survived the blaze.
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Over the next twenty-five years a trio of architects would put the church back together… in a sort of Georgian-Perpendicular style. One of the most distinctive features of their work is the treatment of the ceilings. There are 4 designs of panelling and reticulated tracery.
St Baglan's shelters within its roughly circular churchyard. It's protected by a ring of wind-sculpted trees and enclosed by a lichen-crusted drystone wall.
It’s a hallowed, hoary enclosure not uncommon in Wales, where circular churchyards indicate a long history.
There are many round churchyards in Wales and it's generally agreed that these sites were socially, politically, and spiritually significant for centuries before the first churches were built there.
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Archaeology has revealed that some of the earliest Christians in Wales were buried in round cemetery enclosures without a church. And in even earlier, pre-Christian, times, Gorseddau (public meetings and ceremonies) were held within stone circles.
Once upon a time, a lonely woman roamed these hills.
Her name was Ellyw. She was a princess, granddaughter of Brychan, Prince of Brycheiniog, but her family insisted she renounce her faith and marry a royal suitor, leaving Ellyw with no choice but to flee her home.
She wandered across the Black Mountains in Powys seeking refuge. At each village she came to, the villagers, who feared her grandfather, refused to help her. Eventually, Ellyw found a small hut on a mountain top near Brecon and secluded herself there.
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But Ellyw didn't live happily ever after in her solitude. The prince to whom she had been promised hunted her down. Once he found her, he demanded that she return at once and marry him. But Ellyw was resolute and refused. In a rage, her rejected suitor cut her head off.
This giant sleeps at the back of the north transept at St Mary’s Priory, Abergavenny in Monmouthshire.
He is Jesse. He was carved from a single oak trunk in the 1400s, and from the broken branch extending from his stomach a family tree growing over 20ft tall was carved.
Jesse was the father of King David, and the Jesse Tree shows Christ’s ancestors – culminating with Christ and the Virgin at the top.
The destruction of the Abergavenny Tree began in and around 1646 when the top section was damaged by Cromwell’s parliamentary troops.
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Since then, Jesse laid low and lonely. That is, until 2016, when he became the inspiration for a new window which our Trust helped to fund. Following a national competition, stained glass artist Helen Whittaker created a new tree.
Last week we sealed the transfer on the first church of 2022 to come into our care.
It’s St Andrew’s, South Runcton, Norfolk: an excellent rebuilding of a ruined Norman church on the side of the Downham Market to Kings Lynn Road, and one of Norfolk’s first Victorian churches.
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By 1812, St Andrew’s was a crumbling, overgrown ruin of Romanesque arch and apse. Norwich artist, John Sell Cotman’s sketch of the church at that date shows what survived when Norwich architect, John Brown came on the scene in 1839.
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Brown rebuilt St Andrew’s in a Neo-Norman style, but the jury is out on how much Norman ruin he incorporated into his redesign. Some think he renewed the lot; others think he recut the chevron and billet decoration; some think he retained the bottom section of the arch.
This diminutive figure in a cloak and cap is Mary Flint, the 'female parish clerk of Caldecote'. She performed the role diligently for 18 years until her death in 1838, aged 82.
As a woman parish clerk in the 19th century, Mary was rare, but not unique.
Several other women broke with convention and dared to perform the essential duties of traditionally male parochial offices.
Some of them continued the work of their late husbands, but in one parish in Norfolk, there were simply no literate men available to do the job!
We’ve been delving into historic newspapers and found that reactions to women parish clerks and churchwardens ranged from admiration and respect, to disapproval, condescension and ridicule.