A passing guest

It's Inauguration Day in Washington, and though the clouds may be gathering over there, it's cloudlessly sunny in Northamptonshire. The 'Today' programme tells me Donald and Melania's first dance at the Ball of Doom will be to the strains of 'My Way': 'And now, the end is near/And so I face the final curtain...'

You couldn't make it up, could you! Whose end? Whose final curtain?

The frost has been very heavy, and as I leave it in the direction of Grafton Regis, Alderton looks a picture. The tree surgeons are working around the churchyard. I have the first of several nice conversations with passers-by today: the weather's making everyone cheerful. But as sometimes happens, after the initial pleasantries, when I mention the purpose of my walk, there's a wariness in the eyes. The chap's wondering if I'm a religious nutter and considering if he may need to take sudden and decisive evasive action. I blame Midsomer Murders. But sometimes I ask myself the same question.

It's a blessing, the ground being so hard from the frost. Otherwise the first mile might have been a real pain today through the prevailing squelchy mud, but as it is I ride crisply over the top, noting the large number of mole-hills hereabouts. Does anyone know the likely population of moles in the UK? I shall Google it. Be back to you in a mo...

Answer: there are estimated to be 35 to 40 million moles in the UK (but not in GCHQ). Gosh, one between two, roughly speaking. You can have half of your own personal mole.

It's a pilgrimage within a pilgrimage, returning to Grafton Regis. Fifteen years ago I created a boy character called Thomas Adamson who supposedly lived his first years in the Manor House at Grafton, until a skirmish between the two sides in the English Civil War saw it razed to the ground (this much at least is true!) I had Thomas become a companion of King Charles and a keeper of the King's pictures, a device to allow me to follow the progress of the War up to the point of the regicide. I rather liked the book, published by the excellent Scholastic, but it didn't catch the imagination of the readership (or the Civil War was dismissed from the Primary history syllabuses!) and it was sadly deleted, perhaps before its deserving time. With the wisdom of hindsight, my writing wasn't necessarily stellar, but the ideas were good (very filmic, for any aspiring directors out there!) So here I am again, sitting outside the church of St. Mary the Virgin, imagining where the battle took place, recreating in my mind the terror of the villagers as they escaped along the ridge with their dwellings, humble and more gracious, in flames. Grafton is rightly and proudly aware of its history: they're making a special thing of it during 2017.

It's a short way to the Grand Junction Canal, where I turn right, and begin a longish walk to Cosgrove along the towpath. There's no McBoaty traffic, and there's a crazy paving of ice along the whole length of the water. The twittering birds and I have it to ourselves. Although the ground temperature is way down, the sun feels quite warm. The birds think spring is already on the way. I know we've at least got to deal with February first. A handsome bridge announces that I'm on the edge of Cosgrove village, and I turn up towards the church - a S.S. Peter & Paul. It's a charming building. An entrance through the tower takes one into a nave which is offset from the chancel by several feet, and the altar is very slightly lower than the entrance, giving a natural rake to the seating. I sit and read Psalm 39, and am struck by a couple of verses towards its close. (One of this psalm's themes is the transitory nature of existence - this is the one with the verse which asks of God: 'Lord, let me know my end...let me know how fleeting my life is'.) In its final verses the psalmist says: 'For I am thy passing guest, a sojourner, like all my fathers.'  Yes, I'm a 'passing guest' in all these lovely ancient places of worship, and it really is a privilege.

I cross the A508 and take a little lane I've often looked at but never explored, signposted to Furtho. The name means 'the ford by the ridge', and all I know is that it's the site of a 'lost' medieval village. What remains is the church, St, Bartholomew's. I didn't expect to find that the manorial farm has been quite extensively developed. There's now a little contemporary 'village' of businesses in the outbuildings which lie in front of the B&B: a sort of unconscious replacement of the original, though of course this is largely a nine-to-five community, with the limits which that imposes on the interaction between its members. It shouldn't mean there's no need of a church, but of course in practice it does: the building is in the safe hands of the Conservation Trust, and must look wonderful when candlelit for the occasional service or event. Oh, and Furtho's ancient dovecote also survives, looked after by the Council - interesting to visit if you've never been inside one before, but slightly random, taken out of context.

             (Photographic serendipity - my shadow superimposed on the sign to the church;
                                    Hat, stick, legs...all present and correct...more or less!)


Potterspury is a short walk across the fields. I hadn't twigged, when visiting Pury End and Paulerspury, that these are all references to pears, and presumably the making (and I hope the drinking!) of 'perry'. Potterspury still has a 'Pury Feast' which sounds nicely indulgent, and every year on their Patron Saint's Day (St. Nicholas), they make a girl or boy bishop. Echoes of Benjamin Britten come back to me from long ago. St. Nicholas' is in the same benefice as Cosgrove. It too is open, and is equally lovely inside, as broad as Cosgrove is narrow. While I'm admiring it, Ann(e) comes in to clean and we chat briefly. I ask about the music, because I'm thinking, hmm, nice looking revamped organ, welcoming warm church, comfy seats, obviously very loved and cared for, feasts, perry, what's not to like? The answer is that organists come and go to support the church on a rota basis and there are half a dozen or so loyal singers. Good. Would I want to add my name to the list?

It gets me thinking about the nature of parish life; that it's all very well to be a  peripatetic musician, dropping into other people's lives, and if you do a decent job, receiving their grateful thanks on a regular basis for the favours you've done them by giving your Widor or Bach or classily reharmonised last verse to O worship the King. But if you don't live where the music is, then you're a foreigner, a mercenary or a missionary, and too much of either of those occupations leads to spiritual imbalance. But just now, we need those mercenaries and missionaries until either a) we sort a new administrative structure for the Church or b) there's a sudden and unexpected revival of talented music-making among the young for the benefit of their communities (as opposed to their own personal fame and fortune). So, if I was ever asked, Potterspury maybe...

On the way to Yardley Gobion, I have a friendly chat with a Geordie in green wellies walking his Jack Russell, and am then surprised to find the village has a proper housing estate, with cars illegally parked on the verges and pairs of trainers thrown high over telephone cables. The only part of YG I ever see is the pretty bit along the High Street when I occasionally divert from the main Stony Stratford to Northampton road because of traffic difficulties. Near St. Leonard's church is the solid and superior Victorian villa of Prospect House. Once upon a time the view over the Tove valley and away to the Greensand Ridge at Bow Brickhill would indeed have been very splendid, but now it's blocked by modern housing.

St. Leonard's is a quiet chapel-like edifice dating from mid-Victorian times. Mr B. Pittam has traced a magnificent letter to The Times, printed on Friday September 21st 1860, in which a 'Yardley Gobionite' petitions for a re-balancing between the easy living offered by Furtho (four houses and sixteen individuals at that point) and YG (population 700 and no church). The letter ends: 'It is absurd to speak of ours as a national church so long as any of its revenues are used for making or keeping up snug sinecures, while at the same time large populations are crying out for ministers and churches.'  But I suppose it's worth reminding ourselves that this is the ecclesiastical counterpart of the abolition of rotten boroughs between 1832 and 1867.  It begs the question why originally there was no church in YG. Did a chapel in the now lost castle at the north end serve the spiritual needs of the village? Anyway, thanks largely to the Duke of Grafton (yes, there is one, although the family pushed off to Suffolk some time ago!) the Yardley Gobionite got his way just a few years later.

My route back to Alderton takes me via the 'Queen's Oak', in legend (and probable history) the trysting place of Elizabeth Woodville (of Grafton) and the future Edward IV, near a little ravine on a branch of the Tove. I had hopes of a lingeringly romantic spot still, but no chance, the vegetation is tangled and scrappy with the traditional countryside adornments of old tyres, discarded plastic piping etc., and the person who owns the fields above the river towards Alderton (perhaps the same one as has the solar farm mentioned a few walks ago) has been quarrying stone from the hillside leaving a right midden to be negotiated.  Bah! Humbug! Where's the Northamptonshire Tourist Board when you need them?

Stats man: 20 km. 6 hours. 3 degrees (Centigrade, not Prince Charles' favourite Soul Divas).
The lightest of breezes. Two marinas on the canal. One flock of Canada Geese. Magpies, jays, crows, and many LBJs, though my discrimination of these is pretty hopeless. 12 stiles. 11 gates.

Lord
Even in the depths of winter
I am continually astonished by the beauty that is all around us.
Move the hearts of people
Across the whole world
That together we may be good stewards
Of your marvellous creation.
Amen.