Driving to Farthinghoe, two straws in the wind from Radio 5. Firstly, during an interesting conversation between the presenter and an expert on university choice (it being the day of the 'A' level results), the presenter says, 'So what you're saying is, that although it's Old Skool they should pick up the phone and talk to the universities to see what can be done for them...' (meaning that students could potentially 'trade up' their university choice if they found they had better 'A' level results than expected). So, says I to the radio, is it now really 'Old Skool' to think that we should engage people one-to-one in real-time conversation, rather than texting or e-mailing them? Duh!
Secondly, Ashley Giles, the ex-England left arm spinner, these days a coach, asked whether day/night cricket is a good idea opines, 'Well, something has to be done to keep Test cricket alive. Young people these days have only a thirty second attention span...' To which I would reply that at that rate even 20/20 cricket, let alone the Test Match variety, is destined for society's dustbin along with most everything else we hold dear. Thirty seconds is not enough. For anything at all, really.
And you ask: 'Your point?' Simply that this is what the Church has to grapple with, along with the rest of society. And that giving in to technological fashion may not be the right thing to do - for either society or the Church. How should we Christians deal with this? My later visit to Middleton Cheney puts the matter in stark focus.
Bringing in the sheaves...
At Farthinghoe I park up by the pub, and walk out to where I can see the land fall away below the fields on the edge of the 'hoe'. The paths marked on the map are a little bit 'suck-it-and-see' on the ground, but the general idea is to walk parallel to the scarp until the ha-ha at Great Purston, which is a very handsome manor house next to a horsey farm. A path seems to have completely disappeared here, but I walk around the manor grounds and cross a derelicted field to a lane, and on, until at a right angle I pick up the track which will take me to Middleton Cheney. The early morning dreakh has dissipated, and now it's warm despite the brisk westerly breeze. No one seems to walk this way much, a state of affairs somewhat encouraged by the local land-owners. Two or three times I have to slash my way through nettles and other undergrowth at stiles, but then by way of a clear path through a cut field I cross the overgrown line of the old railway and climb the other side of the valley to the trench of the A422.
I have a decision to make. Shall I go on into Middleton, or make an out-and-back to Warkworth and Overthorpe, the westernmost parish in the diocese? I do the second thing and pick up the Jurassic Way in the direction of Banbury where it begins its journey back behind me to Stamford and the north-east of the county. The Jurassic Way claims to follow the line of the escarpment, and to have ancient lineage: a sort of cut-price Ridgeway. I've walked the entirety of this minor long distance footpath on a previous occasion and it's quite fun. Today this section seems to be better cared for than I remember. Out of Middleton it dives into what in Northamptonshire terms can almost be described as a ravine: there's a drop of about eighty feet down and up again crossing a cute little bridge at the stream. My previous walk entailed grappling with a field of extremely blue, extremely wet borage on the far side, but this time progress is unimpeded. The church of St. Mary's is halfway between the two villages. Overthorpe implies a place looking down on something, and the thing I assume it's looking down on is Banbury. But then, people from Northampton habitually look down on Banbury.
I'd never really properly looked at this lovely little church in its isolated position. Its sandstone has crumbled away in a most beautiful and photogenic way. Here let me show you...
It's one of six churches in the Chenderit benefice, currently seeking a new incumbent. Ms./Mr. Out of Work Clergyperson, you could do a lot worse...
I retrace my steps, and then cross into Middleton Cheney on the Astrop Road. I have previously thought to myself that Middleton's a bit of an enigma. The Dolphin pub's closed at lunchtime, there are kids hanging around the fish bar, it's all a bit of a mish-mash of the artisan and the posh. And then there's All Saints Church. I knock on David Thompson's door and he gives me the north door key with an apology that the inside might be untidy - there's been a summer holiday event this week. In fact everything is serene, and ah! the glass...
This is pre-Raphaelite, arts-and-crafts heaven. Burne Jones, Morris, Rossetti, Gilbert Scott, they've all had a hand in the stained glass, the painted ceilings, the general Victorian refurbishment of the design. One could spend considerably more time than I have today, taking in each of the artistic lovelinesses in this building. I said I would write a coda to the last entry about St. Peter's, Lowick, so highly rated by Simon Jenkins. Well, we did go back, and knock on Mrs Halifax's door, and look at the interior there, but to be honest it left me cold. True it was a dull day, and perhaps its lucent quality, so much admired by Mr. Jenkins, might have been more obvious had it been as brilliantly sunny as today, but really I think St. Peter's is one for the connoisseurs. A bit like Wagner, perhaps one day I'll grow up to like it more. It's a matter of opinion of course, but I still think more people walking into All Saints, Middleton (only two stars in Simon Jenkins!) would go 'Wow!'
East window: Middleton Cheney
And yet. The legends on the wall speak of a modest congregation struggling to make ends meet and of an incipient crisis, made much worse by the theft of lead from the roof (such a churlish crime!) They need three quarters of a million to make things right, and it's much beyond their resources to raise such a sum. What the display on the north wall also shows is that this is a congregation with its head firmly screwed on: they understand what the Church's mission is, and they clearly don't want just to be a museum space. Yet along with St. Mary's Wellingborough, of all the places I've so far visited on my Long Walk, this is the one which stands out for exceptional interior beauty. Even Kelvin couldn't have done better.
Seven theses: Middleton Cheney
I'd never realised that really Middleton is a two-centre place. Just out of Lower Middleton Cheney a path turns off through not particularly electrifying fences and eventually fetches up in Thenford. If the village name seems vaguely familiar it's because this is where Anne and Michael Heseltine live, and every now and then they open their grounds to those interested in dendrology and planting. The village is quite perfect in itself, and St. Mary's church is open by both south and north doors to any passing visitor. It undersells itself a little by describing itself as a hodge-podge. I'm chiefly charmed by the remnants of medieval glass, which picks up a faint echo of the glories back up the road in Middleton. Thenford too is one of the Chenderit churches: they still manage one service a month here: it would be very cold in winter.
I had sort of hoped to run into Lord Heseltine in the village. I don't share his politics, except in insofar as I detect a one-nation compassion in his advocacy for business and technology. Whatever one feels about the occasional excess of his actions in his younger political life, I feel there's always been an honesty about the opinions expressed even when they've been unfashionable, or unpalatable to his party colleagues. And he was always notably entertaining when interviewed on Radio 4's 'today' programme. Definitely a person to invite to the fantasy dinner party along with say, Bill Clinton and Judi Dench.
I pass by Ottily's flower stall at the top of Thenford, and leave her 20p as requested, although I do not carry away one of her posies. I suspect Ottily to be of quite early primary school age (although I could be badly putting my foot in it here!) I feel sure Lord Heseltine would heartily approve of her enterprise culture. He and she may even be related for all I know.
Stats man: 21 km. 6.5 hrs. 22 degC. Stiff westerly breeze at about 20 mph max. Sundry dog walkers in the villages. Not a soul along the country paths. 24 stiles. 35 gates. 4 bridges. One unavoidable ford. (See the difference to the east of the county in these respects!) What with all the slashing and hacking, quite a strenuous afternoon. Maybe the 3000 metres steeplechase should have been my event.
Lord
We are custodians
Of so much beauty.
Despite their Fall
Our ancestors made marvels
Which inspire and teach us
(Also fallen)
to this day.
Help us to preserve what is best,
And record faithfully what we must lose,
And fashion new glories
From our own skill
To enrich our children
And their children
As we pass on the truths
We believe we have learned.
Amen
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