At the end of this episodic summer, the farmers have
dived through a window of dry opportunity and suddenly the harvest is done.
Where I walk today the fields have all been cut, but the stubble stands as
proud as on the cheeks of any reality TV star, awaiting the plough.
Second: the international version. St. Rumbold was an
Irish or Scottish evangelist, commissioned in Rome, who during the Dark Ages spread
the Gospel in what is now Belgium until he was murdered by two men whom he told
off for financial malpractice. The Cathedral in Mechelen is dedicated to him,
and his relics are deposited there. If you want to celebrate him June 24th is the day. In a local
postscript, to this day there’s a family in our parish by the name of ‘Rumbold’.
The interior of Stoke Doyle’s church is delightfully
plain, dignified and unfussy. The current church replaced its dilapidated
Gothic predecessor in 1727, showing a determination to do something new and
different. The Georgian fashion was for clear windows, letting light into the
mysteries of religion, celebrating God’s lordship over the natural; science and
faith as one. It holds one important treasure in the side chapel, now a vestry.
The son of Sir Edward Ward, one time ‘Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer’ ( a
posh judge) lived in the local Manor House after his father, and financed St.
Rumbald’s rebuilding. The price he exacted was to have his father’s noble form
rendered in marble by a brilliant young Flemish sculptor, Jan Michiel
Rijsbrack, who was later responsible for the tomb of Isaac Newton in
Westminster Abbey. It is a lovely thing
- even I who have little feeling for sculpture can see that – but I find it
difficult to read. Is the noble Baron on his death bed? Or, a la Stanley
Spencer, is he caught in the act of resurrection? Or is his attitude simply one
of a habitual, careless disposition of justice from his couch? It is at any
rate, a touching testament of a son’s love for his dad, accompanied by a
lengthy inscribed tribute.
I’m lurking just inside the church door when in come
Liz and her niece Sophie bearing flowers, and I unwittingly make them jump. Liz
is in charge of Stoke Doyle’s contribution to the diocesan ‘Ride and Stride’
which will happen in a fortnight’s time. This excellent annual event raises
money by sponsorship to be split between Historic Churches and local needs.
When I tell Liz I’m from Weston Favell, she asks me if I know John White, and
of course I do. He and Jane are stalwarts of our congregation, and for many
years co-ordinated St. Peter’s part in ‘Ride and Stride’. Liz observes that St.
Rumbald’s has a good acoustic, and it’s true. Sound waves can bounce off all
sides of the little Georgian box: it would be a good place to come and sing
Evensong one day. A pretty little organ too.
Just as time moves more swiftly the older one gets, so
a return journey seems to pass more quickly, a sort of instant habituation to a
landscape such that the brain bothers to take in less, or maybe is still
struggling to process the information recently absorbed.
Gretton Baptist Church
Back at the car, I look at the map, and work out the
quickest route by road to the second Walk Of The Day which will take me from Rockingham
to Gretton and back. It takes a surprisingly long time to navigate Corby’s
peripherique and the afternoon’s well started by the time I park outside the
pub at the foot of Rockingham’s hill.
Philip Doddridge was a remarkable man. He was caught
up in the fervour of Revival inspired by Wesley and others, but had his own
particular take on the matter. Was there any ‘side’ when Wesley described him
as ‘the late, pious and learned Doctor Doddridge’? He was orphaned by the time
he was in his early teens, but even then his education and upbringing outside
the Anglican mainstream was leading him towards a ministry of challenge which
he informed by attending a ‘Dissenting Academy’ in Kibworth. In time he formed
his own Academy in Daventry, and as Doddridge’s fame grew, this mini-university
migrated to Northampton. It’s said that his hymns (numbering in the hundreds)
were developed to illustrate the sermons he preached. The Doddridge Memorial
United Reformed Church is still a part of modern Northampton. Perhaps his most
famous lyric is the Advent hymn: ‘Hark
the glad sound, the Saviour comes…’ and a majority of Anglican
congregations probably sing it each year, the rebel returning home. William
Wilberforce and Joseph Priestley both owe something to his influence.
The path to Gretton is a joy. Underfoot there’s a bit
of everything, grassy tracks, stony paths, a passage through a recently cut
field where treading through the hay gives the sensation of a walk through
freshly fallen snow. After I pass under the railway line going north from Corby
(mostly freight, single track, unelectrified) there’s a steep climb up the
scarp which gives the Jurassic Way its name, and then there I am in the
handsome town/village of Gretton. There is the Baptist church, resolutely,
defiantly, proclaiming its identity as a ‘House of God’ by its low square
architecture. There is Lydia’s coffee shop, where I have a mug of Americano and
a piece of Victoria Sandwich. And here is St. James’ generous, open church with
its amusingly wonky east window, an adapted-catholic ambience with a little
chapel space for private devotion, candles, crucifixes, a tree of remembrance.
(Pilton to Stoke Doyle and back) 5 km. 1.5 hrs. 20 deg. C. Six stiles. Eight gates. 2 bridges.
Lord
Little and
Large…If we are a remnant
How should I think of that?
Are we a ragged thing
A popped balloon
A fragment
Of something that was once
Beautiful and beloved?
Or are we
torch-bearers
Guarding a
flameHeroic
And the stuff of future legends?
Being me
Half empty,
not half fullI see the downsides of both.
Either
(Or so I think)
We shall be demoralised
Or hubristic.
Teach us good
Lord
To be the
leavenIn a doughy world
So that we all rise
In Glory
To celebrate You
As we should
For all eternity.
Amen.
One man and his dog: detail from old map: Stoke Doyle
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