ON THE LEVEL

 (Sounds like the ghosted autobiography of a National Hunt jockey).

There’s something going on at Sutton church, but I can’t quite make out what. A lady is carrying what could be a large yoga mat into St. Michael’s, and she looks healthy and glowing like a yoga teacher person should, so I think maybe that’s it, but then someone else arrives with a couple of armchairs, so maybe not. A posh jumble sale? But that doesn’t seem plausible for a Thursday morning in July. Another woman is busy on her mobile: something or someone hasn’t turned up.  Usually I’d go and ask, as Yorkshire and England fast bowler turned cricket pundit Fred Trueman very often did, ‘what’s going off owt ther’ but it’s too early in the day for casual curiosity from an incomer.

 It might seem like groundhog day to be back in Sutton yet again, and indeed even at nine a.m. the day has a steamy, dreamy listless heat to it. Soon I’m at the field with the cows again, but this time they’re enjoying breakfast on the far distant side: the direct route down to the Nene is unimpeded. I tramp through the long grass beside the river towards Wansford railway bridge, watched by the fishermen on the opposite bank.  I’m probably breaching their peace. They’ve come for total undisturbed tranquillity, and here I am swishing and stumbling noisily through the undergrowth. A footbridge takes me over the river. A coach load of primary children are being rounded up in the forecourt, but there are no signs of imminent train arrivals. I hope their day isn’t going to go wrong.  I looked up the Nene Valley Railway the other day, to see what motive power they retain. Many years ago, walking the Nene Way, I remember being astonished at the number and variety of discarded locomotives they kept at Wansford. Now the number seems much reduced, though from looking at the website their craftsmen and women have clearly reconstructed and restored a huge amount of stock destined for heritage homes elsewhere.

I walk the field to Stibbington, whose St. John the Baptist church I very nearly missed from these peregrinations. The territory of Ely and Peterborough dioceses gets very confused round here. The church is flanked by gracious houses: The Old Rectory, and The Old Castle Farmhouse. There’s also a Hall and a Manor. It should be a very peaceful place, but the truth is that no peace is to be had here: the noise from the adjacent A1 is very intrusive.

Retracing my steps to Wansford, this time I follow the railway on the path I failed to find on a previous occasion until I can right-angle away to cross one half of the Nene beside a weir, walking on through thigh-high grass to Water Newton, whose St. Remigius’ church eventually shows on the far side of the river’s other branch. There’s great domestic beauty about Water Newton’s riverside; gracious houses with lawns sloping to the water, a Mill, and picturesque cottages beyond. I have to walk round the village to the church and am disappointed to find its south side covered in scaffolding with entrance impossible. Hard hats must be worn, ear defenders deployed.

One of the things I’ll do when this Walk is complete is to count the Saints’ dedications from the churches I’ve visited around Peterborough Diocese. There are tons of St. Mary’s, and lots of St. Peter’s, but I don’t think we’ve had a Remigius yet. He’s perfectly suited as the patron saint of Water Newton. The Latin word remigius means rower, so is just right for a riverside church, particularly when that church sits in a Roman town (Durobrivae) where evidence has been found of Christian worship reaching back into the fourth century AD. For Christians, brought up with images of the Sea of Galilee, and the fisher-disciples rowing Jesus across it through days of sun and storm, the name has additional resonance. Even more than that, a remigius might have worked in a galley, and therefore been a slave, so the name also carries the connotation of being a servant of Christ. Some folk see a link to the word remedium - hence overtones of healing - but maybe that’s a bit of a philological stretch, though this nuance adds suitable lustre and bottom to the c.v. of a saint-bishop. The historical Remigius was a young nobleman who became Bishop of Reims at the age of 21, convertiing Clovis, King of the Franks, and baptising him somewhere around 496 A.D.

At this point in today’s walk, I had it in mind to cross the A1 and stroll on down to Elton, which is a village you pass on the left if you’re driving from Northampton to Peterborough. In Water Newton a fingerpost points across a narrow field from the now sparsely-trafficked remains of the Great North Road  (complete with old milestones showing the distances from Stamford and London) to the fifties’ by-passing dual carriageway. I follow the path to a gap in the hedge and find myself within a foot or so of thundering traffic. The OS tells me there’s a continuing path slightly offset on the other side, but to reach it, I’d have to scale the armco barrier and risk my life avoiding the northbound traffic.  Inwardly seething, I decline the challenge, and re-group. 

I can understand why no pasaran.  This is an ancient bit of dualled road, built in gentler times when avoiding HGVs might have been easier than it is now, and one could have crossed without doing an imitation of Usain Bolt. Had it been constructed more recently, no doubt underpasses for badgers, toads and even humans would have been provided.  The scandal is that the approaching footpath and its sign, beckoning the wayfarer on to destruction, have been left in place. Nul points, Cambridgeshire County Council, and come to think of it, nul points for the citizens of Water Newton too.

(Later I recollect what I’d already dimly perceived: that in fact Elton is superfluous to my current requirements, lovely village though it is - and possessed of a useful hostelry for lunchtime refuelling. It’s one of the churches in the Stilton Benefice, which is Ely’s patch. As I say, the borders get tangled in these parts.)

In the course of all these walks at present, its hard not to dwell on the current situation, with a government which as far as I can see, has plumbed new depths in telling its people half-truths and downright lies, sometimes but not invariably because it believes that’s what’s best for us. Some of the time however, it seems simply to be acting to preserve its grip on power. Has the Church shown itself as sufficiently distanced from such strategies, and offering a distinctive alternative? Insofar as we speak – when we speak - with a confused babble of voices, perhaps yes. Insofar as our voices are increasingly unheard, perhaps no.  Are we a truthful Church?  As I’ve said before, just asking…

I return to Sutton by a zigzag route, avoiding the paths and lanes I’ve used before. The highlight is a short section along a largely undisturbed part of Ermine Street, where the old road still sits six or seven foot above the surrounding fields, its ditches swathed in bushes. I bet every inch has been metal-detectored by the Nighthawks, the thrill of the chase, the promise of riches and fame.

Back in Sutton, through the open church door, I solve the mystery. What’s going on is furniture-repairing, either as a class, or possibly for profit. This is good. For whatever reason, provided it's moral and legal, use the church and get with the people. That’s service. That’s evangelism.

                                                            Ermine Street near Sutton

Rowlocks on a trireme: 11 km. 3.5 hrs. 21 degrees C.  Two churches. Three stiles. Eighteen gates. Five bridges. Butterfly season (Sue and I saw a grizzled skipper in Wakerley Woods the other day, but nothing so exotic here – not that I could identify anyway). Confusion among the paths of ‘Nene Park’ – what the OS suggests doesn’t always seem to be matched on the ground.

 Lord

I’m so fed up with football.

I like the game

And believe that like everything else

It’s a gift from you -

A recreation –

A celebration of the marvellous human body.

And yes, sometimes I even find beauty there

In a long pass or in elegant footwork .

What I can’t stand is the idolatry

The substitution of sport for faith

The worship of human talent

Rather than an acknowledgement of the Creator.

Help us explain the true meanings of

Redemption and salvation

To those who don’t recognise you.

Amen.