Knocking on Heaven’s Door: Church access

About as far as too many people go. St Augustine, Kilburn.

About as far as too many people go.
St Augustine, Kilburn.

The hobby of churchcrawling seems to have escaped the sort of stereotypes that trainspotting, birdwatching and stamp collecting have amalgamated. It’s a rather obscure activity, to the point where it’s common even for people well-educated in matters of history and heritage to be ignorant that churches are not only full of innumerable treasures, but are usually welcoming to casual visitors throughout the week. The amount of times I see people wander into a church and not dare to venture beyond the table full of leaflets at the back of a building, glancing at a few memorial tablets before making a quick exit in case a priest emerges to throw a Bible at them is remarkable.

let'shearitforE. E. ARCADEeverybodyandofcoursethemarvellousDEC CHANCELandwelcomebackNORMAN DOORWAY we'llfinishwithasetfromPERP WEST TOWER

let’shearitforthewonderful E. E. ARCADE everybodyandofcoursethemarvellous DEC CHANCEL andwelcomebackthespectacular NORMAN DOORWAY we’llfinishwithasetfromeverlovely PERP WEST TOWER

There are a few celebrity church crawlers – Lloyd Grossman (who lives… in a church like this?), Jools Holland (right) and of course, Philip Larkin with his perennial favourite “Church Going” (in which the solitary speaker ascends the pulpit to give a mock sermon – any intended allegory aside, it’s something every churchcrawler has done). But it is journalist Simon Jenkins who has done the most to open up the hobby to a wider audience, with his 1000 Best Churches. Many who have now progressed to new-edition Yale Pevsners and English Heritage reports will admit that Jenkins was their gateway drug. Indeed, many churches are proud of their rating in Jenkins (although they often protest it is far too low).

Don't be fooled, viewer. This porch appears to be opened in this way but the church is always locked. The most rotten trick outside of someone practicing the organ inside and locking themselves in.

Don’t be fooled, viewer. This porch appears to be welcoming but this particular church is always locked.
The most rotten trick outside of someone practicing the organ inside and locking themselves in.

Anyone who uses Jenkins for a while comes to the realisation that practically every Church of England or Roman Catholic church has something interesting in it and that frankly some of his choices are a bit bizarre. However, clearly keen to avoid devoting space to opening arrangements that would quickly date, Jenkins tended to pick churches that are usually easily accessible by a casual visitor – something which of course is not the case across every church in England. Having visited churches in every English county except Cornwall, I’ve experienced very different situations when planning my trips. Some counties, such as Norfolk or Wiltshire, when you ring up a church custodian to ask about access, they can almost be slightly confused why you’re calling. For them, the default setting for a church is open – why would it be anything else? In contrast, in somewhere like Cheshire or Northamptonshire, you’ll be barraged with questions – who are you? When will you arrive? How long will you be? When I am staying for a few days in an area for research and visiting multiple churches in a day, those last two questions are almost impossible to answer without the fear of causing serious inconvenience when you inevitably get held up.

Not telling you where this is but I found it open at 7:30am once

Not telling you where this is but I found it open at 7:30am

I suspect a surprisingly large number of rural parish churches are left open all night. As convenient as this can be for me, if I am honest it’s just as bad as keeping them locked, because it’s borderline neglect. The widely-reported theft in 2013 of rood screen panels from Torbryan in Devon (since recovered), a church looked after by the Churches Conservation Trust, could only be ascertained to have happened “between 2 and 9 August”. An entire week of no one checking the building is hardly an acceptable level of care. There have always, and will always be, people who steal and damage other’s property. People are unpredictable – that’s what makes life interesting. This is why I always dislike the modern mantra of “can’t be too careful these days”. There probably aren’t a higher proportion of thieves and vandals around than at any other point in history, just a higher level of general distrust and lack of faith. But of course, one has to manage risk and lock churches at night – if only to check up on them.

Again I'll not tell you where this is but the key just hangs on a house near the gate to the field the church is in

Again I’ll not tell you where this is but the key just hangs on a house near the gate to the field the church is in

I have the uptmost respect for people who open and close churches at dawn and dusk every day – especially because I never meet most of them to say thanks. But for infrequently-visited churches, the only alternative is for them to advertise a keyholder in the porch who will lend you the key on request. This, I find, is an increasingly rare arrangement. Mainly, it prevents idle damage and kids messing about. The biggest problem with it is that it places responsibility on the person who looks after the key. If anything did go wrong, it would be their decision to let someone into the building that would prove their liability. This is why very few businesses, such as pubs and hotels, provide this service anymore: a great shame, but the result of a more suspicious, litigious and bureaucratic society.

The heartbreaking sight of a padlock, which is essentially a declaration of escorted visits only, since no visitor can be entrusted to put it back on properly. Padlocks give off entirely the wrong message and have no place on supposedly public buildings.

The heartbreaking sight of a padlock, which is essentially a declaration of escorted visits only, since no visitor can be entrusted to put it back on properly.
Padlocks give off entirely the wrong message and have no place on supposedly public buildings.

Custodians of churches that are normally kept locked nearly always insist on meeting me at the church at a pre-arranged time, and hover over me for the entire duration of my visit, locking up the building the instant I am finished. This means I do not particularly enjoy the experience, am constantly feeling I am being a burden, and no one else benefits from the whole ordeal (except perhaps Flickr, which receives a plethora of photos of elevations, moulding details and Romanesque nook-shafts later in the week). A much happier arrangement for both parties would be to leave the church open in the morning and lock up later on – but apparently some churches are frightened leaving their building alone for even a few hours.

St Thomas Aquinas R.C., Ham, Richmond. A converted school hall with obviously quite limited resources for liturgical furnishings. Found open and totally empty.

St Thomas Aquinas R.C., Ham, Richmond. A converted school hall with obviously quite limited resources for liturgical furnishings.
Found open and totally empty.

What causes the massive variation in whether churches are open or not? One factor is churchmanship. You will frequently find that Catholic churches, even ones that are no more than a wooden box with a carpet, an altar and a few plastic statues, are always kept open. This is because the church building for Catholics is more than just a meeting place, it is a holy space for personal devotion, facilitated by images. Except sometimes for Sunday afternoons (when, after people have fulfilled Sunday obligation, there’s no reason for them to be in church), it’s a poor do to find an R.C. church locked up, especially if it has an adjacent presbytery. For worshippers of a reformed low-church persuasion, there is essentially no reason to visit a church outside of collective acts of worship, so churches tend be kept locked. Although that doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t welcome visitors, I find that they often don’t quite understand why anyone would want to visit their church recreationally.

Another is geographical, which I can only assume is based on local consensus on how things have been done in recent memory. Priests may move between parishes across England through their career, but church opening I find is usually more down to the churchwardens who’ve lived in the village all their lives. Urbanised counties, such as Lancashire, Cheshire, and the Midlands, are full of locked churches, with no formal arrangements for access outside of services. Ecclesiastical, the primary provider of church insurance, encourages open churches and says that premiums will not increase because of an open door policy. It’s noticed by many that locked churches are the site of far more serious thefts than open ones, mainly because a building which is only used once a week appears an easier target than one that is continually supervised. Especially since the biggest threat to churches, the seemingly unstoppable spate of metal-thefts from roofs, doesn’t require access to the interior, encouraging visitors to your church all week round may actually help protect it.

Keyholder on Android - when grumpy Lancashire gives way to Cumbria

Keyholder on Android – when grumpy Lancashire gives way to Cumbria

So what do I recommend for budding churchcrawlers? Well firstly, I’d like to say, There’s An App for that: the Keyholder app developed by extremely well-travelled churchcrawler C. B. Newham. This Android app (Apple version in development) displays all the CoE churches in England as dots, either red (locked), blue (open) or yellow (location of key advertised by the door). It has the advantage of giving you the local knowledge to know whether a journey is worth making without a phone call. The coverage is impressive, but not complete, users are invited to fill in the gaps where they can. The data is kept reliable currently via a subscription which works out about £1.60 a month – but if you crawl regularly that’s basically the petrol money or public transport fare to the church in the first place, and the amount of money you should be leaving in the almsbox afterwards anyway.

St John, Hillingdon, west London, is a rare example of a suburban medieval church that makes a big effort to stay open.

St John, Hillingdon, west London, is a rare example of a suburban medieval church that’s recently changed its policy and makes a big effort to stay open 7 days a week.

And from the churches – one thing I would love is for those that do welcome visitors to make this known via their website (partly superceded by the marvellous A Church Near You, perhaps the most successful project the CoE has instigated since the Reformation) and signage, rather than assuming their open door is common knowledge. But do I dare say that more churches should be kept open at reasonable hours just in case someone like me happens to come by? Well, quite frankly, yes. The greatest grassroots evangelisation tool that the Church possesses is its buildings. What could be a greater comfort for someone at the end of their tether to stumble across an unlocked church and a quiet space for prayer? What is greater proof of Christ’s Church than the innumerable splendid buildings built by the enduring faith of its members? If only one person a week enters a building and feels some sort of profound spiritual upliftment (which does not debar them from using a camera and a tripod – photography can also be a practice of devotion) then the church is doing its job above and beyond a shelter for the altar. Yes, there are risks, and bad things may happen, but it’s worth balancing these risks with a greater good. If you think anyone would have faith in such a thing, it would be the custodians of churches.


What I’ve learnt: The hows of church photography

Crosby Garrett, Cumbria

A rare “pretty picture” for me

As daylight saving cruelly drags us back to GMT, shutting churches earlier, I’ve been catching up on uploading my images from an Indian summer of churchcrawling. I know I haven’t quite been updating this blog as much as I should with my amazing (!) adventures, but the sheer volume of things I’ve been visiting means that south-east views of chancels would rapidly get rather tedious unless I frame them in an interesting way. I would like to do a series of reflections: on the hobby of churchcrawling, the problem open and locked churches, as well as my continuing research, but first I’d like to do a guide to the sort of prosaic photography that suits architectural historians, rather than someone gunning for Flickr favs.

Well obviously I took this picture via an incredibly elaborate arrangement of mirrors

Well obviously I took this picture via an incredibly elaborate arrangement of mirrors

For many years now (since mid-2012) I’ve been using a Panasonic Lumix FZ48, a bridge camera with 24X zoom. Until this summer, I had basic rules for the dial. If I was shooting freehand, I have it on “P”, which means the aperture and shutter speed are set for you by the light sensor with this in mind. If I had the camera on a tripod, then I would shoot on “A” – that is, aperture priority, which means you choose the aperture size, and the camera takes a long exposure if necessary. If it was very dark and I needed a very long exposure (more than 10 seconds) I put it on S, “shutter priority” and set it that way.

Coleshill, Warwickshire

Perp chancels, with their massive windows, are a nightmare for photography – especially when they’re cluttered up with nasty MFI furniture for a wedding – but I still took a load of crap pictures.

This was the extent of control I had over the camera. But when I came back from Warwickshire in August for a two-day trip, I found I did have an unfortunate number of duff shots: blurry arcades and over-exposed chancels. I decided to up my game and shoot almost entirely on M:  full manual, in that I set both aperture and shutter speed for every shot. And since all cameras are basically the same – they let light through a hole of a specified size for a specified amount of time onto a light-sensitive surface – there might be someone out there who might benefit from me twaddling on for a bit.

Lichfield Cathedral

Another rare, “aesthetic” picture: the crazy abundance of dogtooth in Lichfield nave

First thing that improved my photos: when shooting on a tripod, set the ISO sensitivity to the lower number possible. This was originally done, in the olden days, by changing the film. Now there should be a button on the back of the camera where you can either lock it at one speed, set it to auto, or choose a maximum value. The only reason you want a higher film speed is if you are shooting freehand in low light or working with a moving subject. Unless you’re working with liturgy there’s no reason you need to this. Your pictures will come out so much sharper.

Audley, Staffordshire

I could not find the light switches here even though the vestry had the key left in the door and they had to be somewhere. Nevertheless, pictures mostly came out okay – just took twice as long as it should have had.

Next, setting the shutter speed. The first time you’re in a dark church and realise you can get great pictures by just taking 10-15 second exposures on a tripod is a marvellous dawn. Sometimes you’re going to want to turn off the lights where possible, as bright bulbs often over-expose and mess up your shots. But it’s also worth controlling the shutter speed when outside too. Cameras are very intelligent these days, but it can only go so far. A black box can’t know that you’re interested in the dark walls rather than the bright windows. However, I’ve found that’s always better to under-expose than over-expose. If it’s a bit dark, you can rescue it at home with some post-processing and upping the contrast and gamma correction. Whiteness means the information has been totally destroyed, and only a magic Blade Runner zoom-enhance-zoom-enhance computer could do anything.

Church Eaton, Staffordshire

Here we have sun on the W tower so it’s possible to balance it with the sky

The same goes for outside: when you’re taking a north side of a church in shade against a bright sky, there’s no way the light sensor know you’re more interested in the dark building than the bright sky. At the expense of over-exposing the blue sky and losing the pretty clouds, you can actually bring out your subject that would get lost in the dark. There’s really no excuse not to set your shutter speed manually all the time. While in filmic past, when plastic bags were free at Marks and Spencers and Pets Win Prizes was top Saturday-night viewing, you wouldn’t see your results until you unpegged them and took them out of your red-lit developing room, you can see them instantly on your camera’s LCD screen.

The other thing to remember is that cameras are like your eye, not like your brain. You might think you can see a dark wall and a bright stained glass window at the same time, but actually, you can’t – you’re seeing them separately and experiencing them together. The only way to get a picture of something bright and something dark in the same picture is to use a tripod and take two different exposures, and do a composite of them in an imaging program when you get home.

Bakewell, Derbyshire

Burlison and Grylls glass enhanced by short exposure to bring out the painting

Stained glass should always be taken on manual shutter speed. But not all stained glass is created equal – a blazing boiled-sweet Wailes in the chancel at sunrise is not the same as a bit of medieval glass cradled in the vestry. You need to get a balance between the luminosity of the glass and capturing the painting. For sunlight directly through glass you can be shooting a 1/1000 of a second. It’s also interesting how you can make quite bad Victorian window look really good by reducing the glare effect of the thin panes – the camera never lies, indeed.

Checkley, Staffordshire

Medieval glass tends to let a lot less light through than Victorian glazing

Nearly all digital cameras have a preview function where if you lightly hold down the shutter button it will show you what it thinks the image will look like. Of course, this isn’t perfect – it won’t work for things that have very low light – but it certainly gives you a good idea how long you need.

St Giles R.C., Cheadle

Pugin’s Cheadle has a very difficult lighting system to work with

Finally, understanding the aperture. Beyond the film speed, there’s only two things to understand how a camera collects the light: how big the hole is, and how long it’s open for. Aperture is measured by F-Stop number. The lower the F-Stop number, the wider the hole that lets the light in. This, I find, is more of a matter of practical advantages and disadvantages in church photography than the general benefits to your images with longer exposures. If you’re in very low light, then the necessary length of your exposures become a lot shorter (obvious, really). However, a higher F-Stop means a deeper depth of field and sharper focus. My F-stop only goes up to 8 anyway, which isn’t very good, so it’s not really something I’ve explored. Therefore, unless I want to highlight something in shallow focus or can’t find the light switches, I shoot on high F-Stop.

Kirkby Wiske, North Yorkshire

Curse the mason who came up with that string course

One exception I find is a perennial problem for me shooting my pet subject, sedilia. Sedilia are always built into the south wall and very often have a window directly above them. This means they are sometimes bloody frustrating to take a picture of because of the composition of dark wall with sunlight blazing in behind. While sometimes shooting them with a wide aperture and short exposure helps, sometimes all you can do is the ultimate cheat: flash them.

Acton, Cheshire

This flashed picture looks awful, but shows the re-masoned wall behind the two missing sedilia more clearly than anything

Ah, the flash. All those pictures of demon-eyed children round their birthday cake in the kitchen. For a professional photographer, it’s like a chef using a microwave oven. But like all but the most conceited gourmet will admit about microwaves, the flash has its uses. Essentially for any sort of aesthetic photography a flash is no-no because it absolutely destroys the ambience and subtleties of natural light. But for sculpture, this can be extremely useful for architectural historians. The intense light can bring out breaks and joins that can’t be seen with the naked eye. It can also highlight folds quite beautifully sometimes. It ain’t going to get on the cover of National Geographic, but it’s still wise to pop up your flash for a few close-quarter shots occasionally.

Chebsey, Staffordshire

The headdress distracts from her fine pair of ears

If you want to take decent interior pictures, you’ve gotta get a tripod, I’m afraid. It might make you look like a nerd, but on the other hand it does look a little bit like a you’re carrying a rifle, which might appeal on some level, and also if you got accosted by a ne’er-do-well you could always brain them with it. Most of the time I carry a plastic one that cost about £15. Generally this is totally fine – the main problem you will find is using it on high zoom, when it becomes difficult to move the mount steadily and get that perfect frame you want. Also, moving the camera 90 degrees and not having it be a bit wonky is also difficult. I have a metal one that had a former life as a telescope stand, weighs a tonne, but makes me look like I know what I’m doing.

Which of course, I don’t, really. I only have a bridge camera, so I don’t have a clue about the wide world of lens and SLRs. I hope this serves as a bit of an introduction on how to take the sort of dry, boring photos of churches that are useful for architectural and art history. But if this was the how to take pictures, there’s also the what to take pictures of, which I’ll save for another post.

Selby: the wonkiest abbey in Yorkshire

Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

The original wonky arch: the eastern bay of the north arcade, early twelfth century. The third storey was added in the third major campaign to finish the nave a century later.

Selby featured at the very top of my infamous great mistakes post which may prove to be the early highlight of my career. While most of the “great mistakes” were due either to changes of plan, or the medieval building process of establishing decorative systems rather than designing a whole building down to the last detail, Selby’s most alarming semi-collapsed arch is due to bad planning and surveying. I re-visited the Abbey a few weeks ago, and discovered that the bad land caused the Abbey problems well into the fourteenth century, and also that it has some of the most eccentric architectural designs you will ever find in medieval England. It also seems to be the only church in the world to make such a comic turn out of a choir aisle vault.

Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

The west bays of the nave south arcade, showing not-quite-as-severe, but still rather alarming differential settlement

Selby is a crap market town in the West Riding. It doesn’t even have a Marks and Spencer, that’s how grim it is, people. Yet it does have one of the few abbey churches of a great monastery that has survived largely complete despite not being upgraded to a cathedral. The earliest parts of Selby Abbey date from the beginning of the twelfth century, when across the country the Norman conquerors were consolidating their power by bulldozing Anglo-Saxon cathedrals to make way for colossal Romanesque arcades. We know from a local monastic chronicle that it was the second abbot of Selby, Hugh, who decided to move the monastery across town and construct something approaching the scale of what was going up at Durham Cathedral. It claims that he even rolled his sleeves up and helped the workmen out by carrying stones and mortar. Whether that’s literally true or not, it shows that he certainly was decisive in getting Selby Abbey a church among the top rank. Problem is that Hugh did not get very far with his thumping great Romanesque arcades. In the nave today, you’ll see only two bays of the nave were completed in the Romanesque style, along with the standing piers of the next bay. The reason for this is that as soon as they started building up the central tower, the west piers of the nave began to sink into the high water table under Selby, leaving the arcades showing what architectural historian Roger Stalley called “a spectacular example of differential settlement”. The open arches of the elevation of the nave were blocked in, and basically much of the twelfth century must have been spent by the monks looking at what had been built whilst sucking air through their teeth.

Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

The Early Gothic/Transitional Romanesque gallery of the north arcade, with “carousel” pier in the centre, 1180s. Here constructed over Romanesque piers from the early twelfth century.

Towards the end of the twelfth century, probably the 1180s, is when the monks finally regained the confidence to call the builders back in. Architecture had obviously changed a lot in that time. But unlike what was going on at Ripon with fancy Frenchified Gothic, what Selby got was a lot more along the lines of old-fashioned Romanesque to match what had been built already: still very much big round arches and old motifs such as that old chestnut zig-zag. The most curious feature is in the gallery, where the massive yawning openings over each bay are connected by lots of freestanding piers around a core, which look bizarrely like a merry-go-round. Putting something basically so fiddly, clunky and let’s be honest here, downright daft into a building would have reduced a French architect at this time, accustomed to accentuating height and slenderness, to hysterics (although there are weird compound piers in the gallery of Noyon, they’re not this weird).

You’d think at this point everything would go well and they could finish off the nave. However, for unknown reasons, these builders stopped before they’d started the galleries on the south side. This means that the nave must have left looking very odd for a good number of years. It’s difficult to explain so I’ve gone and done a picture. The arcades on the north of the Abbey church would be raised to gallery level, but only to first-storey on the south, making it absolute puzzle how they would have put a temporary roof on, if indeed they did.

The Abbey Church (I've sort of ghosted in the cloisters that would have been there) in the early thirteenth century after the departure of the second campaign. It is not a cutaway. The north gallery is roofed, as is the Romanesque bay of the south, the rest is open. The tower was definitely not that wonky but since this isn't being peer-reviewed I thought it might be funnier if it was.

The Abbey Church (I’ve sort of ghosted in the cloisters that would have been there) in the early thirteenth century after the departure of the second campaign. It is not a cutaway. The north gallery is roofed, as is the Romanesque bay of the south, the rest is open. The tower was definitely not that wonky but since this isn’t being peer-reviewed I thought it might be funnier if it was.

Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

The hybrid elevation of the south nave arcade – Early Gothic arches of the 1180s and Early English gallery and clerestory, 1220s-30s.

So it would be around another half-century until the next lot of builders came in to finish the job. By then Gothic architecture had become established in England; but not as Early Gothic in the French sense, but as the peculiar national style we call Early English. In the 1220s or 30s (not documented, we’re going off style here), this lot added a second-storey gallery to the south side, and then a third storey all the way round. The weird thing about the new south gallery, is that for reasons difficult to fathom, they decided to superimpose a great whopping drainpipe-like pole that slices through the elegant subdivided arches and their quatrefoil spandrel to support the ceiling. This vertical articulation is essentially the sort of thing that French architects were always trying to do with their vaults. This is an unhealthy combination of English horizontality combined with French verticality. But you don’t really need to know that to realise it somehow manages to look even more daft than the carousel piers on the other side.


Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

The south choir aisle, looking east, probably c.1310s

Their nave finally complete, the Benedictine monks of Selby did not rest on their wonky laurels. Instead, possibly because a passing Cistercian made an unkind remark about their totally out-of-date apse and how they need to get to the times with a square ambulatory, the monastery embarked on yet another drawn-out campaign. The interior aisle walls of the choir are one of the most spectacular survivals of medieval vegetative carving outside of Southwell Chapter House. Every arch of the pointed dado arcade rests on a capital of stunning undercutting, a forest in stone. Yet the cohesive feeling you get is misleading. The windows above show subtle changes in style. Those in the north aisle are of the late thirteenth century, with what was then rather up-to-the minute bar tracery of slender quatrefoils. The windows of the south aisle however are reticulated – a net-like pattern of the same motif spread over the head of the window – a date in the early decades of the fourteenth century. The east window and great arcades that wedge through the choir however, are of the most pure Yorkshire Curvilinear Dec of the 1330s. Essentially, much like the nave, there are at least three different sets of contractors working here on the choir, but with much shorter gaps. What is left is a slightly uneven mix of styles, as if you’d got dressed so slowly that you put some flared bell-bottom trousers on in the 1970s, but not got round to your top half until you could afford to put a Nirvana t-shirt and plaid flannel jacket in the early ’90s.

This is really quite fascinating because it again needs an “artist’s” “impression” of what it would have been like. Presumably the aisle walls were built around the old apse, which was kept in use and not demolished until the main arcades were built inside. The north aisle in particular must have stood as a completely useless wall doing nothing for a good few decades, as I show here, with commencement of the south aisle.

Selby Abbey, from the east in the early fourteenth century, with the north aisle wall standing and the south aisle in slow progress, behind is the aisled Romanesque apse and apsed chapels of the transept, all later demolished

Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

The real north aisle and completed choir

N aisle vaulting

A totally exaggerated and completely unmeasured demonstration of the potential problem with the vaulting of the north choir aisle

This is what no doubt led to the following problem in which quick thinking averted a complete cock up. Presumably because the north aisle had been standing free for so long, it appears to have settled into the water table again – it can be seen from the outside to be rather wonky. When the final workshop came in in the 1330s to build the arcades, demolish the apse, refashion the Norman transepts and top off the aisles it posed a huge problem.

Aesthetic concerns about things being straight are all well and good to dismiss, but it really matters for vaults. If the two essential arches that make up a rib-vault are not equal, you’re going to have problems in the two balancing each other out. Because the north aisle wall is not perpendicular with the choir arcades, it’s fine in the middle bay, but in the west bay, the vault overshoots the wall responds, and in the east bays, it undershoots them.

What to do? Rebuilt the wall and start again? Well, since this is Selby Abbey, which couldn’t even be bothered to demolish those horrendously semi-collapsed arches of the nave, they’re not going to lose all those lovely windows and capitals. Instead they came up with an ingenious solution: vault it as if the wall was straight, but just alter the responds.

In the west bays, it’s not too bad. The vault sits towards the back of the respond. Sure, looks a bit disconnected, but no one will notice.

Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

The “overshot” western bays of the north choir aisle vault

In the eastern bays, if you shot the vault over from the choir it would miss the capitals completely, and land on the floor inside. So what the masons did is send out a curve to catch the vault on tiny ickle capitals, then start a new arch from there that would accurately cover the space. Now, you might not find this as funny as I did, but you have to admit it is pretty funny.

Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

The “undershot” bays of the north choir vault, with miniature capitals “catching” the ribs

Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

North aisle vaulting, arcade side – vestigial mini-capitals

On the arcade side of the springs, the masons have put vestigial little rings intended to balance out the mushroom-like eccentricities on the other side to try and convince you it was supposed to be like that all along. Now I’ve pointed it out, it looks completely ridiculous. But it’s rarely noticed. Even Pevsner does not mention it. It’s all somehow incredibly stupid and extremely clever at the same time.


Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

Looks cool no? Unfortunately it was completed in 1912, so like a good medievalist we’re going to have pretend it isn’t there

Selby had no major rebuilding after the magnificent Decorated choir was finished, except for some fifteenth-century tidying-up of the north transept with a honking great Perp window. The central tower finally gave way in 1690 and toppled to the south-east – ironically totally away from the most famous wonky arch – taking out the south transept and part of the south aisle. The Abbey had a plethora of work done to it by the Victorians. The south transept was rebuilt in a pure 1330s Dec style that undoubtedly never was and the humble 18th-century belltower was re-medievalised. A fire ripped through the Abbey church in 1906, causing enormous damage. Despite what the church might say in their guide books, in the east window – which had previously been one of the most magnificent Jesse Tree windows in England – not a shred of medieval glass remains. What we have now is what stained glass specialist David O’Connor called a “very clever fake” made by the stained glass firm Ward & Hughes in 1909. Anything that looks old has been artificially aged with acid pitting: all that survived the fire were figures that Ward & Hughes had taken out in their 1891 restoration (hence why they knew the window so well), and some panels that had been pinched earlier (preserved in the Nelson collection held by National Museums Liverpool). So although you have a good (but still altered) facsimile of the programme, and indeed many of the figural compositions are accurate, the true jewel-like quality of the medieval glass is gone forever from Selby’s east window. It is a great shame that the church continue to pretend (or quite frankly, flat-out lie) otherwise, as it does both the original glass and the restorers’ work a disservice.

The west front in 1816, by the very reliable Buckler. British Library.

The west front in 1816, by the very reliable Buckler who is a better draftsman than I. British Library Add. MS 37121. You can see the ickle gable of the then much lower-pitched nave roof behind.

Selby Abbey, West Yorkshire

The west front today

The west front was also mucked up a bit. Before it was a very stumpy thing that was intended to have flanking towers but never received them, and had been tied up as best it could with a bit of crenellation. After George Gilbert Scott raised the roof pitch and added a funny Salisbury-lite gable (which Pevsner actually thinks is medieval, ho hum, Selby is not one of his best accounts), the idea came around to raise the towers up. After the fire his son J. Oldrid Scott built some Dec-lite towers (preserving the Perp pinnacles on top) that give the west front a cathedral-like grandeur. Problem was, it’s still in Selby. If only he could have built them a Marks and Spencer too.


Now this is the product of a two-hour visit to the Abbey (that’s how long you can park for free at Sainsbury’s) and an afternoon in WordPress. Don’t cite it, but check out these folks who’ve looked at it way more than I have.

  • Nicola Coldstream ‘The Development of flowing tracery in Yorkshire c.1300-1370’. Ph.D. thesis, The Courtauld Institute of Art, 1973, 32 ff.
  • Eric Fernie ‘The Romanesque Church of Selby Abbey’ in Yorkshire Monasticism, Archaeology, Art and Architecture British Archaeological Association Conference Transactions 15, ed. L. Hoey, 1995
  • Stuart Harrison and Malcolm Thurlby ‘Observations on the Romanesque Crossing Tower, Transepts and Nave Aisles of Selby Abbey’ in Yorkshire Monasticism
  • Charles Clement Hodges ‘The architectural history of Selby AbbeyYorkshire Archaeological Journal 12,1893
  • David O’Connor and Henrietta Reddish Harris, ‘The East Window of Selby Abbey, Yorkshire’ in Yorkshire Monasticism
  • Nikolaus Pevsner and Enid Radcliffe, Yorkshire West Riding, 2nd ed., Buildings of England Series, 1967, pp.435-442 [As noted, this description is far from satisfactory when compared to the cathedral accounts of the BoE, treating the building almost as a large parish church rather than the extremely significant monastic surviva that it is. A revised description will be included in the new West Riding: South volume, which appears to be perpetually a way off being finished]
  • Roger Stalley ‘Choice and Consistency: The Early Gothic Architecture of Selby Abbey’ Architectural History 38, 1995, pp. 1-24

Although do check out my Flickr album from my daytrip up the M62 to Selby and other sundry Yorkshire locations

All that is solid melts into wifi: note-taking in the digital age


BA and MA notes

As I’m doing a little bit of teaching on art-historical methodological texts next term, I’ve been digging right back into my BA notes. Partly this is to remind myself why I hate Said’s Orientalism so much, but also to think about how you think and note-take as a student. What’s evident mainly how much the way note-taking has changed in the giant leaps we’ve made in technology in the past ten years, perhaps fundamentally changing the way we engage with texts. Is this a good thing? Well, it’s a thing, for sure. A thing that might be even more boring than moulding profiles, but I’m still going to put both on my blog.


An example of BA3 note-taking

The notes for my BA at the University of Manchester and my MA at The Courtauld Institute fill three whole lever-arch binders (the majority of which are for my third-year BA, not including the dissertation). Ten years ago, if you brought a laptop to a lecture, you’d stick out like you’d brought your own sandwiches to a lunch meeting at a mediocre café. Everyone would look down on you for it, even if deep down they thought it was a rather good idea. But nevertheless, I was never the one to make this faux-pas, resulting in reams of A4 paper with fountain-pen notes. I developed a system of organising notes – for both set texts and lectures – into sections, using bullet points or indenting as the argument deepened, and returning to the margin when a new idea was introduced.


Some PhD note taking

I attempted to continue my developed system of tiered note-taking (the “classic” type, I have thus dubbed it) into my PhD. The problem is that, whereas in taught, structured classes with assigned reading, it’s easy to organise all this thought on to paper, it’s much harder in the flowing, free-form nature of your own thesis. Despite my determination to hold on to my fountain pen, it was never going to work. I found myself sometimes turning through page after page of my folder trying to find the reference for something I’d written down when writing part of a chapter. My little red ring-bind folder was abandoned before it even approached the size of my BA notes, for the referencing system Zotero, which can hold all your bibliography and notes thereon in the Cloud. As long as you hadn’t imagined making it, no note is ever far from your grasp.


Lecture notes

Writing however, continued to be useful to help understand things rather than simply to record: most of all lectures. My golden age of the “classic type” of note-taking survived into the extensive notes I take during academic talks, not necessarily to remember what they said, but to have some sort of exercise in front of me to understand the facets of their argument. For much of the three years of my PhD, these were done in notebooks. Increasingly, my scrawl became ever-more spidery, and if anyone was to research my archive if I suddenly die in a bizarre gardening accident (the latter far more likely than the former) they’ll need to train themselves in palaeography at a level usually reserved for Babylonian cuneiform. Marginal doodles of Gothic tracery reached their apex during the middle of year three, suggesting I may have being having some sort of episode by then.


Microsoft OneNote (not as many spelling errors visible as there usually are)

For the past year, I’ve been note-taking in lecture rooms with Microsoft OneNote on my ASUS Transformer laptop-cum-tablet, as now it’s socially acceptable to have a “device” with you. Of course, the tab key is the ideal way of maintaining the “classic type”, preserving a system that was developed on the page in the screen. The great thing about this is now I don’t have to keep these notes anywhere, I can make them and forget about them, and never have to destroy them – even if most of them I will never read again. Possibly the only downside of all my notes being perfectly legible is if at a conference anyone gives a paper so bad I stop taking notes and type something rude about it, if they sit next to me later on they might read it.

Of course, rather undermining the whole analogue-to-digital conceit of this post, my essays have always been done digitally. I cannot imagine writing long-form prose without being able to pre-emptively launch into a draft without an introduction, move bits about, revise and rewrite chunks, slot bits in, and all the other things that personal computer word processing has made widely possible for at least 20 years now. Probably someone reading this will give me the full-on Four-Yorkshiremen treatment of how they had to do their PhD before the big bang, when we didn’t have all this “time”, “space” and “matter” that you kids today take for granted and that’s totally fine but I’m sharing my own inconsequential personal story about taking notes and I’m nearly finished now so just hold off a little bit longer and then you can tell me that I don’t even know that I’ve been born.


My PhD reading and notes organised into consecutive folders

The weird thing is, I don’t actually remember writing much of my dissertation. Just editing and refining these essays I wrote for my supervisors in the manner of assessed work. Despite the fact emerging pretty early on that trying to structure your PhD in the manner of a taught module was a stupid idea, I stuck with it till the bitter end (although the name of the final folder may reveal my recognition of this). Some of these were directly turned into chapters, others swallowed up into the larger picture.

Making the leap from systematic, linear note-taking to cultivating truly original research is not straightforward, and I’m sure everyone has had their own way of making the shaky transition from student to not-student. But the tools easily available to us now with Cloud-based note taking systems I think truly do help us organise thought and information in a more holistic and adaptable manner. It doesn’t make things any easier than before, but it does mean we can do more. However, on occasion, I still like to pick apart a particularly complicated text with my good old fountain pen.


Ripon Minster: Gothic disasterpiece

Ripon MinsterRipon Minster, North Yorkshire is the sort of building you could only find in England. In the Middle Ages, it operated – along with Southwell and Beverley Minsters – as a kind of pro-cathedral for the massive diocese of York, and only became head of its own diocese in the nineteenth century. It’s quite dumpy for a great church, but still on a legitimately cathedral scale. But a casual visit belies the series of quite catastrophic structural failures it had.

Under the current church is the crypt of the original Anglo-Saxon minster: the only pre-Norman Conquest fabric surviving in an English cathedral. However, it was not immediately bulldozed by the invaders for a Romanesque juggernaut. Instead, it wasn’t rebuilt until late in the twelfth century, in the soon-to-be fashionable French Gothic style, almost certainly taking after York Minster’s choir, which was taken down and replaced in the later Middle Ages. Quite ahead of the crowd, then.


Ripon Minster

Oh yes, we’ve got the builders in indeed – and look at this: pointed arches! Yeah, yeah, it’s what hot in the Île-de-France right now! No, in fact these guys are surprisingly competitively priced!

Therefore little Ripon has the rarely-recognised distinction of being the one of the earliest pure Gothic buildings – pointed arches, grouped lancets – still standing in England, possibly earlier than Canterbury or Wells. That is, if much of the original job by these twelfth-century Franglais cowboys actually stayed up. Even though the stone rib-vault was clearly given up on by the time they reached the upper storey, there were a series of complications: the three north-west bays are all that survived of the original five-bay Early Gothic choir.


Ripon Minster

Yeah, that’s… …that’s absolutely fine. No one said a tower needs be square. I’m sure our Lord in his boyhood made tables just the same shape. Are you okay for tea lads

The first cock-up, one with repercussions for nearly three centuries was the clueless setting-out of the central crossing tower. Ripon was aiming to be a mini-York Minster, and York had at this time an unusual unaisled nave: no open arcades as is common in every church. Nevertheless, someone clearly thought that having the nave wider than the choir was a good idea. So they built the foundations of the north-west pier further north than its eastern companion, meaning that the tower is not a square.


Ripon Minster

Oh.. yes.. I do see that now that you mention it. No I’m sure no one will notice either! It’s fine, no, really… We wouldn’t want to trouble you to make it match on the other side: I’m sure you builders know best!

It also means that the west wall of the transept is shorter than the east wall, meaning they have to embarrassingly squash the third series of arches in the upper gallery because they didn’t fit (they did do it correctly on the other side). After finishing the nave, these builders packed up and thought they’d got away with it.


Ripon Minster

Oh, yeah, you’re right – can’t be too careful! The big buttresses are fine. No we like really like them. You need them for that proper stone vault you’re putting on..! You… you are going to put a stone vault on, aren’t you?

When the west front was built up around the 1230s, part of the central tower was taken down because, well, it had really slender piers and it was skew-whiff: what did you expect? Then, at the end of the century the choir was in such a state the whole east end had to be rebuilt. The new east front is perhaps the closest you can get to what the choir of Old St Paul’s in London looked like, strictly Geometric, like what was going on in France at the time, except it has absolutely enormous buttresses. And still they ended up chickening out putting a stone vault on it in case it all fell down.

Ripon Minster

Hmm, well Master Simon, you don’t seemed to have matched the mouldings so much as stuck some heads over the join and hoped that we wouldn’t notice

As was usual in extensions to great-church architecture, care was taken to match the proportions of the new work to what could be preserved of the now century-old choir. However, some parts of the matching between old and new were better than others, as is some of the architectural sculpture. Ripon’s canons however, probably just pleased that the choir was now stable and their problems were over.


Ripon Minster


Then of course what was left of the tower fell down, taking with it two crossing arches, the south side of the choir and part of the south transept. These were rebuilt in the Perpendicular style – meaning the choir has three different elevations – and the piers encased to an absolutely ludicrous degree, except that misplaced north-west one (because it was the only one not supporting a rebuilt tower arch), which is why when you look down the nave now, the crossing looks hilariously wonky.


Ripon Minster


Wait, I haven’t finished yet. Remember that unaisled nave? Yep, that fell down too around 1500, and was all but replaced, except by some tantalising fragments at each end, by arcades that are only two stories tall. They’d clearly got a parish-church architect in – a good one mind – and one who could do ENORMOUS BUTTRESSES which were becoming rather familiar at Ripon.

So there you go. The blokes who did the Minster at Ripon in the late twelfth century may have seemed like a cheap way to a get a fancy French-style cathedral, but they were clearly dealing in the sort of Gothic that fell off the back of a lorry.

Here’s all my pictures of Ripon from my recent visit: it’s a lovely place, and I promise that it’s very unlikely anything else will fall down while you’re there.

Barry Thurible’s guide to London Churches

Cor lummy! Barry Thurible here, suffragan archsubdeacon of Mudchute. As an entirely fictional Cockney entity, when I’m not carrying enormous thermometers to another building that needs to keep track of their roof fund in the only way the Church of England knows how, I travel the parishes of London on my 60+ Oyster Photocard on a Sunday morning and check no one’s deviating too far from the BCP, while also providing a ceremony of high aesthetic merit! If like me, you like nothing more in life than a good Mass, then here’s my partisan guide on what buildings to choose and which avoid on a Sunday Morning! And maybe I’ll also make some nonsense Eastender interjections occasionally. Chim-chim-awooga!

St Mary Hendon“Medieval” churches
Despite what cobblers you might hear, there are no real medieval churches in London. The ones in Zone 6 or whatever that did survive that rather big ‘elf and safety clumsy-up in 1666 ended up with a Victorian mega-church welded to the side anyway. Since essentially every last patina of the Middle Ages has been scrubbed off by Victorian do-gooders round here, the atmosphere has totally gone. This ain’t Norfolk. The service will be tolerable, but you’ll be looking forward to the Nescafé and the Custard Cream more than anything else. Don’t be taken in by the relatively long Pevsner entry, give these a miss.

Wren City Churches
All these bloody things look the same to me. And walking round the City on a Sunday is a mug’s game anyway. You’d never get a celebrant, deacon, subdeacon and M.C. behind one of those Grinling Gibbons communion rails and have space left for so much as one acolyte so I don’t know why you’d bother.

St Mary, Wyndham Place, MaryleboneOther Classical churches
I can’t even bear to talk about these. They look like libraries.

St Paul, Mill HillCommissioners’ Gothick boxen
Dreary things. Before the Victorians worked out how to build proper Gothic again, these cheap-o things went up at the behest of the Church Commissioners that are basically four walls with a roof on top but – oh wait – with some pointy windows. Sink me Bismarck! I’d have all these things knocked down but apparently there’s someone between the Vic Soc and Georgian Group who thinks they’re worth more than half a cobble. Now despite the fact the architecture gets right on my Hack-e-ney bits, some of the clergy do try regardless, but you’re just as likely to trip over a drumkit while tutting at the enormous projector screen some numpty’s set up in the chancel arch. Don’t take your chances.

Dec ragstone potboilers
Decorated Gothic, the architectural style of high medieval England, was realised by the Victorians to be correct way a church should look forever and ever. And blimey, they were right! Just they built far too many and we don’t know what to do with them all now! So although that ragstone dressing means they look pretty pukka on the outside, on the inside they’ve probably had to block up one of the aisles or something to put a nursery in there to help balance the books for the parish share. Worst case scenario is that they’ve been subdivided into a block of flats: terribly embarrassing if you’ve made a special trip to see where they keep the Blessed Sacrament these days. Not worth risking.

United Reformed Church, Enfield TownThe not-a-church
See a spire, majestically riding above the skyline? Think it must be a beacon of the nation’s one true Church, good ol’ C of E? Well, don’t be fooled, precocious young pendlemill, because sometimes underneath is a United Seventh Day Reformed Methodists of New Bethlem or something. I don’t know what they get up to, I’m sure they do some essentially wholesome activity based around our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, but I’m not ready to start closing my eyes and putting my hand in the air like I’m at a Bon Jovi concert, so give these things a wide berth.

St Chad, HaggerstonBig Brick Basilicas
Well these things are alright, in the East End we have a job-lot built by the Victorian James Brooks who afterwards seemed to travel down the Piccadilly Line building one at every stop, so a lot of those are now not-a-churches to be avoided at all costs. ‘Cause it’s cheap, you see, the Catholics threw up a lot of stuff like this too, so watch out. Not that there’s anything wrong with being Roman Catholic. Some of my best friends are Catholics. Just it’s not the best thing if my employer sees me praying the rosary too much. Not the Big Geezer that is, I’m sure He’s fine with it, just the bish’ is really into brand loyalty to the purple cross places. All in all, too risky for me.

St. Richard, HamModern rubbish
Some of these things I wonder whether I should be taking my swimming cossie rolled up in a towel – they don’t half look a bit like leisure centres, you see. Now, some of them can be alright, but the altar’s probably right in the middle due to some misjudged keeping up with the Romans, so unless they have a 360 degree priest who can balance the Host on his head I wouldn’t bother with these.

P1470103‘Igh Church Strongholds
In fact, the only church you need bother with is something where the architecture is so fabulous – Pearson, Street, or someone other mad Victorian fella who really knew pointy – that it’s a place that time forgot. Literally! Same thing every week! You can expect a Byrd or Palestrina motet, a sermon with some actual theology in it, Merbecke Credo, some respect shown to the Blessed Sacrament, and probably a sherry afterwards. Ooga-booga! Then if you stick around long enough they’ll probably do a Nunc Dimitis, Magnificat and Benediction. So pleased I’ll be, that I’ll go back to the office on Monday and turn a blind eye to the fact that they’ve been fiddling with their Gift Aid envelopes. Knees up my ol’ Gran Turismo!

Trouble at t’ church – around Blackburn

St Luke, Blackburn Blackburn – a hilly Lancashire mill town with wonderful views of the surrounding countryside – is a nice place to get out of, residents seem to agree. But just as I liked to visit the dingier bits of London looking at their churches armed with a Pevsner Guide, it seemed a good place for my first Sunday excursion of architectural exploration by motor car. But perhaps residents are a bit hard on it. It’s been sliced up by roads and nothing whatsoever medieval left, but has a great deal of interest. Of course I just looked at the churches, but there’s mills, municipal munificence, and modern malapropisms (like this bloody thing which looms over the town like the OCP building in Robocop’s Detroit) to be savoured too.



St Silas, Blackburn

St Silas, BlackburnI drove there for the 10:30 service at St Silas, a church of 1894 that, with its striking profile from the road, cannot fail to make an impression on the passer-by. It’s by Lancaster firm Paley & Austin, a firm which Pevsner had much affection for, although his account of St Silas in 1969 is rather grumpy and succinct, judged to have “none of their spatial ingenuity”. Indeed, the inside is basically two great arcades with a chancel at one end and a tower at the other, but still with a great honesty throughout, just like a top-whack medieval building. The way the chancel arch for instance, is slipped in almost non-nonchalantly: as if it’s grown up between the piers.

The Holy Communion was dignified and enjoyable, and everybody very friendly, I’m just glad the fill-in organist arrived since everyone seemed to think I might be doing it. I left my car here and ventured into Blackburn for more traditional foot-based urban reconnaissance.


St Luke, Blackburn St Luke, Blackburn St Luke, Blackburn

I was quite fortunate to get into St Luke, for which I had a magnificent preamble down a hill and past the gas works. Judging by the brackets around the description of the interior, even the Pevsner revisers didn’t get in here. Inside it’s a bit lumpy, with a great honking barrel roof with dinky pretend aisles. These are currently all piled-up with chairs, as all the pews have recently been removed, leading to a ramshackle feel like a church hall. The star attraction here are the magnificent windows in the north transept by Heaton, Butler and Bayne for the War Memorial Chapel. Startling to think that even in 1919 they were still making glass of this quality, and of some rather obscure Old Testament scenes. Moses held aloft by Aaron and Hur, anyone?

St Mark, Blackburn

St Mark, Buncer Lane – a like a temple to Hades built out of Duplo

St Luke was until recently a joint parish with St Mark, by scholar-architect Edmund Sharpe in 1836-8. Rather than in his Dec Gothic Style for which he was later known, it’s in the then still in-vogue Neo-Norman, but remarkably primitive-looking. Pevsner reviser Clare Hartwell writes that it is “almost Soanian in simplicity”. The tower has a rather menacing, pagan look to it, and it seemed as if the very sky turned to lead as I approached it.

I heard that this church had recently become redundant, and was to be handed over to a non-denominational Christian group. This is somewhat surprising, as I thought this was something the Church of England stopped doing in the ’80s. Despite the obvious attraction of a church staying in the Church, many of these independent Churches – unlike Wetherspoons – simply have no idea how to look after a historic building, and they can get into a horrific state. It looks like it could survive a thunderbolt from Zeus, but is St Mark tough enough to survive a happy-clappy congregation?

St Phillip, Blackburn

The orphaned tower of St Phillip and some colourful paraphenalia

It would be a shame to lose such an unusual church as St Mark, but for many other churches in Blackburn, one has to accept that just because the Victorians built it, doesn’t mean it must stay forever. The large Asian population means that by the late twentieth century Blackburn had a surfeit of buildings with Christian altars at the end, and many churches have been demolished. A few orphaned spires remain. Many others, such as St Peter’s in the centre, have all but disappeared without trace.


Blackburn Cathedral

Blackburn Cathedral Gothick nave, stodgy transepts and concrete crown

This situation makes it all the more peculiar that Blackburn a diocesan centre for the CoE, with a thoroughly Anglican Cathedral, what with all its concessions, bodge-jobs, but undeniable charm. The medieval church was demolished and replaced in the 1820s with a surprisingly pleasing bit of pre-Victorian Gothic Revival. In the 1930s the east end was demolished for a protracted campaign to construct cathedral-scale transepts and east end, in late Gothic Revival so conventional it borders on pastiche. In a surge of modern ambition (or realisation they couldn’t afford the projected tower), the crossing was finished by a concrete corona in the 1960s, which decayed so badly it had to be replaced in the late ’90s.

Blackburn Cathedral

The high altar (dressed in red for martyr saint St George)

This woeful set of mishaps does not mean that Blackburn Cathedral is an embarassment. The plaster-vaulted nave with its pretty decoration provides a fine entrance to the eventual experience of the crossing with its abstract stained glass, with the altar directly underneath. Rather than succumb to the fallacy of the 360-degree priest, the east end is fenced off by screening, to create an ambulatory and eastern chapel. This does leave the transepts as feeling rather pointless, with nothing much in them except from the misericords from Whalley Abbey.

Blackburn Cathedral

John Hayward incised glass screen and stained glass in eastern chapel of Blackburn Cathedral

The 1960s furnishings at Blackburn Cathedral were entirely ignored by Pevsner, which is a shame, as they are by John Hayward, shortly after his initial success with paintings at London Fields but before he went into stained glass full-time. His spikey high altar baldachin does look like something from Hellraiser, but hey, that’s cool with me, and his decoration of the eastern chapel, is nicely minimalist and well-judged.

When I visited Blackburn Cathedral in the afternoon, there was a service for the Royal Society of St George, which basically seemed like the excuse for the mayor’s wife to wear a hat, but we all got to sing Jerusalem so what’s wrong with that? At least we could celebrate the horrific multiple martyrdoms of George with a delicious cake.


Holy Trinity, Blackburn

Holy Trinity, Blackburn – You’ll need more than Faith, Hope and Charity to get in ‘ere, lad.

The last two churches I went to look at in Blackburn overlook it from a hill to the north. One is a clearly-oversized bland Late Victorian hulk Roman Catholic Church of St Alban, the other the rather important Holy Trinity, 1837-46. Also by Lancastrian Edmund Sharpe this gives a whole other side to him from his primeval building-block terror we saw above at St Mark. It’s an amazingly pure bit of fourteenth-century architectural scholarship, more of a model than a real church. It’s been redundant since the 1980s, but is kept by the Churches Conservation Trust. However, unlike most CCT buildings, which have a friendly keyholder, here, as someone from the Cathedral advised me, first you need to know where the key is, then you need to do some serious grovelling to actually prove you should be able to go in. Not a very happy prospect.

St Cuthbert, Darwen


St Cuthbert, Darwen

Interior of St Cuthbert, Darwen

The last church I got in was after a quick drive south, towards the hills, to St Cuthbert, Darwen. Always nice to bookend the day with Paley & Austin, this was built in 1875. The saddle-back tower of 1907-8 with an inappropriate clock by a borough engineer is a bit daft, and the whole thing looks from the outside as if it’s going to plow off into the street. “Sound and serious, nothing more”, says Pevsner, obviously satisfied but at a loss for words. Indeed, it’s a lovely atmospheric building, honest in every degree, but not much to say about the interior, except that it works in a thoroughly modern Gothic manner. The best thing is the 1908 window in the north aisle by Shrigley and Hunt, that shows St Cuthbert with his attribute of an otter at his feet. To show the Edwardians weren’t above a bit of animal whimsy, he’s wearing a mitre.

St Cuthbert, Darwen

Thanks I love otters in hats

The Director’s Cut – Flickr Box Set