Well, well, well! Three Holes*… etc. (as my Pa was/is fond of saying).
* Also a local place name!
I had an unpleasant experience with a member of the Hillbilly class of these Flatland Fens, earlier today. Left me literally brooding on murderous thoughts. Not nice!
Anyway, shortly thereafter, I passed St John’s, Parson’s Drove. I had one last delivery to make. So I made it, thereby finishing my shift, and came back to the church.
This little photo essay is the result.
It also occurred to me, even as I passed the church, that if I stopped there for a spell, and took my usual brace o’ snaps, wondered around outside, and maybe even looked inside, if poss’, it might mellow my troubled angry soul.
First off, it’s a glorious sunny day. Which made photographing the forget-me-not strewn (so apt!) graveyard pure bliss.
The church, like so many nowadays, is locked. But a short walk across the road, and a lady living at The Old Rectory (itself utterly delightful) has the key. And what a key!
Inside the church it’s quite austere, and fairly bare of Popish ornament. But, like so many Parish churches, it still manages to be both magnificent and yet calming. Grand and yet homely.
Has God vacated the premises. Or is it instead we who are now absent? My love of old churches grows, the more I visit. But how can they be maintained without the religion that created them?
I kind of get ahead of myself, in the gallery above. But rather than break up what I’ve already done, here is another chunk.
And then, around the back…
In a strange and rather selfish way, this may be the perfect time for someone of my bent to enjoy churches. If they were thronged with the faithful, it’s ruin it all, for me. And even if they’re used fir secular ends, once even another person intrudes in the kind of solitary reverie I’m enjoying right now, the spell is broken.