Everton, Merseyside, UK: The “Other” Saint Augustine’s Church. Some Historical Research

Not to be confused with the Church of England’s St Augustine’s, built in 1836 in Shaw Street, Liverpool (a Victorian pile in a posh part of town) and destroyed in a Luftwaffe bombing raid in 1941, Everton St Augustine was a jewel in the crown of the Irish Roman Catholic community for many generations.  It was opened and dedicated in 1849 as a “Chapel of Ease” to St Mary’s Church – a large and well-established parish – just half a mile away.  (A Chapel of Ease is defined as a place of worship built within the bounds of a parish for those parishioners who found it difficult to make the journey to the parish church.)  It was given the unofficial title of “The Martyrs’ Church,” in memory of the Benedictine monks who died in Everton during a typhoid epidemic in 1847.

A few historical observations from this time.  Firstly, it is shocking (and that is a gross understatement) to read about how many tens of thousands of poor people, predominantly Irish, died from virulent diseases such as typhoid, cholera, smallpox – and from malnutrition.  The Irish immigrant communities of Everton and neighboring Toxteth were decimated by such.

Second, the political elites of the day saw no benefit in improving social conditions but rather put the blame in the “perceived” inherent deficiencies of specific races.  And the Irish took the brunt of this.  Writing in his 1840 pamphlet Chartism (supposedly a working-class movement for reform) Thomas Carlyle declared:

Crowds of miserable Irish darken all our towns. The wild Milesian features, looking false ingenuity, restlessness, unreason, misery and mockery, salute you on all highways and byways. The English coachman, as he whirls past, lashes the Milesian with his whip, curses him with his tongue; the Milesian is holding out his hat to beg. He is the sorest evil this country has to strive with. In his rags and laughing savagery, he is there to undertake all work that can be done by mere strength of hand and back; for wages that will purchase him potatoes. He needs only salt for condiment; he lodges to his mind in any pighutch or doghutch, roosts in outhouses; and wears a suit of tatters, the getting off and on of which is said to be a difficult operation, transacted only in festivals and the hightides of the calendar. The Saxon man if he cannot work on these terms, finds no work. He too may be ignorant; but he has not sunk from decent manhood to squalid apehood: he cannot continue there. American forests lie untilled across the ocean; the uncivilised Irishman, not by his strength but by the opposite of strength, drives out the Saxon native, takes possession in his room. There abides he, in his squalor and unreason, in his falsity and drunken violence, as the ready-made nucleus of degradation and disorder.

Such blatant prejudice and discrimination clearly created Irish communities that were self-reliant in matters of body and soul.  Within a year of its dedication St Augustine’s Church had over 16,000 enrolled parishioners!  Such was its explosive growth that it was declared a parish within its own right and ceded from St Mary’s parish.  A Father Cook from the St Mary’s team became the first parish priest.

There is little documentation of this parish over the next century – the notable exception being the ministry of one Father Thomas Bede McEvoy, OSB who arrived in 1911 and served twenty-five years as parish priest.

What is apparent is that St Augustine’s began a dramatic decline in parishioners at the beginning of the 20^th century.  By 1910 its membership had fallen to under 3000, with no sign of recovery.

Two things were happening.  The population of the parish was gradually moving out, and industry was moving in.  In 1938 it was decided to demolish most of the houses and other buildings, that “This district … become an industrial area.”  (Ministry Certificate of Demolition.)

World War Two arrived shortly after this, and subsequent air raids destroyed a great deal more.  There were still a significant number of families living in the parish, and some lost their lives by staying.  After the end of the war most relocated to new housing estates built on the outskirts of Liverpool.

The church somehow remained.  I have not been able to unearth any information for the 1950s and 1960s (yet) but I will keep digging.

A newspaper cutting, dated January 2^nd, 1976 and discovered in a recently purchased copy of Arthur Mee’s Lancashire announced that St Augustine’s was up for sale.  “Now only a handful of parishioners owing to redevelopment and movement of population.”

In memory of this once thriving parish, which served the spiritual and physical needs of thousands, I post a small selection of images culled from the web.  And if you scroll down to the bottom of this post – the site of St Augustine’s Church today.

Charles, King and Martyr

Today, the thirtieth of January, is what used to be called a Red Letter Day in the calendar of the Church of England (a term that has now been subsumed by notions of “messy church” and “all age worship”) for it is the festival day of Charles, King and Martyr.  So nominated because at 2:00 pm on this date in 1649 King Charles I was beheaded in front of the Banqueting House in Whitehall, London.  The rule of the Puritan Commonwealth followed for eleven joyless years.

But it is not of that treasonous act that I wish to write, for nothing can change history and much else has been written.  Rather I wish to set the demise of the king within the County of Worcestershire – and my church tramping there over many years.

Worcestershire and King Charles I of England shared much historically, and because of the county’s location it was a pivotal area of the kingdom in the bloody conflicts between Parliamentarians to the south and those who declared for the king in the Midlands and north.  In his excellent preface to the 1968 Edition (revised and reset) of Arthur Mee’s The King’s England: Worcestershire, Lord Hampton asserts, “The Civil War, indeed, began and ended in Worcestershire.”

One of the many sites with royalist pedigree is the parish of Inkberrow, close to the county border with Warwickshire.  A delightful village whose centre has changed little over the last century, I recall enjoying a pint of shandy in the Old Bull Inn (renowned for being the model for The Bull in the BBC radio drama The Archers!) and reading the notes I had taken, together with many photographs, of the nearby St Peter’s Church.

I will write more about that splendid 15^th century church (with 19^th century chancel) at a later date, but wish today to link it with the travels of King Charles I who was making his way to Naseby, Northamptonshire in 1645.  On the 10^th of May that year he stayed overnight at Inkberrow vicarage before mustering his troops and marching on to “Salt Wyche” (now Droitwich) and onwards north.  He left behind a book of maps which is now the property of the incumbent, who was probably not that grateful because in 1650 Cromwell arrived to burn the vicarage down in retribution! (Yes, the maps survived, as did the vicar.)

In the north-west corner of the church is a 1970 wooden, unpainted screen separating the vestry from the nave and carved by local artist Robert Pancheri.  At the top centre of the screen is an effigy of Charles I in full battle armor before the battle of Edgehill (1642) about twenty miles away in Warwickshire.  Careful examination reveals that the King’s head is already separated from his body!

O Most mighty God, terrible in thy judgements, and wonderful in thy doings toward the children of men; who in thy heavy displeasure didst suffer the life of our gracious Sovereign King Charles the First, to be taken away by the hands of cruel and bloody men: We thy sinful creatures here assembled before thee, do, in the behalf of all this Nation, which brought down this heavy judgement upon us. But, O gracious, when thou makest inquisition for blood, lay not the guilt of this innocent blood, (the shedding whereof nothing but the blood of thy Son can expiate,) lay it not to the charge of the people of this land; not let it ever be required of us, or our posterity. Be merciful, O Lord, be merciful unto thy people, whom thou hast redeemed; and be not angry with us for ever: But pardon us for thy mercy’s sake. through the merits of thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Cotheridge St Leonard, Worcestershire

“About four miles on the road from Worcester to Bromyard, on the left-hand side, near the meandering Teme …the little parish church of Cotheridge is hard by.” [1]

So wrote John Noake in his 1868 Guide to Worcestershire. He includes four brief paragraphs on the village of Cotheridge but is less interested in the church than in the stories of local nobility, the Berkeley family in particular. But then Noake was more of a passing social observer than an essayist in church architecture. But his “Church, dedicated to St. Leonard, formerly belonged to the priory of Westwood, and consists merely of nave, chancel, Norman arch between, and vestry room on the north side,”[1] deserves page after page of description – which will not be provided here – such are its delights and atmosphere.

Arthur Mee also was not very upbeat about St Leonard’s and was more concerned about the collapse of the nave roof in 1950 and the subsequent changes to the use of the building. His pessimistic “The church today presents a somewhat bleak appearance” [2] is followed by a terse listing of some of its features and then, yes, more about the Berkeley family.

Before we enter the church (and, of course, we have ignored the lack of apostrophe on the 20th century notice board) a brief history is needed at this point. The present building is the second church on this spot. The first (date uncertain) was demolished during the early years of the reign of Henry III (1207-1272) and a replacement commissioned and built by one Boriac de Fitz in thanksgiving for the safe birth of his son and “an expiation for the sins of his youth.” [3] This is a custom that surely needs to be reintroduced and encouraged in the Church.

The chancel and nave are 13th century with various windows inserted over the next two hundred years. Stone buttresses were added in the 14th century, and the magnificent timber tower (“admirably constructed with heavy pieces of rough-hewn chestnut and oak, well tied and strutted together.”) [4] the following century. A brick chapel was added to the north side of the chancel in about 1620, and there was a general restoration in the 1680s.

And to conclude the lesson it may be of interest that the original advowson or patronage of St Leonard’s was held by a nunnery near Droitwich, only seven miles away but the other side of the River Severn. At the dissolution of the monasteries that reign of nuns was over and the patronage given to, yes, the Berkeley family. It became the accepted tradition that a member of the aforementioned family would hold the living and act as vicar of St Leonard’s – a practice that continued until the year 1890 when, shockingly, a non-Berkeley was appointed to Cotheridge.

I have to admit that, compared to the architecture, the fittings and fixtures of St Leonard’s are not very exciting. There is a modern, Victorian stone font and although the pulpit is 17th century it has suffered from later remodeling and has a Victorian canopy. There are some interesting memorials, arms and monuments but I am not going to mention the bloody Berkeley family again. The altar and communion rails are probably Laudian – as is a large table near the chancel arch. There are some older box pews in the chancel as well as later seating in the nave, and some beautifully constructed wrought iron light fittings.

My three gems? Well, firstly the 15th century wooden porch and door under the tower.

In second place, the perfectly preserved Norman chancel arch.

And last, but never least? On one of the ancient tiles just inside the chancel side of the arch there is the imprint of a kitten’s paw. A church cat of long ago? We will never know.

[1] Guide to Worcestershire. John Noake. 1868. pp. 98-99
[2] The King’s England: Worcestershire. Arthur Mee. 1968 New Edition Revised & Reset. p54
[3] Billings Directory of Worcestershire 1855.
[4] History of the County of Worcester, Vol 4. pp. 225-260. 1924.

WGS84
52° 11′ 36.96″ N, 2° 18′ 52.2″ W
52.1936, -2.3145

OS grid reference SO787547

When is a Church not a Church?

No, that is not a deep ecclesiological question but a sentence that makes sense when put into historical context – in particular the military history of the eastern tip of Long Island, New York. And one place and time in particular.

A couple of weeks ago, armed with a Labrador Retriever and a pack of home-made corned beef and cheese sandwiches, I drove to Montauk Point and a State Park that has only been open to the public since 2002: Camp Hero. Named after a modern Major-General of the name of Andrew Hero Jr. it was commissioned by the United States Army in 1942 as a coastal defense fort. Its purpose was to defend that part of the coastline against German ships and submarines. And it was a fort that was cunningly disguised as a fishing village. All operational buildings, accommodation and stores, were designed to look like civilian cottages and sheds with artificial walls and painted on windows.

And, of course, every village needs a church. So a church building was put in place – except it was not a church at all but a gymnasium.

There are many sealed-up and decaying buildings within Camp Hero State Park but they are all concrete-built and date to the Cold War of the 1950s and 60s when the United States Air Force ran the place and built a huge radar dish that still dominates the skyline. But the older, wooden gymnasium remains – the only building dating to the Second World War. Once it echoed to the noise of bench-presses and weights being lifted. But perhaps the occasional hymn and prayer. For ironically the gymnasium that was built to look like a church was also the place where worship was held on rainy Sundays. So it was a church after all.

St Peter’s Chapel, Springs, New York

The “summer chapel” is a predominantly American phenomenon. Found in places of resort and vacation, and usually those of upscale summer communities (for example, Coney Island doesn’t have one) they are places of worship that operate during the summer season which traditionally runs from Memorial Day (the last Monday of May) and Labor Day (the first Monday in September.) Most, though not all, are part of the Episcopal Church; some are only loosely affiliated, and all are gathered communities of people who have seasonally worshipped there for many generations.

They generate mixed feelings among the formal parishes. Some see them as a distraction from mainstream parish ministry; others regard them as semi-private worship clubs; still others as an irrelevance in these days of increasingly centralized ministry and mission. But the fact is they are still there. Many are very popular, and like it or not they provide a vein of spirituality in a vacation culture that would otherwise ignore it. As someone once told me, “They bring God into the club house.” So love ‘em or hate ‘em, I say, “Let them be.”

There are two such summer chapels within a few miles of this keyboard. The first is a generally dark and gloomy building dedicated to St Thomas in the hamlet of Amagansett. I have conducted a few services there yet even on the brightest of days thought it a most uninspiring edifice. The second lies further northwest in the area known as Springs, and is a tiny white stucco chapel dedicated to St Peter – and a part of the main parish of St Luke, East Hampton.

This charming building was the result of a generous gift of land by one Jonathan Miller in 1879. The plan was to build a “free” chapel for regular worship to be named the East Side Chapel. The Millers were among the earliest families who settled the area in the seventeenth century and the name is still prolific. (I did a brief online genealogical search and came up with the priceless line in the East Hampton records: The early history of the Miller family is a dark abyss not fully sounded.)

The chapel was born in tragedy. The first service held there was the funeral of Miller’s eleven year old daughter Katie on June 6th, 1881. Regular worship followed that August.

The “free” chapel lasted less than a generation. In steep decline by the turn of the century it was offered to the local Episcopal parish of St Luke’s who snapped it up as a mission chapel and dedicated it to St Peter.

Entering the “traditional” red door (and no one can agree on the origin of many Episcopal Church doors being painted red) I entered into a perfectly ordered room. Light streamed in through the windows, and the upper walls were painted a soothing pale blue. The pews were benches in which the Book of Common Prayer and Hymnal were neatly placed. I noted that the lectern fall was already red for Whitsun – they were anticipating opening for worship the next weekend. (Their principal act of worship is a Saturday 5:30 p.m. service of Holy Communion.)

The wooden altar is simple and without frontal – a shame, for even a super-frontal would add a little color. A plain, wooden octagonal font (date?) stands in the sanctuary. Behind the altar stands a wooden shelf with two distracting potted orchids! And the hanging butane lighter on the wall? But it’s all quite delightful.

Above the nave a belfry contains a single service bell, and on the grass in front of the building a memorial tree has been planted, under which lies an old anchor.

As one who passes this way often during the summer, fishing rod in hand, I might time my return journey and joint the patron saint of fishermen one Saturday afternoon.

INFORMATION GLEANED FROM:

St Luke’s Episcopal Church, East Hampton, New York http://www.stlukeseasthampton.org/

History of East Hampton, New York http://longislandgenealogy.com/histehampton.html#contents

Worcester All Saints, England

OR: “Supposing him to be the gardener – and he was.”

The Georgian church that is All Saints Worcester stands on a high mound above the modern road that was inaptly named Deansway. I’m willing to wager that the Dean was never consulted but the road does connect the bridge area of the city with the Cathedral roundabout so a degree of license may be allowed. Close to the River Severn and its crossing it is probably the third church on the site, assuming that the Saxons built here. The Normans certainly did and there are remnants of their church in the tower base and buttress, together with other bits and pieces that happened in the 1400s. The present church is the work of two Richards in the years 1742-45. Richard Squire and Richard Davies, related by marriage (not to each other) are described as “Master Builders” on a memorial. Oh, and there was a Victorian interior “restoration” in 1869 by no less a celebrity than Sir Aston Webb – he who was responsible for the facade of Buckingham Palace. (And I’m not referring to Princess Alice of Battenburg.)

Having ascertained its pedigree it’s fair to say that in recent generations All Saints has not been a parish church in the geographical sense of the phrase because few people actually lived within its bounds. It was not always the case. Originally a “gateway church” on the city wall (hence its dedication to All Saints – acceptable to all who passed by) it once stood in one of the most densely populated parts of Worcester. Unfortunately by the 19th century most of these properties had become squalid in the extreme and slum clearances began in the 1820s. What did remain of the old houses, by then used commercially, was demolished by the enlightened (cough) urban planners of the 1960s.

In my years in Worcester I must have walked past All Saints a thousand times yet never entered. And so on a fair May morning, after a splendid cappuccino in a coffee-house on Broad Street, I decided to walk down to the river. On passing the church I noticed that the door was open and so climbed the steep steps up to the entrance. A man was raking and digging in the churchyard and I waved. He returned the greeting and shouted “Church’s open!” So in I went.

I confess to having done a bit of homework on All Saints in advance of an anticipated visit. I knew to begin with that it was a gathered community of faith firmly embracing the modern charismatic-evangelical stratum of Anglicanism. Fine. Actually more than fine. Excellent! Not my cup of tea admittedly, but the Lord is worshiped and served in many ways other than my own quiet Prayer Book “catholicism.” (My only angst about All Saints is that one really has to wait patiently for a celebration of the Eucharist on certain Sunday mornings. 2nd and 5th .)

I also knew what I wanted to see in the church. First the Chained Bible. One of only two surviving examples in parish churches, this large bible, chained then and now to prevent theft, was the result of a 1538 injunction by Thomas Cromwell who commanded that a bible “of the largest size” be placed in every church in the land. All Saints’ copy is a slightly later one (1617?) but is quite magnificent. I saw this book, and then went on to see…

The man who had been tending the churchyard entered. His smile was warm and engaging and he asked me if I was passing through. I told him that it was my habit to explore churches and pray for their people when I visited. He then told me that he knew that the Lord had guided me there that day, and could we pray together? Of course, I nodded. Would he mind if I just looked around briefly? And I did approach the altar, taking care not to trip over the heavy-duty electrical cables in the side aisle that connected amplifiers and mixing consoles to their power source. I did not really have a chance to examine the Georgian pulpit (unused in many years) with its carved panels of the evangelists; nor the effigies of Edward Hurdman and his wife, the first mayor and lady mayoress of Worcester (1621.) I did snap a quick image of the interesting Victorian painting behind the altar – the (1860s?) work of one Joseph Rushton of the Royal Worcester Porcelain Works. But that was all.

We stood in the nave and prayed together, he and I. All right, he did most of the words as only a true evangelical can, but I joined in and my heart went out to him. He told me that he had worshiped here for years and looked after the church gardens. And then he asked if I would kneel that he would bless me. I did, and he did.

I ask you. For a priest to be blessed by a gardener is a moment that few will ever experience. And one I will never forget. As a Christian I smiled in faith.  But as a historian I really must revisit after the gardening is finished!

Hanley Swan St Gabriel, Worcestershire

I had not planned to visit St Gabriel’s on account of the afternoon passing too swiftly and the need to return to my mother’s home to change for an early dinner with my sister and her. Instead I had intended to go to the ancient church of Hanley Castle St Mary’s. But the saint (whichever Mary she is, for the benefice website doesn’t tell us.) had other plans and drove me away. You see, the church nestles next door to the equally ancient (14th century) high school which was dismissing pupils when I arrived. Doing battle in a small, rented Skoda with marauding 21st century teenagers and their buses is never advisable, so I made a mental note to revisit in the future at a less dangerous time, and I beat retreat.

The village of Hanley Swan lies but a couple of miles to the west of posh antiquity, and the spire of St Gabriel’s church may be seen all along the straight road. It was originally part of the village of Hanley Castle. Let the local history pages speak:

By the mid-19th century this (Hanley Swan) had become the most populated part of the parish. When the post office was established at the grocer’s shop opposite the pond in the mid-1890s, the area variously known as Roberts End Street, Swan Green, Hanley Green and on the first Ordnance Survey maps as Hanley Swan became formally recognised as the village of Hanley Swan. [1.]

Note the change of name. This will be seen in other, more studious works.

The first thing I must say is that St Gabriel’s has one of the finest church car parks in which I have ever maneuvered. Even in a Skoda. Ample, well apportioned, and well-kept. And with easy access to the church. Even a litter bin, although what litter parishioners would be carrying on a Sunday morning is quite beyond me.

Now let’s be clear. St Gabriel’s is not an old building by many standards. It is a classic example of Victorian response to a growing population and its spiritual needs. Built in 1872, it was designed by Sir George Gilbert Scott, he who also designed the following: The Foreign and Commonwealth Office, St Pancras Station, the Albert Memorial, and not to mention St Mary’s cathedrals in Glasgow and Edinburgh. This work of his in a sleepy offshoot of an English village? No wonder I overcame quickly my disappointment at being turned around at the older church!

Before we enter the door let’s get some of the historical references and comments out of the way.

The church of ST. GABRIEL, Hanley Green, was built in 1872 on a site given by Sir E. A. H. Lechmere, bart., from the designs of Sir Gilbert Scott. It is built of stone in early 14th-century style, and consists of chancel, nave of four bays, north and south aisles, north porch and tower with spire at the east end of the north aisle. It serves as a chapel of ease to the parish church. [2.]

Arthur Mee was quite sniffy about the church building:

The church is one of those solid Victorian structures well known in south Worcestershire. [3.]

He went on to sing the praises of the nearby Roman Catholic edifice, which, yes, is a bit of a looker. And he was even more nose-in-the-air about the village:

Though there are some buildings of charm, the general effect is a lack of unity. [4.]

A fascinating description of the consecration of St Gabriel’s in 1873 comes from the Berrow’s Journal, the oldest newspaper in the world. Called “The Opening of St Gabriel’s” it narrated how, after morning worship (Matins?) many were entertained at several luncheons by the local Lord and Lady Lechmere and other families of means and reputation, and:

The labourers of the district, some 300 or so, were supplied with tea in a large tent. The members of the choir were entertained at dinner by Mr Martin in the Working Men’s Club. [5.]

Oh well, on to the church. On entering the faux medieval porch (with its enormous lantern!) I saw a notice with a gentle touch, and one which would have pleased St Francis:

My first impression on entering the church was a sense of space. Tardis-like it seemed bigger on the inside than the outside view suggested. I put this down to skilful architecture rather than a rift in the space-time continuum, and stood at the nave crossing allowing my eyes to adjust to the light. I could see a fine chancel ahead, but immediately my eyes were drawn to the vast quantities of plastic sheeting that covered anything of wood or value. Aha. So this was a “bat church.”

I’m sorry, but I really think that that Bat Lobby has had its way too long. I’m a countryman and conservator and value the importance of sensible policies, but the churches have been a soft touch for many years. I have even heard it said that “churches aren’t used much so…” There has to be an alternative approach to the nurture of the Chiroptera order. I don’t know what it is as yet, but I am tired of churches taking the brunt of this conservation. Very well, rant over.

The fixtures and furnishings of St Gabriel’s are Victorian Unremarkable, but it was the gorgeous reredos that drove me east. Made of alabaster inlaid with glass, the three sections depict, in mosaic:

– A Latin cross surrounded by symbols of the crucifixion.
– St Michael the Archangel, and
– St Gabriel himself.

On the late afternoon that I visited the church the light was not at its best and so my photography does not do justice to what is a fine piece of church art. More than fine, it is wonderful and a tribute to the craftsmen of Powell’s of London – a company specializing in high quality glass and windows from 1834 to 1980. A true gem of a fixture

To find two other gems in St Gabriel’s is challenging, but the building as a whole is pleasing in a solid, structural way. And if a third is needed it is the simplicity of the church, which avoids the excesses and eccentricities of many a Victorian building, thanks to Sir Gilbert Scott.

Back in the (excellent) car park I mused about this relatively new church. I liked it, and looking up at the broach spire thought it a pleasing example of how Victorian benefactors responded to the spiritual needs of an historical change in population and society. Yes, compared to the ancient and gentrified place of worship in Hanley Castle there was a whiff of trade about it, but no matter. That was the day and the way.

And as I drove away a bat flew into a tower window…

[1.]  Hanley Castle & Hanley Swan Community Website

[2.] A History of the County of Worcester: Volume 4, ed. William Page and J W Willis-Bund (London, 1924), pp. 89-101.

[3.]  The King’s England.  Worcestershire.  Arthur Mee.  New Edition Revised 1968.  P. 101.

[4.]  ibid

[5.]  Berrow’s Journal Archives.  Published with permission.

OS grid reference SO813428

“The Apostle of Worcestershire”

My recent inability to visit the church of St James, Hindlip, has diverted my attention to the Hall itself. The first Hall, that is, and not the (admittedly) grand edifice that was built in 1820, and which is now Worcestershire’s biggest cop shop. And not only the Hall but also the number of significant individuals who have been associated with it down the years. And returning to my roots through research (and, yes visiting when possible) it becomes clearer how much history one misses when living there. For example: I did not know that there was a direct connection between Hindlip Hall and the part of Worcester known as Red Hill, literally up the hill from where my parents once lived on the south side of the city. And still walking distance from my mother’s house today. Well I do now, and it was a very bloody one. And it centres on one Edward Oldcorne (the spelling of his surname varies.)

Edward came from humble beginnings. Born in York in 1561, the son of a “protestant” (I use the word guardedly as it would be ill-defined in mid-16th century England) labourer and a “traditionalist” (Catholic) mother. His hard-working parents sent him to St Peter’s School, founded AD 627 and still the fourth oldest school in the world, where he studied medicine. But the leeches and the blunt surgical instruments of the time were nor for him. He felt the call of the Almighty (his mother’s influence?) and prepared for the Catholic priesthood in Rheims, France, and in Rome. He was ordained in 1587 and enrolled in the Society of Jesus the year after that. A serious priest indeed.

That very next year he returned to England and after a brief spell in Warwickshire he crossed into Worcestershire – the county where he would spend the next seventeen years. And he fostered a connection with Hindlip Hall and Thomas Habbington (see previous post) to the point where he came to use it, with other covert priests, as a base of ministry. And as there were plenty of priest holes to go around this proved quiet easy. It is said that Edward converted Habbington’s wife to the Jesuit cause, but as the only evidence for this comes from within the Society’s annals we may take it with a pinch of salt. Yet the relationship would have been close and familial.

In 1601 came a strange episode. Suffering from a serious throat disease Edward made a pilgrimage to take the waters of St Winefride’s Well in Holywell, Wales – a shrine that had suffered under the violent plundering of King Henry XIII, but which had been quietly supported by the Jesuits as a centre of traditional devotion. And Edward was healed. Such was his joy that he returned in 1605 (What else happened that year? Yes, read on.) with a large party among which were priests and supporters who were directly or indirectly linked to the Gunpowder Plot.

It was guilt by association. Edward hid in the priestly caves of Hindlip Hall for over a week.

When it (Hindlip) was searched in January 1605 the fugitives were not found, but they had to give themselves up after eight days because of the insufferable conditions they were having to endure. [1.]

Within the week Edward was in the Tower of London where he was tortured. Still no evidence emerged, but the authorities were convinced of his guilt. Of something. And, of course, the finger of accusation points at a betrayer. One Humphrey Littleton. A Gunpowder Plot conspirator – and not the jazz musician.

Edward Oldcorne was taken back to Worcester. Why that happened I have no idea but it matters not. He was executed (he was hung, drawn and quartered) on April the 7th, 1606, at Red Hill, Worcester, together with Robert Wintour of Huddington, who was a conspirator. (See long ago post) And now we’ve made the connection I talked about before I led you astray into another man’s doings.

In the 16th and 17th century Red Hill, Worcester, was the place of execution for the city. Because it was outside the city gates and the view of the gentle folk. It’s name comes from the blood that was spilled on what is now a very pleasant and suburban district. (The last execution was in 1805. One W. Dalton. Hung, for two burglaries. The court records state that “His demeanour was becoming.” [2.]) But I digress.

Edward Oldcorne’s death was political, but his legacy is truly heartwarming. In art and music he is remembered and honoured, and in 1929 Pope Pius XI declared that he was beatified. Now whatever one thinks about such a pronouncement, and the world and the Church is ever-divided, one cannot take anything away from the man and his part of the history of Worcestershire. To this day his name is known and respected. And if I may quote from “The Sects of Worcestershire:”

It was here, Mr Habbington’s prieft, Edward Oldcorn (a native of York), who had been ftationed at Hindlip by his fuperior, Gametic, was long known as the apoftle of Worcefterfhire. His labours in this and the adjoining counties – and the dangers he was expofed to and his miraculous efcapes – are defcribed as having been inconceivable. [3.]

Amazing. And in an age of worship extremes, bland to entertainment in spectrum; Messy Church; the importance of “coffee hour,” “bring-and-buy” sales, and where the image of organized religion may be the Vicar of Dibley, it serves us well to recall that not too long ago people actually regarded their faith as something to put at the front of their lives – and not as a social accessory to wear once a week. And they gave everything, literally, for that faith.

No. No sermon here, but a last connection. Not with my past but with my present. Just across the playing field behind my mother’s house is Blessed Edward College. A fitting memorial.

[1.] Lives of the Saints. Alban Butler. 1st edition. 1756-1759
[2.] Worcestershire in the nineteenth century. TC Turberville. 1852
[3.] A History of the Roman Catholic and Dissenters of Worcester. John Noake. 1861.

Oh, Mr Habington!

Hindlip Hall stands on a gentle escarpment to the north of the English city of Worcester within earshot of the M5 motorway. Growing up in that part of the county it was always a dominant feature on the horizon if one was coming or going on one of the eastern or northern arterial roads, and as a structure it is quite imposing. It is also a place of fear and foreboding for any convict, crook, felon or hooligan, because since 1967 it has been the headquarters of the West Mercia Police. (Constabulary in those days. They changed their name to Police in 2009.)

The first Hindlip Hall.  (Image in public domain.)

The present Hindlip Hall.  (Image in Creative Commons.)

Now my interest in Hindlip lies not so much in the Hall but the church of St James – an interest that has now been twice frustrated on subsequent attempts to visit last year and the year before that. On the first occasion there was a funeral taking place, and the second time all the approach roads, including Letsby Avenue, were closed for major repair work.

St James is of 15th century origin but there is much later building and there was an earlier chapelry. It ceased to be a parish church as late as 1997 and now serves as a “chapel to the constabulary.” But a visit and a written post will have to wait until later this year when I will try to gain entry. Not forced entry, you understand, m’lud.

So in reading up about Hindlip my attention was diverted to the first Hall, built in the mid 16th century and the seat of many a noble family – many of whom were Roman Catholic. (The second, and existing Hall was built on the burnt ruins of the first building in 1820.) Histories tell us that the building contained more priest holes than any other structure in England, and we know that there was an association with both the Babington Plot (1586) and the Gunpowder Plot (1605.) (Go elsewhere to “Google” both of these.) And it is to the former that my imagination travelled.

Thomas Habington.  (Image in public domain.)

Enter one Thomas Habington, born 1560 the second son to John Habington of Thorpe, Surrey, a finance minister to Queen Elizabeth 1st.. Thomas was a convert to Roman Catholicism. It is said that he “crossed the Tiber” while at university in Paris. He, with his elder brother Edward, became involved with a Catholic underground in England which was being led by Anthony Babington. To cut a long story short they conspired to assassinate the Queen and put Mary, Queen of Scots, on the throne, but were caught and all except Thomas Habington were executed. It is said that he got away with his life because he was the Queen’s godson, but that is hearsay. Yet he still spent six years in the Tower of London.

Sentence complete Thomas retired to Hindlip Hall (yes, we got there in the end!) but continued with his active support of the secretly operating Catholic priests, and that was the period when the priestly hiding places were built.

Come the Gunpowder plot and the arrest of the prime conspirators, the authorities turned their attention to Hindlip Hall and Thomas Habington, and the estate was searched from top to bottom. Eleven priest holes were discovered and four arrests made.

It was clear that Thomas Habington had no part in “gunpowder, treason and plot” but was arrested on the charge of harbouring traitors. Once again he got away with it on account of the influence of his father-in-law, William Parker, the 4th Baron Monteagle.

William Parker.  (Image in public domain.)

So Thomas was released, but was not quite a free man. He was forbidden to leave the county of Worcestershire (which he actually did on a number of occasions) and so so devoted his remaining forty years to researching the county history. He died at Hindlip on October 8th 1647, age eighty-seven. According to an account attributed to the 17th century historian  Anthony a-Wood:

“He was buried… in a vault under the chancel of the church there.” [1]

His notes and manuscripts were the foundation of many a later history (including Nash’s History of Worcestershire) and for these and more I offer a quiet prayer of thanks. And look forward to opening the door of St James’ Church.

[1] Castara. William Habington. 1634.  Anthony-a-Wood quoted in the Introduction to the 1898 reprint. Anon.

BURGH ST PETER: St Mary the Virgin, Norfolk

Monday was one of those perfect spring mornings when I, in my small rented Skoda car, with the rector of the Benefice of South Elmham and Ilketshall in Suffolk, crossed the River Waveney at Beccles and headed into Norfolk to explore a handful of country churches. It was the right morning to do so for we, with other visitors to Parsonage House, had enjoyed a weekend of croquet, antique fair, groaning tables of food and wine, capped with an enormous Chinese takeaway on the Sunday evening. It was time that morning for the digestion to settle and focus on things rural and ecclesiastical once more. (Although we as a posse had trooped around the Saints over the previous two days looking for old stones and hopefully not creating too much disturbance.)

Richard and I visited Aldeby St Mary the Virgin as well as Wheatacre All Saints, and I will write concerning those buildings later. But the primary destination that morning was another church dedicated to the Mother of Our Lord in Burgh St Peter.

Aha! I hear you think. Why would a church in a village dedicated to St Peter be named St Mary the Virgin? Well I wondered also and later asked of my Rector friend why this was so. He surmised that “the original dedication of the earliest church was to St Peter but was later changed – maybe on the whim of the local noble.”[1] Digging further I discovered that there is mention of “St Peter’s Church” at Wheatacre Burgh, an earlier name for the parish, in 1764, so this idea rings true.

The Queen Anne’s Lace was sprouting well as we drove eastwards from the windmill at Burgh St Peter along the narrow lane towards the church which is located at Burgh St Peter Staithe. (Staithe. Middle English: from Old Norse stǫth ‘landing stage’)

My first glimpse of St Mary the Virgin was, not to put too fine a point on it, a surreal experience. There, in the gentle beauty of the Norfolk countryside, with brown Ransome-like sails moving distantly on the River Waveney, was an English country church with a tower that “Would owe more to the Ziggerat temples of Mesopotamia.” [2]

Before getting out to explore we stayed in the car while Richard read the appropriate description of the church from Arthur Mee’s The King’s England: Norfolk as if it were the gospel. (Which to some it is.) And we then resolved to find the grave of one Charles Cunningham Boycott (1832-1897.) He has served in the Army’s 39th (Dorsetshire) Regiment of Foot and went on to serve as a British land agent in County Mayo, Ireland. He ran up against the nationalist Irish Land League who called a farm-workers strike at harvest time on the estate of Lord Erne, and found himself isolated and threatened. It got to the point where troops and a thousand members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary were sent to guard the estate where workers had been brought in from elsewhere to harvest, and it was generally agreed that Boycott’s days in Ireland were numbered. In 1886 he became estate manager for Hugh Adair’s lands in Flixton, Suffolk, but died eleven years later. And, yes, after a bit of confusion we found his grave. The grave of the man who’s surname entered the English language as a verb “to Boycott.”

(The above image is in the public domain.)

This is the Boycott church. Five rectors and numerous patrons carried that name for well over two centuries and most are interred in the graveyard or in the tower. To that I will return.

The church of St Mary is of early 13th century foundation and the original north door stands. The south door is of the same age but renovated by the Victorians. Most else is later addition or restoration. Of immediate note is how narrow the nave and chancel are. The roof which is continuous above both is quite eye-catching inside and out. Inside there are decorated posts and bosses, and outside the thatch is quite magnificent. A lot of repair and replacement has happened over the years since a new thatched roof was put up in the 15th century. The Victorians restored (they always did) in 1884, and there was major restoration in 1998 after a terrible fire. Ah, the risks and dangers of picturesque English biscuit-tin style thatched roofs!

Now here’s a not-so-pretty thing to say. I didn’t think that the interior of St Mary’s was overly attractive (and like so many churches is under siege from bat droppings and employs large plastic sheets to cover furniture and floors.) Yet there is a lot to discover. Imagine my surprise when I pulled back the “bat-sheet” over the altar to find a gorgeous marble inlaid top. Age? It’s old but I have no accurate date. (And I don’t have a copy of Mee!)

The wooden pulpit (1811) is quite unremarkable in itself except that it is covered with brass plaques providing information where various Boycotts are interred.

There is an entrance to an older rood screen near the pulpit but the existing screen is 20th century and in memoriam of a rector who wasn’t a Boycott. The font, well decorated, is early 15th century.

OK. Three gems. First what the guide notes call the “Sedilia-Piscina.” (If my memory serves me correctly there was only one clergy seat so I’m going to be pedantic here and correct their use of the plural. A singular stone seat is called a sedile.) But it is quite perfect!  The piscina carries a more recent and touching brass memorial to Arthur Soames (1887-1965,) Churchwarden, who was still in office the year he died.

Second, outside the church and near the (13th century?) priest’s door is a Mass dial in excellent condition. (With a few additional scratchings by local faithful.)

And last, but never, ever least – that tower!

Now one doesn’t have to aesthetically like the tower of St Mary the Virgin to be impressed by it, but as I walked around the walls a few times it, for want of a better phrase, grew on me.  After all it is so unique, so out of place in this bucolic scene, that it has to be remembered and respected.

The base of the tower, 16th century, would have supported something much more conventional. But whatever had stood there was in a bad way, for the Reverend Samuel Boycatt (yes, there was a spelling change) Rector from 1764, decided to apply for a Diocesan Faculty in 1793 to “Repair and build up the steeple which has long been in a ruinous condition.” [3]

In my gentle digging I have failed to come up with a definitive explanation of the design of the tower for no source can agree, but my favorite description is that of the German –born Nikolaus Bernhard Leon Pevsner (Pevsner by common call) who called it “A simple folly.” [4]

I have found no mention of bells in this tower. One can assume that there is an “office’ or “service” bell of some kind, but this extraordinary edifice was not built for ringing changes. It was built as a Boycott mausoleum. I didn’t count all the names but numerous Boycotts are interred in the sealed and hollow base section of the tower. And may the good Lord have mercy on their souls.

It was not a lingering visit. I wanted to stay longer and walk down to the Waveney (part of my Arthur Ransome passion) and perhaps enjoy a leisurely pint in one of the many pubs I passed on the way. But I had a long drive back to the Midlands ahead of me. I had scribbled a few notes and taken a few photographs which have framed this article. It was time to bid fare well to my host and depart. But I feel that I will return. Not so much to the ziggerat but to that corner of East Anglia that continues to intrigue me.
[1] Correspondence by email. The Reverend Richard HP Thornburgh. November 4th, 2014
[2] St Mary the Virgin. Visitors’ Notes. Undated.
[3] The Old Churches of Norfolk. Noel Spencer. 1990.
[4] The Buildings of England. Series published 1951-1974. Pevsner.

OS GRID REFERENCE FOR BURGH ST PETER VILLAGE TM471936