The church* is hard to spot even in daylight. There’s no spire, just what looks like a fat chimney housing a single bell. I love it for its lack of pretension. Far from perching on a hill, looking down on its congregation, the church squats in the valley behind a field of farm machinery. The rams grazing among the gravestones have the biggest balls I’ve ever seen and the walls are peppered with Celtic crosses and other pagan symbols, a legacy of past invaders who burnt the original, wooden structure before marrying into the community and building the present one. It even has bats in the belfry, a protected species apparently. They closed the church for a time and put it on the front page of ‘The Gazette And Herald.’ The bats now have their own roof space and can come and go without troubling the congregation.
We’re here, a week before Christmas for Carols By Candlelight. The electric lights are turned off, we’re clutching our candles and trying not to set fire to our song sheets. Our lovely vicar doesn’t stand on ceremony and carols follow readings at a brisk pace. He sends us off with a blessing.
There’s a frost and as we walk home, moonlight turns the valley silver.
*Ellerburn Valley.
(c) Katya Marsh.
