Priories, Parishes & Pubs 1 A Driving Tour in England and Wales
A journal kept by Susan Hanes during a trip with George Leonard through England and Wales from September 19-October 3, 2019. Photos by Susan Hanes and George Leonard, c. 2019 Cover: Church of St. Mary, Luppitt
Priories, Parishes & Pubs a Driving Tour in England and Wales September 19—October 3, 2019
Our scheduled 31-day trip to England and Wales was unexpectedly cut short after 14 days by my mother’s medical emergency. However, during our travels we were able to visit 34 churches and former monasteries, six cathedrals, two ruined abbeys—and two gin distilleries and eleven pubs. Fortunately, my mother has recovered and we hope to be able to return to England soon and complete our itinerary.
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Thursday, September 19
En Route
We took our usual taxi to the Thompson Center to catch the Blue Line to O’Hare, reaching the platform just as the train was pulling in. Every car was packed and we stood most of the way to the airport. Check-in has been recently automated, starting with the scanning of our passports. Jake, who had attempted to proceed without his glasses, tried to scan the page with his Uzbekistan visa rather than his passport picture. This resulted in disrupting the entire operation and
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we were kicked out of the process until an agent came over and reset the machine. Fortunately, we could go through the expedited security line and were at the gate in plenty of time. Our seats, squarely over the 767’s giant wing, offered little view but plenty of stability, which I appreciated during a couple of turbulent stretches. The flight was 7 ½ hours long and we landed at Heathrow at 8:00 Friday morning.
Friday, September 20
to Winchester, Hampshire
Passport control has also been automated since my last visit to London and was very quick. However, we had to walk more than a mile dragging our bags from one terminal to another to catch the shuttle to the Avis office where we picked up our Suzuki Valtera, a small SUV. The next challenge was getting used to driving on the left on the motorway to Winchester, 50 miles southwest of London. We got into town a little
after noon and headed to St. Cross, a Norman cathedral in miniature, built next to England’s oldest almshouse. Unfortunately, we arrived just as a graduation ceremony was just getting underway and were unable to enter the church. We settled instead for a stroll through the adjoining English garden. It felt good to be out in the sunshine after being cooped up on an airplane for nearly eight hours. 3
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We drove on to the Wykeham Arms, a pub named after William Wykeham, a powerful 14th century bishop, where we are spending our first night in the U.K. Depositing the car, we walked through the city gates to Winchester Cathedral where we spent several hours. The interior is breathtaking. Jane Austen is buried there, although no mention is made of her being an author. Windows by Edward Burne-Jones, rich needlework choir cushions, and a profusion of exquisite wood carvings were especially pleasing.
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Winchester Cathedral
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It was only fatigue that made us leave when we did, and we returned to our room (with the beguiling name of STREET) where we had a break before heading down to the pub for drinks and dinner. Sitting at repurposed school desks (complete with inkwells, pen grooves, and graffiti carved into the wooden tops) we ordered beers and watched as people showed up alone, in couples, or with their dogs. We watched as a congenial group trooped in, obviously after work, sporting Winchester Cathedral name badges. When Jake got up to order another round, he began talking to a friendly fellow in shorts. It
turned out that he is an Anglican priest. We had a three-course dinner in another room, sitting at an old pine table featuring a brass slot for “Donations for the Cathedral.” The food was excellent, proving why the Wykeham was designated “Town Pub of the Year.” Especially good was my Owen’s chicken and Jake’s fish and chips. I won the “pudding challenge” by ordering Eaton Mess, a concoction of crunchy meringue, whipped cream, and strawberry sorbet. By 9:00, we were in bed and quickly oblivious to the street noise that one would expect in a room so named. 13
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Saturday, September 21
to Plush, Dorset
Breakfast at the pub was almost too much. After helping ourselves to croissants, fruit, yoghurt, and juice at the buffet table, we were served a full English breakfast and porridge. By 9:15 we were on our way to Romsey, pleased that it was another nice day. The weather report is not promising for the next ten days, so we were determined to make the most of the sunny, cloudless skies that this morning offered. The Abbey of St. Mary and St. Ethelflaeda was founded in 907. It was sacked by the Danes, and rebuilt by both the Saxons and the Normans as a center for female worship and learning. Romsey Abbey remained in the hands of Benedictine nuns until the convent was closed by Henry VIII in 1539. Five years later the church was sold to the people of Romsey for
£100. Today it is one of largest parish churches in England. As we entered the grounds, a gentleman wearing a clerical collar greeted us and pointed us to the south side of the church where an 11th century Saxon carving of Christ, his arms outstretched in welcome, is located adjacent to an ornate door that once led to the abbess’s cloisters. Above Christ’s head, the hand of God descends through a cluster of clouds. In the southernmost of the four chapels behind the altar, we discovered a depiction of Christ on the cross dating from around 960 AD that was created in the naïve style of that period that we so love. The church has examples of various architectural styles that evolve from the crossing to the far west of the nave.
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Romsey Abbey
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Salisbury Cathedral
Noting with dismay that Google Maps was eating up my mobile phone battery, we negotiated the way to Salisbury by turning it off whenever we had several miles to go in one direction. We looked forward to revisiting that iconic English cathedral. When we saw its spire, the tallest in England, soaring over the vast green close, we could understand why Constable recalled that it “darted up into the sky like a needle,� its grey stone shining like silver. It still does. The cathedral was completed in 1258 and is noted
for its tall and narrow nave, made all the more distinctive by dark marble columns that are accented against light grey stone walls. Perhaps the most unusual feature is the modern font, installed in 2008. Designed by water sculptor William Pye, it is the largest in any British cathedral. The still water perfectly mirrors the stained-glass windows reflected in it. We took our time, photographing the tombs that line the aisles and strolling through the cloisters.
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Carefully conserving what waning cell power we could, we found our way to Sherborne and the Abbey of St. Mary. Built as a cathedral during Saxon and Norman times, it served as a monastery church until the Dissolution. Today it is a parochial church, located in the center of town and surrounded by ancient buildings. Its warm stone is reminiscent of the Cotswolds. Sherborne’s true glory is in its ceiling: complete fan vaults perfectly cover the interior and are an invitation to neck strain. We were further engaged by a series of misericords on the back row of the choir, which I sat on the floor to photograph.
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As we left the church, we decided to try and find a USB car charger. As I crossed the street towards the shops with little hope, I spotted a group of young people congregating outside a wine bar. I asked them if they might know where I could find such an item. They understood just what I wanted and someone declared that if it were to be found in town, it would be at Marshes on the high street. Off I went, and there, amongst the washing machines and electric coffee pots, was a display of various
computer-related auxiliary devices that included a car charger. Now we no longer have to fear getting lost. Safely plugged in, we followed the way to Cerne Abbas, home of the enormous hill drawing that depicts a nude male. Of unknown date and origin, the Cerne Abbas Giant has become an important part of local folklore. We stopped at a viewing area and joined several other visitors gazing out across the fields at the mysterious—and impressive—figure.
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It was nearing 5:30 when we negotiated a series of winding one-lane roads with two-lane traffic for the 5-mile, 35-minute drive out into the Dorset countryside—Thomas Hardy country— to the hamlet of Plush. This evening we have reservations at Brace of Pheasants, a white-washed, thatchedroofed pub. As we sat in the low-ceilinged bar enjoying local cider, I noticed a sign designating the place as the “Best Country Pub in England” and remembered that the Wykham had been designated the “Best Town Pub in England.” Jake had chosen wisely.
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Sunday, September 22
to Doddiscombsleigh, Devon
This morning we set out for Luppitt but when we descended to the main road, we found it blocked as a stream of cyclists flew by. Just as we were wondering what to do, we spotted a middle-aged couple walking their dogs and I got out to ask them what was going on. They told us that it was part of the Weymouth Ironman, a half-triathlon race covering 70.3 miles, 56 of which is a bike ride. As we considered how to proceed,
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the woman commented that it was “a bit naughty� of the Inn not to warn us about it. We had to reconfigure our route and avoid a large area from as far south as Weymouth and as far west as Sherborne, which precluded a drive along the Jurassic Coast to Lyme Regis. Turning onto the A30, we noted a rather disconcerting sign warning of ONCOMING VEHICLES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD.
We arrived at St. Mary’s Church in Luppitt just as the Sunday services were concluding. A church elder welcomed us at the door. We chatted with him and he bemoaned the fact that attendance had fallen since his youth; it was now down to 30-35 in the town of 400. He was proud however, that they were able to keep the church open every day for visitors who came to see the intriguing and bewildering Norman font. This was Harvest Sunday, and we found the church decorated with fruits of the harvest, with pumpkins and squash, flowers and eggs, and jars of
homemade preserves displayed on every surface. A package of sweet rolls was set out on the altar. As Jake and the man continued their conversation, I tried to get a picture of a carved green man on the boss above the four main ceiling beams. The current carving was a replacement of an ancient one found when the building was being refurbished in the 1990s. It was raining as I walked around the cemetery to get a picture of the church exterior, but the sun obligingly broke through the clouds.
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St. Mary’s Church, Luppitt
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We continued to the squat, double-towered collegiate church of Ottery St. Mary. Parking was a problem, as people were gathering for a baptism, but a neighbor let us block his driveway for a short time. Although we were able to enter the church, our visit was abbreviated by preparations for the service. We were actually rather disappointed in this Jenkins 5-star church, as nothing really stood out for us. I did find an interesting green man, however.
Church of Ottery St. Mary
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Exeter Cathedral
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We arrived at the Cathedral of St. Peter in Exeter at 2:30. Again, parking was an issue and we ended up at the municipal lot. The sky had become partly cloudy and our patience was rewarded by a break in the clouds that richly illuminated the west side. The choir was practicing as we entered, preventing any exploration of the choirstalls which apparently harbored a couple of green men. However, I did find a great one by the Lady Chapel.
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We drove towards Doddiscombsleigh, the urban streets becoming onelane winding roads that demanded attentive driving. We reached Nobody Inn by 5:00 and were shown to a bright room with a timbered ceiling and four-poster bed on the upper floor of this 17th century tavern. While Jake settled in to figure out the travel stats for the day, I walked down the road to St. Michael’s Church. It appeared that the iron gate was locked and I asked a man who lived nearby if it was possible to
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see it. He led me back and opened the gate with ease (you just have to know the trick) and we walked down the path to the entrance. After telling me to be sure and take note of the 15th century windows, he left me to peace and solitude. By the time I returned, Jake was starting to wonder where I was. We spent the rest of the evening in the bar, at a dark wooden table under the low ceiling. After glasses of Devon cider, we settled in for a nice dinner.
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Monday, September 23
to Fowey, Cornwall
Breakfast was late, as the cook’s car had broken down and she arrived on a tractor; we were too full from last night to really enjoy it anyway. The sky was overcast as we negotiated the narrow, hilly, and curving roads through the dense forests of Dartmoor National Park, carefully passing a horseman, walkers with dogs, numerous cars, and a taxi while avoiding the hedgerows and stone walls that butt against the asphalt. Although the scenery was beautiful, there was no place to stop for photos and I could
only snap through the windshield. With the slow and challenging driving and the persistent rain, we decided to forego our planned route to Totnes and arrived in Plymouth in a downpour. Eventually finding a place to park on the hill above town, we walked down to the Black Friars Distillery, the oldest working gin distillery in England. We discussed the composition and enjoyment of gins with Pippa, a visitor representative, and came away with a bottle of Special Edition Single Batch gin.
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Continuing along the coast to St. Germans, we stopped at Eliot Arms, a small pub near the church. Sitting at the bar, we discussed gins with the owner and her daughter over glasses of Belvoir, a Cornish cider. We were told that in Cornwall, the name is pronounced, “Beaver.� We learned that Trevethan is the local gin, but we did not try any.
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St. Germans Priory Church
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Just up the road we visited the church and former priory of St. Germans. Wilkie Collins wrote about his visit to St. Germans in 1850 and Chris and I followed him there in 2000 during our Wilkie Pilgrimage. Jake took 54
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a photo of me next to the remarkable 7-layer Norman portal; I had taken the same photo of Chris when we were there. St. Germans also boasts several Burne-Jones windows.
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The Church of St. Neot Although it was only 20 miles to St. Neot, it was a slow drive. There has been a church on the site for over 1,000 years; the present one was built between 1425 and 1530.
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St. Neot is noted for the completeness of its medieval glass. 57
It was foggy and raining as we continued to Fowey along the same challenging single-lane roads. After dropping our bags at the Old Quay House, we parked a half-mile away and retraced the narrow street to the hotel, stepping into doorways to avoid encountering a stray vehicle side mirror. Located on the estuary, the inn was opened in 1883 as a sailors’ rest. We had dinner by the window and watched the awnings flapping in the wind and small boats bobbing in the choppy water.
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Tuesday, September 24
to Padstow, Cornwall
We awoke to a fresh morning, but the sky showed hints of more rain to come. We appreciated the break in the weather as we dragged our bags through the narrow lanes back to the car park, again stepping into doorways to let the occasional vehicle pass. By 9:45, we were on our way
along the south Cornwall coast to see St. Michael’s Mount, another place on Wilkie Collins’s itinerary that Chris and I had visited together. Jake expressed frustration with Google’s attempts to foil traffic delays by taking us off major roads and onto narrow woodland paths.
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St. Michael’s Mount
We stopped at Marazion for views of St. Michael’s Mount across the water. The tide was still in and only bits of the causeway were revealed beneath the waves. We negotiated a series of confusing roundabouts to get on and stay on the A30 to Land’s End. A downpour along the way reminded us how changeable Cornwall weather can be and how fortunate we'd been to get photos of St. Michael’s Mount, even though they weren’t perfect. Entering the concrete gates with giant letters
spelling out LAND’S END, I realized that little had changed since Chris and I were there. The mass tourist facility was surrounded by car parks accommodating hundreds of cars, campers, and busses. Even on this rainy, blustery day the place was packed. The bland section of coast upon which the facility stands disappeared into hazy nothingness. I had considered getting out to take a picture but we decided instead to stop at the First & Last Inn in Sennen for a glass of cider.
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As the weather further deteriorated, we continued along the Penwith Peninsula to the Botallack Mine, part of Cornwall’s Tin Coast, now a National Trust property and UNESCO World Heritage site. Chris and I had followed Wilkie there after reading his enthusiastic report in Rambles Beyond Railways. Wilkie began his spirited description of his descent in 1850 by saying that he hoped that his readers would “derive as much satisfaction from the present description of the mine, as we did from visiting the mine itself!” It was my intention to return and take
An almost picture of the Crowns engine houses 64
another—better—photo of the iconic Crowns engine houses that cling to the foot of the cliffs. In spite of the pounding rain and buffeting winds, I bravely set out, stumbling along the path towards the cliff. However, I lost my nerve as I realized the foolishness of trying to climb along the slippery grass with sudden gusts pushing me off balance. As I staggered back towards the car, soaked to the skin, my hair flying in all directions and the wind whipping at my jacket, I passed a man standing next to his van. “A bit grim, id’n it?” he remarked.
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Church of St. Senara, Zennor
It was 3:00 when we reached Zennor and the Church of St. Senara, located in the heart of Cornish mining country. The little church is made of rough granite and has a wooden barrel ceiling decorated with bosses, several of which are in the shape of anchors. 66
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St. Ives
We descended into St. Ives for a quick look at this coastal town. As soon as we did, we wished we hadn't, for it was a tacky little place, its narrow streets crowded with rain-drenched tourists. We inched our way past oblivious pedestrians blocking the way and finally extricated ourselves, heading towards Padstow.
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It was a white-knuckled ride in the driving rain, as the narrow roads had deep puddles and the larger roads had speeding drivers and lorries that kicked up the spray. It was a little after 5:00 when we arrived in Padstow and found Rick Stein’s Café where we had room reservations. When we found that the door was locked, we called the main restaurant and they sent over a man who helped us drop off our bags and led us to the car park across from the Seafood Restaurant where we had 8:30 dinner reservations. Not wanting to go back and forth between our room and the restaurant, we were able to arrange an earlier dining time. We sat at the bar and enjoyed the seven-course tasting menu, with thoughtful service by Antione, a French national who is a waiter and bartender. He told us that he has worked in Cornwall for three years and is very concerned about what Brexit will mean for him and his English girlfriend. He told us that 50% of the staff at Rick Stein is from the EU and no one knows what will happen to them. We walked back to our room over the café in a drizzle; I was happy to finally get out of my wet shoes.
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Wednesday, September 25
to Dunster, Somerset
We had breakfast at Rick Stein’s CafÊ, downstairs from our room, before walking back to the harbor car park. At 9:45 we were on the road, continuing east along the Cornwall coast. We were interested to see how traffic is organized to function in towns never designed to handle modern vehicles, with numerous places to pull in and signs designating which direction has the right of way. Everyone seems happy to accommodate the other guy in difficult (i.e., tight) situations.
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In the village of Kilkhampton, we visited the Parish Church of James the Great. The first thing I noticed was that the sign in front had a strip of weathered wood blocking the place where the rector’s name and number would be. We are learning that many of these fine old churches in the smaller villages no longer have a congregation large enough to sustain a full-time minister. They may be fortunate to have a traveling rector who comes once a month or so, attending other parishes on the remaining Sundays. The church was dedicated to St. 72
James in the 12th century, possibly because the town is on the direct pilgrimage route to Compostela in Spain where the relics of St. James were thought to lie. Kilkhampton is best known for its heavily carved medieval bench ends. Carved bench ends are a Cornwall specialty, but even among Cornish churches, these carvings are particularly beautiful. Now darkened by age, they depict a variety of subjects, including arabesque ornamental fringes, heraldic shields, Biblical symbols, and various heads.
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Ten miles took us to Morwenstow, on Cornwall’s northeast corner, where we found the Church of St. John the Baptist nestled in a coastline hollow. As Jenkins describes it, the church is infused with the spirit of its Victorian rector, Robert Hawker, who wrote, “So stern and pitiless is this iron-bound coast, that within the memory of one man upwards of 80
wrecks have been counted with a reach of 15 miles, with only here or there the rescue of a living man.” Hawker’s parishioners were smugglers and wreckers and their remains fill the graveyard, as their spirits seemed to fill the church. For me, this church particularly brought to mind Philip Larkin’s evocative poem, Church Going.
Church of St. John the Baptist Morwenstow
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Church Going Once I am sure there's nothing going on I step inside letting the door thud shut. Another church: matting seats and stone and little books; sprawlings of flowers cut For Sunday brownish now; some brass and stuff Up at the holy end; the small neat organ; And a tense musty unignorable silence Brewed God knows how long. Hatless I take off My cycle-clips in awkward reverence
A shape less recognizable each week A purpose more obscure. I wonder who Will be the last the very last to seek This place for what it was; one of the crew That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were? Some ruin-bibber randy for antique Or Christmas-addict counting on a whiff Of grown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh? Or will he be my representative
Move forward run my hand around the font. From where i stand the roof looks almost new-Cleaned or restored? someone would know: I don't. Mounting the lectern I peruse a few hectoring large-scale verses and pronounce Here endeth much more loudly than I'd meant The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door I sign the book donate an Irish sixpence Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Bored uninformed knowing the ghostly silt Dispersed yet tending to this cross of ground Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt So long and equably what since is found Only in separation--marriage and birth And death and thoughts of these--for which was built This special shell? For though I've no idea What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth It pleases me to stand in silence here;
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do And always end much at a loss like this Wondering what to look for; wondering too When churches fall completely out of use What we shall turn them into if we shall keep A few cathedrals chronically on show Their parchment plate and pyx in locked cases And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep. Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
A serious house on serious earth it is In whose blent air all our compulsions meet Are recognized and robed as destinies. And that much never can be obsolete Since someone will forever be surprising A hunger in himself to be more serious And gravitating with it to this ground Which he once heard was proper to grow wise in If only that so many dead lie round.
Or after dark will dubious women come To make their children touch a particular stone; Pick simples for a cancer; or on some Advised night see walking a dead one? Power of some sort or other will go on In games in riddles seemingly at random; But superstition like belief must die And what remains when disbelief has gone? Grass weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
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—Philip Larkin
Church of St. Nectan, Hartland We crossed back into Devon to Hartland to visit the Church of St. Nectan, located two miles to the west near the hamlet of Stoke. The church has a striking tower, erected around 1420 and standing 128 feet high. But its masterpiece is its perfectly preserved 15th century chancel screen, one of the most complete in the county. It also has an intriguing square Norman font that is highly decorated.
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We drove through parts of Exmoor National Park, with spectacular views that were unfortunately obscured by the rain. It is too bad that Jake was not able to enjoy it since there were few places to pull off and the narrow roads precluded even a glance to the side. We encountered steep (25%) grades as we descended into small villages that popped up along the way. It was almost 5:00 when we reached Dunster and the Luttrell Arms, a 15th century guest house located across from the town’s 17th century octagonal yarn market. Our room is on the lower level and opens to a small garden in the back. We spent the evening enjoying drinks in the bar and remaining there for dinner.
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Luttrell Arms 84
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Church of St. George, Dunster
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Thursday, September 26 to Holcombe, Somerset After breakfast in Psalter’s Restaurant at the hotel, we walked up the street, passing the Yarn Market to St. George’s Church, hidden behind the curve of Dunster’s high street. Most notable was the ornate wooden rood stretching across the nave and aisles, reputedly the longest in England.
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Returning to the car, we headed for Stogursey to visit the Church of St. Andrew, a Norman parish church dating from the 12th century that had once been part of a Benedictine priory. Great capitals of different styles
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support intricate arches that survive from the earliest period of Norman architecture in England. There is also an intriguing Norman font, with primitive faces peering out from all sides.
Church of St. Andrew, Stogursey
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Glastonbury Abbey
We drove on to Glastonbury Abbey in yet another downpour. It was a soggy slog around the beautiful ruins of the abbey in intermittent rain but we were treated to moments of sun that glistened off the ancient walls.
With its sheer size, we could see that the abbey must have been remarkable before the Dissolution. A monk was giving tours to groups of uniformed school children who seemed very excited to be there. 91
Wells Cathedral was our next destination. Ever since I first saw Wells back in 2002, it has been my favorite cathedral. Its powerful west façade with its four tiers of niches glisten golden, even on a cloudy day. In spite of art historian Sir Nikolaus Pevsner’s opinion that the front is out of balance with its stumpy towers, I think it is stunning. Inside, Wells’ unique scissor arches still take my breath away. They were installed in the 1330s to support the crossing tower when it showed signs of cracking. Today, they deliver a force that is unforgettable. The other
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memorable feature at Wells gained its notoriety with the help of Frederick Evans’ remarkable photograph, “A Sea of Steps,” taken in 1903 of the worn steps up to the cathedral’s chapter house. On this visit, we tried to capture the movement of Evans’ photograph. I had the opportunity to see again the green man that had started my fascination with these ancient carved images when a deacon unlocked the door to the vestry where he rests. Before we departed, we climbed the steps to the cathedral library with its collection of chained volumes.
Wells Cathedral
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Church of St. Peter & St. Paul Shepton Mallet
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Green Man in 2002 The Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in the market town of Shepton Mallet was our next stop. Expecting to enter a place of quiet contemplation, we were perplexed to walk into what we thought was an empty church and hear Nat King Cole crooning “Pretend� at top volume. We soon saw that a couple of people were there, adjusting the sound system for some upcoming event. Nonetheless, it was quite disconcerting. The main attraction of this small Saxon/Norman church is its paneled wagon roof featuring large bosses carved in high relief. Jake had taken a picture of a wonderful green man hidden up there when we visited in 2002 but for the life of us, we could not find him again. 98
The Holcombe, our inn for this evening, is located out in the peaceful Somerset countryside, far away from any commercial building. Our room overlooks a cow pasture. Before dinner, we sampled the local cider, brought up from the cellar and described by our brocade-vested bartender as “Somerset in a Glass.�
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A journal kept by Susan Hanes during a trip through England and Wales from September 19-October 3, 2019. Photos by Susan Hanes and George Leonard, c. 2019 100