On Top of the World

The drive is ten and more miles from the little town, climbing all the time. The day, cold and frosty to start with, is turning to weak Spring sunshine. A buzzard on a fencepost stays put, watches the car pass. Kites circle overhead. We cross the dyke, a wrinkle of turf, gorse and stunted trees marking the ancient Mercian boundary. Hardy Clun sheep cling to hedgerows out of the wind, their new lambs clinging to them. Eventually we get to a rough track, and now the church is in sight. We bump over the last few yards, on a rutted track leading to the church farm and the tiny lychgate. We’re at 1300 feet, or more, up here. The same height as the M62 summit, but it feels much higher. The view over England and Wales is stunning. There is no sound.

I’m working, because part of my job is to come and inspect these places. I’m to see that they are still here, I suppose; check the silver, check the registers, ask questions to make sure everything is well kept and in order. The little church is built like a byre. Wooden screen like a cattle stall. No electricity. No heating. The only silver is the little chalice and paten, wafer thin, dated 1664, two years after the Book of Common Prayer was published. It’s wrapped in some oil cloth and kept in a small, ancient safe. The church is always open. There is no key. They don’t worry about thieves out here these days, so much as oil rustlers; the rise in the price of oil means it’s worth siphoning off a tankful from an isolated farm or homestead.

I’m supposed to ask if there’s a plan of the churchyard. There never is. The churchyards are never full, though they have been in use for more than a thousand years. Generations buried and their descendants buried with them. Each new grave turns up bones. The thick vellum covered registers, started in the 1840’s, are barely half full.

Someone is supposed to visit and examine parish churches every three years, plus every time a priest leaves and arrives, just to make sure everything is still present and correct. But we’re a long way from anywhere out here, and systems have a habit of slipping. I add my signature and details to the inventory. The previous entry is dated 1976.