5th Sunday Blues

An odd little interlude, Sunday just gone. 

It being that legendary beast, a Fifth Sunday, Young Keith had organised a Turkish Restaurant Church. I've never really liked the Moot House smelling of kebab meat, so I left him to it and took the weekend off in Somerset.

On the Sunday, I thought I'd go and take in the morning service at Flakestream Episcopi. I know they put a high emphasis on croissants and tea lights there, so just the kind of place to worship. And so through the misty Mendips I went, from my little cottage in Cottesleigh Owlicide, off to Flakestream Episcopi. Not to be confused with Flaskestream Regis, which is the other side of Big Wood. And some people never come back when they make the trip to Regis.

To remember that it was a Fifth Sunday. When the whole Appleblight Benefice all gets together at a parish church they apparently choose at random. Which on Sunday was Threadnutt Nedwell, as I discovered when I looked at the rota on the notice board.

I've never been to Threadnutt Nedwell before. But I had made sure to leave plenty of time - you do, in those parts, in case you meet a herd of livestock crossing the road. So I set the Satnav for Threadnutt, and off I went.

Turns out Threadnutt Nedwell is not so much a village as a state of mind. As the Satnav triumphantly announced I was there, I could see a traditional red telephone box, repurposed as a Dinky Toy library. And a shed.

Onto A Church Near You. Not enough phone signal. Drove up a narrow Somerset country lane to get to higher ground. Met a combine harvester the size of Saturn coming the other way.  Drove half into the hedge to let it through. Finally got to the top. Got a signal. Found a postcode. Put it into the Satnav. Was told I had already arrived.

Turns out the postcode covers an area about 5 miles square. Off to Wikipedia. Which informed me that Threadnutt Nedwell church is in the grounds of Nedwell Manor.

Found a brown sign to Nedwell Manor. Followed the directions down an even narrower country lane. Had to back up half a mile to let an entire travelling funfair through. 

Got to Nedwell Manor's stately gates. Sign "to the church" off to the left. Drove the Prius down ever  narrower lane where the tarmac turned to gravel. Turned to rubble. Turned to mud. After a mile I got out, waded across the ford, finished the journey by hijacking a donkey.

Church was shut and locked.

Checked A Church Near You for service times. Found the Fifth Sunday service was at Brimbling St Thomas. Swore.

Banged on the Manor Door. Butler drew me a sketch map. 

Back on the donkey. Through the ford. Back into the car. Now starting to worry that at the end of the journey I might meet A BEAR. Hoped it might be a real one, if so, and not Russell Brand's friend.

Down the side lane. Out into the big lane. Knew I was going to be late for the service now, but determined, even if I were there by coffee time, I'd give the vicar a piece of my mind for publishing misleading service rotas.

Just for information, as I went back through Flakestream, I double-checked the notice board. To find the service dates on there were for December 2023. Which also had a Fifth Sunday. Opened the board. Pulled out the service rota. Screwed it up. Jumped up and down on it.

Through rolling apple orchards, past numerous yokels and tractors. Getting increasingly stressed as I realised I was probably even gonna miss coffee time.

Arrived at Brimbling. Rushed up to the church. Discovered it was St Henry's. St Thomas's is the other side of the valley, Which they filled to make a reservoir. Which was overflowing because all the rain.

Took the long way round. Just one person, locking up, as I arrived at St Thomas's church.

"Missed the service?" I said.

"You and everyone else," she said.

Turns out the average congregation of St Thomas's is just the church warden. And when the Benefice Fifth Sunday Service rolls round, nobody travels in from the other villages. Even the vicar. the warden had just said Morning Prayer on her own, and was off to put her Sunday roast on. Her husband, she told me, was a Methodist, and hadn't been to church since the chapel closed in 1965.

So I gave up. Went to drive back to Cottesleigh Got stuck behind the funfair. The road I'd come by had been closed due to an infestation of badgers. Followed the detour. 10 miles down winding Somerset lanes, looking at the back of the waltzer. Took advantage of one tiny bit of wide road to get past the waltzer, merry-go-round, and swing boats. And then, the lorry carrying the dodgems broke down.

There I was. In a lane. In the middle of nowhere. In the middle of a funfair. And there's no way the lorry with the waltzer was backing up in a lane that wide.

Still, on the bright side. God provided for lunch while we waited. On this occasion, the Divine was working through the candy-floss stall owner and the burger van. So we were all well fed, if not exactly happy, when the breakdown van arrived at the wrong end of the procession. Backed up, took a six mile detour, and got the dodgems moving.

So I followed the front half of the funfair till we came to a side road. Turned off. Headed back for Cottesleigh Owlicide. And, en route, arrived at Flakewell just in time for Fifth Sunday Benefice Evensong.

Well, I was on a sugar rush from all the candy-floss, toffee apples, and Fanta. So I figured I might as go for it.

It was... an experience.

Flakewell Episcopi is a church that is proud of its high box pews. It's a bit embarrassing to find somewhere to sit - you have to open the door, peek in, then if there's someone already in there you kind of wave in an embarrassed manner and back out.

And that's before what I thought was incense smoke turned out to be from the naked sauna that someone was holding in one of the pews. Apparently the Lord of the Manor of Flakewell has had the right since 1742, and he's not afraid of flaunting it.

Found a pew containing only a sheep and a spider the size of a rabbit. Sat down. Got my phone out to use the camera, so I could read the print in a 1542 edition of the Book of Common Prayer.

The vicar of the Appleblight Benefice is quite a trendy man, it turns out, for the Somerset high country. He likes to wander around while leading the service, in an informal and friendly way.

He's also a diminutive man. About 4'7 I would guess.

And there's nothing wrong with eschewing the pulpit for an informal, all-in-it-together kind of feel.

And there's nothing wrong with being 4'7. It might be inconvenient when your favourite couscous is on the top shelf in Waitrose, but it's a perfectly legitimate height to be.

 But combine those two things, with high box pews. And it's a bit weird.

Revd Thrubston has a very deep voice. And as he ambled around the place, offering random thoughts on the fourth chapter of Ephesians, it was like hearing the Creator wandering about the place in the cool of the day, invisible but always audible. When he suddenly shouted "do not sin!" the entire congregation jumped out of their seats, and assorted heads could suddenly be seen for a moment, before gravity returned them to their places.

Still, you've got to hand it them. Fourteen people, plus the Lord of the Manor's party, on a damp Sunday afternoon to worship in their little village. It gives you a sense of the way faith still lingers in this land, even in places out of the reach of electric guitars and inspirational, charismatic, slightly-dodgy leaders.

Mind you. Next time I have a weekend off, I think I'll stay in bed on Sunday morning.