Does Suffolk have any
lonelier, prettier spots than this? Here we are,
high above the Brett valley, Lavenham church off
in the distance and only the village hall for
company. Whichever way we've come, the last
couple of miles to the church have been along
narrow country lanes, the hedgerows full of
angelica, birds scattered in surprise by an
unfamiliar bike or car. I first came here a
quarter of a century ago, quite early on in my
journey around Suffolk's churches. I came back in
the Spring of 2003 expecting to be disappointed,
but I wasn't; it is as deliciously remote and
beautiful as I'd remembered. It seems
inconceivable that we are barely 80 miles from
central London.
The church is towerless; it was
taken down in the mid-19th century, and not
replaced. This may make St Peter appear rather
small from the outside; inside, it is wide and
open, bare-walled and brick-floored, full of
light. Without its tower, its Norman origins are
less hidden, and the rebuilt west wall does not
ill-serve it. All around, cowslips scatter across
the grass, with sprawlings of violets in the
shade of the trees. An avenue of laburnums leads
up to the porch; this is a replacement of the
original early 20th century planting, but will
eventually be as lush as its predecessor. A deep
peace is filled with the piping of blackbirds. My
ten year old son darted about, exploring the
stones; when I had been here before, I had held
him as a baby in my arms.
St Peter is militantly open everyday. I know
this because, shortly after we arrived, and my son was
energetically pouring coppers into the alms-safe, a woman
arrived to do the flowers. She was as elegant as her
church. So often I make a visit, and a churchwarden
arrives to check on me within a few minutes, ostensibly
to put up a notice or water the display; but here, it
must have been genuine. There are no houses around, and
she arrived by car. She showed me the portrait of William
Burkitt in the vestry, an 18th century Rector. Mortlock found his picture
fascinating, because Burkett's cassock had been cut out
to provide the clothes for the picture; and so did I.
Burkitt is mentioned on the charity board to the left of
the organ, for learning all the poore children to
read.
St Peter has a number of
features that would be better known in a less
remote church. Firstly, there is the pretty
Norman font with its
spindly legs. It is probably the original. Beside
it are some earthy, rustic benches, one of which
is dated 1685. A deep Norman lancet in the south
wall reflects the age of font, and beneath it are
traces of wall-paintings, uncovered in the 1980s.
They seem decorative rather than theological, but
there is a consecration cross beneath
the window. Also on this side is a memorial for
three churchwardens; grandfather, father and son,
all Hawkins, served here from 1814 to 1926. What
changes in the world they must have seen.
The 17th century pulpit has the
same engagingly rustic tone as the font. It can
never have seemed out of place. And up in the
wide, beautiful chancel, James Alington has lain
since 1627. His feet are the worse for wear, and
he rests on a pile of books, so he can't be
getting much sleep. But there he is, in the
clothes of a generation earlier; someone had put
a posy of laurels in his fist. More 17th century
benches, of simple, rural quality, stand in front
of him. He's rather wonderful, but I don't
suppose that there are many people outside of
this parish who have ever seen him.
The parish lost just two men in the
First World War, William Griggs and Rupert
Mowles. They are remembered on a memorial, and
also on a rather haunting hand-drawn roll of
honour from the time.
Finally, around to the north side,
to see how significant the Hawkins family has
been in this parish; perhaps thirty headstones,
spanning 200 years, huddle together in the silent
shade of the graveyard.
Simon Knott, July 2003, updated July
2015
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