St Mary, Nettlestead

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www.suffolkchurches.co.uk - a journey through the churches of Suffolk

Suffolk's most secret places are in the valleys, where narrow lanes snake down into groves of ash and elm. Maybe there's a stream nearby, but not many houses; hardly a village at all. The churches in these places are among my favourites. Their ancient stones endure through the shadowy grip of winter, and cool the summer haze. They sit in silence as the centuries go by, far from the mundane bustle of traffic, beyond the scope of the tourist guides.

Nettlestead is one of these places. But the pretty church of St Mary suffered the same fate as Akenham, six miles away, when in 1940, a German bomber returning from a raid on the Midlands dropped its remaining bombs here. The church was gutted, and its restoration in the 1950s was one of Munro Cautley's last jobs for the Anglican diocese.

The pretty unbuttressed 14th century tower shows evidence of Norman work in its lower reaches, although Mortlock thought this may have been found and reset during the restoration. The inside of the church is neat, bright and welcoming. Signs in the porch warn that the contents are fully protected by a security system, and that thieves WILL be caught. Because of this, the church is open. Now, I know that this is expensive, but it is clearly the way forward, and I hope that one day ALL churches will be like this. Maybe lottery funding could help.

The crowning jewel inside Nettlestead church is one of Suffolk's most delightful fonts. Panels include two grinning men, one with his tongue sticking out, a jolly bishop, and, almost surreally amongst all this merriment, St Catherine clutching her wheel of martyrdom. Dowsing came in 1644, and ordered the removal of this image. The person commissioned to do the work was obviously either very brave, and had a special devotion to St Catherine, or simply wasn't up to the job.

Another curious survival is the large squint in the splay of a window in the south wall. Cautley doesn't mention it in his 1935 survey, so it may have been uncovered in the 1950s. After all, one imagines that, unglazed, its filling in would have been a fairly high priority at the Reformation, when sacramental needs took a back seat. It seems to be focused on where the pulpit is now, so we might assume that there was once an altar in the nave there. But why was the squint where it is?

Mortlock thought there might have been an anchorite's cell outside the south wall there, but it is hard to see how an outbuilding could have offered a view through the squint without its east wall cutting into the window. I wondered if the Easter sepulchre had been built where the pulpit is now, and the squint allowed parishioners a view of it on Good Friday, when the church was out of use.

The east end of the sanctuary is a curious thing, too. Its rather sober classical blank arcades match the grimly morbid 17th century memorial to Samuel and Thomasina Sayer in the north wall, but seem quite out of keeping with the warmth of the rest of the building. Rather jollier are the lion and unicorn on the George IV coat of arms, which, instead of supporting the shield, emerge dramatically from behind it. There is a gorgeous little brass in the aisle, without an inscription; but it may be Richard Wentworth, who died in the 1520s.

There are splendidly rustic 19th century benches up in the chancel, presumably by someone local. The Evangelistic symbols have had new life breathed into them. The lion is a jolly grinning cat, and one realises quite how ridiculous a winged bull would be, really; ridiculous, and lovely.

Outside, there are three things you must see. One is awesome, one is pompous, and one is very moving.

It is the Norman lancet window in the north wall that fills me with awe. It is surmounted by a reset delicate carving, interlacings of beads, arches and scrolls. One sees such things in the Victoria and Albert museum, but they do not have the same power there, out of context. Here, a thousand Suffolk summers and winters have come and gone and still it endures.

The pompous memorial to the French family by the north east hedge is a quite different prospect. You might see this in the V&A as well, as an example of the arrogance of the late Gothic revival. Here is someone who thought very highly of themselves, and now lies under flowering columns, pillars, balls, pyramids and curlicues. It reminds me of nothing so much as the old drinking fountain in Ipswich's Christchurch Park.

Finally, travelling around the county's churches, I am always moved by the little headstones for children I see, often by the south porch. The modern one here is among the most beautful and moving of them all.

So there you are. If you are on foot, or on a bike, then keep going. On the other side of Somersham, you'll come to Flowton; equally remote, equally lovely, equally welcoming. If you are in a car - well, you should be ashamed of yourself.

Simon Knott, 2000, updated 2007

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