Three weeks of cycling in France had left me ill-prepared; I set off from Haverhill under a clear blue sky wearing shorts and a tee shirt. Within half an hour, ominous clouds began to gather, and as I climbed the long hill out of Barnadiston the sky had turned the colour of lead. It broke as I reached Poslingford churchyard. It was the first rain in weeks. I ran with my bike up the gravel path, and abandoned it against the south porch. At the very least I'd find shelter there, even if the church itself was locked.

Not only was the church locked, the porch was locked too. I banged at the outer doors in frustration, and pressed myelf against them in despair in a fruitless attempt to avoid getting soaked to the skin.

Honestly, this was so petty. Porches were designed as places of hospitality and refuge, somewhere strangers and pilgrims could shelter on their journey through life. But not at Poslingford, apparently.

The rain came in waves, and during a lull I searched for a keyholder notice. Well, there wasn't one. A faded, laminated A4 sheet with a picture of the church at the top might have had an address on once, I suppose. It might have had anything on. Shivering, I walked quickly back down the track to the road. A man was working in an open garage at one of the houses opposite. I called out to him, asking if he knew where I could find a key to the church.

He looked at me over the top of his glasses. "Why did you want to get in?" he asked.

"Because I'm soaked wet through and I'm bloody freezing", I wanted to reply. But I didn't. I just mumbled something about websites and photographs. He didn't know where a key was. Perhaps it was the wrong answer.

So I left Poslingford, shaking the dust from my feet (it was more like mud by now). I cycled uphill through the rain to Stansfield, a lovely church in a lovely village. I knew it would be open, and it was. I took refuge there.

Later that evening, I took to my bed, still shivering. I told my wife that if I died she should ask our solicitor to sue the Poslingford PCC for dereliction of Christian duty. Quite rightly, she told me not to feel so sorry for myself.

When I had drawn further from death's door, I was very pleased to hear from Jane Baxter, curate at Clare who has care of Poslingford. Jane tells me that the notice will soon be replaced (it did have keyholder addresses on) and in the meantime you are very welcome to e-mail her if you want to take a look inside.

And what will you see? Mortlock says that there are some good medieval survivals, including the screen and a 12th century font. He also observes that the lion and the unicorn on the James I royal arms are surprisingly well endowed. Kind of makes you want to go and have a look, doesn't it.

St Mary, Poslingford, is in the middle of the village just to the north of Clare. I found it locked without a keyholder, but a new sign is going up and you can also arrange access by contacting Jane Baxter.

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