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This is not one of Suffolk's more
glamorous churches. But its setting is a fine one, on the
hill above the approach road to Orford. It is as close to that fascinating little town
as it is to its own village, and before the tower of St Bartholomew was rebuilt, it was easily mistaken for
Orford's own. 
Modern
gravestones spread west of the tower in the pretty
graveyard.
It appears grander than it actually is.
The graveyard is a delight, walled and sloping rapidly to
the west, like a clearing in the wilderness. Most
summers, it has been surrounded by fields of pigs, but in
this year of Foot and Mouth, that was no longer the case.
Above: 4
year old for scale: Martha in front of the Norman
doorway.
Right: Passion instruments, and
the Holy Trinity..
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The church was almost entirely
rebuilt in 1878 by William Barnes, and because of
this is often passed over by those in search of a
more authentic medieval experience. This is a pity, for there are a number
of surviving details from its pre-Reformation
Catholic past that are fascinating, and the
church itself is an excellent example of quality
Victorian restoration. The church was closed for
a year, and it must have been quite a surprise
for the parishioners when they went back inside.
Little expense was spared; the
patron was Sir Richard Wallace of Sudbourne Hall,
a regular employer of Barnes's services, and a
name we will come back to in a moment.
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Barnes built the transepts, restored the tower, reroofed the nave and
chancel. I assume that the needle spire was also renewed
at this time. But the doorways were retained, and they
are fascinating. Firstly, there is a fine norman doorway
in the south wall. This was discovered at the time of the
restoration, but it wasn't pressed back into service.
Arthur Mee claims to have entered the church through it
in the 1930s, which seems a little unlikely.
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Looking at the carving of it, you can't help but
be reminded of similar work at the nearby castle, and also at St Bartholomew. The south
porch is now blocked, and you enter through the
north one. Both have a pair of shields in the
spandrels, one of passion symbols, the other of
the Holy Trinity. The Trinity symbol is to the
east in both cases.
The parish seems to go to great
lengths to keep All Saints open, and I've never
found it locked. You step inside to a
well-groomed interior, polished wood and tiles a
counterpoint to the imposing font.
At the time of the 1878
restoration, the interior was completely
refurbished, with new benches and Minton tiles
throughout. It can seem rather dark inside,
although not, I think, gloomy; one imagines
easily the late 19th century ritualist services that must have taken place here. Mortock observes that the church is more like
that of a prosperous Victorian suburb than of a
remote East Anglian parish.
Two grand hatchments
hang at the west end, a worthy frame for the tall
tower arch and Norman font in front. They are to
the Devereaux family, the Marquises of Hereford.
One of their number left a
considerable art collection to the Sir Richard
Wallace, which he in turn bequeathed to the state
- today, it is known as 'The Wallace Collection'.
Wallace also donated the organ here, in memory of
his ancestors.
The font is like a ripe cheese
- the base is clearly modern, and Mortlock says that the shafts are, too.
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looking
west.
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The
Stanhope memorial.
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Wallace's organ is set into
the north transept, which was obviously built for the
purpose. The south transept is built as a family
pew, presumably for the Wallaces, or Herefords,
or Devereaux, or whatever they were calling
themselves at the time. Up
in the sanctuary is one of the grandest monuments you'll
find round these parts.
It is to Sir Michael Stanhope,
who died in 1621. The inscription tells us that he
sat at the feet of Elizabeth I for twenty years
- let's hope it was a well-carpeted floor. In
fact, he was Privy Councillor, both to her and to
James I. Now he kneels through all eternity in
Sudbourne church.
Below him is his wife all in
black, and their daughters to front and back.
They have been reduced to stumps, and she has
lost her hands. Whether this is due to the anger
of Puritans at their royal connections, or simple
carelessness over the years, I don't know.
The monument is vast, taking up
most of the north chancel wall, and looks a
little out of place here, among the Tractarian
furnishings, as if it were on an exotic holiday
from Hawstead or Hengrave.
Personally, I would have
thought that there is a good case to make for his
wife, at least, to be restored - perhaps the
Wallace Collection could fund it.
I stepped outside into
brilliant sunshine; the open graveyard was edged
by simple modern cottages, what looked like an
old Rectory, and the brooding forest off to the
north. To the east and north of the church, the
graveyard is lush and verdant, the 18th and 19th
century graves huddled in their greenery.
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Praying
hands: Sir Michael, above, and his wife to the
right.
One just to the
south of the chancel has a splendid inscription.
It is to Matthew Groom, who departed this
life in 1769, at the age of 49.
It reads in part: The
Boreas Blasts Neptunes Waves have tost me to and
fro. Yet spite of both by God decreed I Harbour
here below, Where I do now my Anchor lay with
many of our Fleet. Yet once again I must set Sail
our Admiral Christ to meet. It seemed a
suitable epitaph to find here, just two miles
from the sea, and yet in a wholly agricultural
setting; how often this land must have sent its
sons off to watery graves! (Oh dear, I'm
beginning to sound like Arthur Mee).
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More splendid, although less
sentimental, is that to Jane Elizabeth, the beloved
wife of William Cobbett, who died in 1871. This
clasical needle, surrounded by iron railings, makes quite
a statement among its humble companions.
Above:
Matthew Groom.
Right:
Jane Elizabeth Cobbett.
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