It was another icy morning. But the sun came out, and so, when I cycled across to the Post Office in Larkhall, I decided on the spur of the moment to go up to Charlcombe to see the church.
The lane ascending the combe quickly became rural, and too steep for cycling, so I pushed the bike most of the way, making my final approach along a footpath through the woods. Primroses, snowdrops and cuckoo pint were emerging in the churchyard. In the porch, a sign pointed to a light switch, but the interior was far more atmospheric without it.
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the Norman font, and the squint
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"Isn't she an Evelyn Waugh character?" asked Andrew...
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A woman arriving to do the flowers directed me down the slope to the
spring; "it was originally in the wall when the monks used it, but it
was moved down a bit".
A cobbled slope shelved into the water of the main well, and just below that was a little cistern.
I
took the alternative route home, encountering even more steep ups and
downs among farms and beech trees, reminding me rather of South Wales,
though the buildings were of warm Bath stone rather than grey Pennant
sandstone. Then there was a long long coast downhill through an
extensive housing estate, and a visit to Morrisons to provision before
sailing off into the wilds.
Ffynnon Fair
They did not divine it, but
they bequeathed it to us:
clear water, brackish at times,
complicated by the white frosts
of the sea, but thawing quickly.
Ignoring my image, I peer down
to the quiet roots of it, where
the coins lie, the tarnished offerings
of the people to the pure spirit
that lives there, that has lived there
always, giving itself up
to the thirsty, withholding
itself from the superstition
of others, who ask for more.
RS Thomas
