In the land of churches

Thirteen years ago, when I first visited England, I was impressed with the number of churches in every part of the country and beyond. I was happy to visit the Cathedral at Canterbury, for it made Chaucer very real for me. I didn't get to explore the inside of St Paul's, in London, but the outside was magnificent enough. The church in York was staggering and the ones in Glasgow were stunning, including the huge cemetery on a hilltop.

This time around, I am still interested in the churches, especially those that have remained churches. Last week, in Nottingham, I went to St John's in Carrington and was happy to be a part of the service there: simple and inclusive. [Incidentally, the first church I remember visiting—in my entire life—was St John’s, in Trichy, Tamil Nadu. It has now been upgraded into a cathedral, and it is where the mortal remains of my maternal grandfather still remain] Later that day, I went to St Mary's Catholic church. There were many more people in attendance there, and, for me at least, less ritualistic when compared to churches in India. Both visits were enjoyable experiences for me.

This week I am in Northampton, another church hub. Looking out at the skyline from one of the city’s shopping complexes, I could see the steeples piercing the soft sunlit sky. Yesterday, however, I was transported deep into English history, when the missus and I visited the Church of St Mary and St John, in Brington. It was indeed the highlight of my visit, so far. The vaults, the inscriptions, the other commemorative details, inside the church were a veritable feast for my eyes and my spirit. On the outside, the graves and monuments blended in with the hoariness of the surroundings—there was even a sinister looking dark passage leading to some underground vault perhaps. Of course, I was not going to give up on my chance of being part of the continuing history of the church, so I happily signed the “visitors book” and expressed my delight at being there. So, I am now just a speck in the huge Spencerian legend.

New Duston, the borough that my son has his home, is a quiet neighbourhood that has its origins in the period of the Roman invasion and occupation. Like almost all villages in this country, Duston breathes Englishness and all that is associated with that word. I can’t help remembering the truth of the Mahatma’s words that the soul of India is embedded in its villages, and this fortifies my growing belief that people all over the world only want a simple, dignified existence, filled with life, love and laughter. Is that too much to ask, dear Reader?

I hope all of you enjoy the photographs I’ve included. As always, I can be accessed at

bryanpeppin.com

See you in a week. Before that, take care.