30/11/20 Until I planted a new mixed hedge along my garden boundary, there was only one spindle tree – strictly speaking, shrub – in my garden. This is the spindle my dad used to teach me its name: easiest in autumn, when its fruits make it impossible to confuse with anything else. They have a bright pink outer casing which opens to reveal orange seeds. This is the only context, I think, in which orange and pink don’t clash, but enhance each other to create a crazy, joyous, unique autumn sight.
There are a few weeks in autumn when it is harder to spot the fruits because the spindle’s leaf colour competes; and, knowing it is in possession of these fruits, it is hard to appreciate the leaf display as much as if they belonged to a different plant. Once the leaves are gone, however, the fruits once again hog the limelight.
20/10/20 Two weeks ago I arrived home from a walking holiday in Cornwall and Devon to find the landscape transformed: I had left in warm late summer, and I was arriving back in the midst of autumn. The air was cool, the ground was wet, the trees were turning and leaves lay on the ground. One of the first things I needed to do in order to ground myself in this new season and my home landscape was to go for a walk. My hoped-for walk on arrival was swept aside by an emergency vet trip, as were most of my positive feelings about arriving home. But in the short period before panic and anxiety set in, I had already felt the relief and joy of arriving back to a place in which I was glad to live. In my desperation to get away in the preceding months, it was easy to forget that. The desperation had nothing to do with attachment to my home and local landscape; it was about getting away from chores and having a mental rest, which I was finding difficult to achieve without altering my surroundings.
My walk was delayed until the next day. I went to The Hobbets, where I spotted hiding in the long grass beside the path a single large shaggy ink cap. One of my favourite mushrooms. No: my favourite mushroom. I greeted it enthusiastically, without checking first there was no one in earshot – I have got used to people happening upon me mid-conversation with some animal, plant or tree. I looked around for others, but found none. I hoped more would appear in the next few days.
On my way home, I started to wonder why I love shaggy ink caps so much. Was it because they were one of the few mushrooms I could identify without any doubt? No, it wasn’t that: I could identify shaggy parasols, giant puffballs, common ink caps, honey fungus and fly agarics. Not a huge selection, but better than nothing. It was definitely to do with their appearance, I decided, and perhaps their name. I love the word shaggy, as well as what it signifies. They are shaggy, of course, and also beautifully white, unmistakably themselves in their distinctive shape even when they are only just starting to poke through the grass. They are a friendly autumnal sight; there is not the slightest hint of malice about them.
St Andrew’s and St Patrick’s, Elveden
I drove past Elveden church once or twice, west to east, when I was staying in Rushford. It was interesting to drive up south to north from home this time: I could see how the roads linked together now. The church puzzled me: first I didn’t think it could be the medieval church of Elveden; then I thought there must be two churches side by side: I could see two towers, and two buildings, from the road. Finally I looked up Elveden church to try and understand what I was looking at, and found something remarkable: the son of the leader of the Sikhs, Prince Duleep Singh, moved to Elveden Hall in the late 1860s. The roof interior and font in the church were part of his restorations. The huge extension built on the road side of the old church was late 19th century work, and the cloister and second tower, a bell tower, were built in 1922. When I went to look in person, I found a large open space on the south side, from where I could appreciate the cloister, bell tower and only available view of the old church.
I was quite pleased with my arrangements for the following day. There were three churches in the vicinity of Rushford that I hadn’t yet visited; one was apparently open every day, and the other two I succeeded in arranging access to. I had been avoiding Redgrave for a long time after a somewhat unpleasant phone conversation with a keyholder: he was polite, but only just. His manner resembled that of a suspicious bouncer more than a welcoming keyholder – even though I had been put in touch with him by the Churches Conservation Trust, which is responsible for the church. I hoped I might find the details for another keyholder online, therefore bypassing the necessity of contacting this man again, but it had taken me 18 months to get round to it. Thankfully, I did find another keyholder, and this time I emailed rather than phoned. The prompt response I got couldn’t have been more of a contrast, friendly and enthusiastic, and my attitude to the church changed accordingly. By the end of our communications, I couldn’t wait to visit Redgrave.
St Mary’s, Mildenhall
The following morning I woke up a full three hours earlier than the previous day. I was glad, as I was determined to fit in 3 church visits and a walk before I ran out of daylight. My 4th church – Brandon – would be at 7.30 that evening.
I was impressed when I discovered that all three churches I planned to visit in the vicinity of Mildenhall were kept open. Simon Knott (Suffolk Churches website) has little good to say about Mildenhall as a town, or the surrounding area for that matter; but, as my morning’s outing proved to me, it only takes a sunny day and an open, welcoming church to give a positive initial impression. In fact, the open, welcoming church alone is usually enough for me.
St Mary’s, Santon Downham
I overslept the next morning. But officially this was a holiday, so I was glad of the extra sleep. By the time I had looked up churches, and fed and watered Fluffy Chicken, it was well after 11am. Her christened name is Knicker, from my trio of Brahma chickens, Knicker, Bocker and Glory, named triumphantly by my friend Jo; but she always ends up being called variations on Fluff, for more than one obvious reason… I always hesitate, then laugh, then try to explain, when booking a vet appointment and the receptionist asks me her name. When the vet comes out and calls for ‘Knicker’, I just have to hope there aren’t too many people in the waiting area paying attention…
Monkey Chicken’s example was followed to the letter this autumn, with a Very Big Party to begin the season. I have never attempted anything so chaotic before, and have my friend Rachel to blame for her encouragement of the mad idea of a camping party. Approximately 30 adults and children came to camp in my garden for the weekend – although a few of them opted for a bedroom instead – and even more came to join us for a barbecue on Saturday lunchtime. With hot, sunny weather – no sign of autumn – live chamber music in the background for at least half the weekend, and Winnie becoming officially the Luckiest Pigeon in Suffolk by having a piece of music written especially for her by Rachel, I couldn’t have hoped for a more special start to my new decade… We were even serenaded by tawny owls after dark.
All Saints’, Ixworth Thorpe
Ixworth Thorpe was worth the wait. I had been passed from one person to the next, each one saying they would let me in at 2pm on my way down from Norfolk; each one then getting in touch to say they couldn’t, or another person phoning me to say the previous person couldn’t. But eventually I arranged with Karen, the Rector of Ixworth and the countless other churches in the benefice, to stop off the following Monday on my way to Rushford, a village on the Norfolk border where I would be staying for three nights to visit the churches in northwest Suffolk.
I was running late, as usual when I have to get my animals and myself ready to go away. No matter how much time I leave for the job, it never seems to be enough. And on this occasion one of my Brahma chickens was coming along for the ride, in a dog crate. This would be an amusing novelty for me: Church Visits with Fluffy Chicken. I knew I would worry about her if I left her at home for more than two days without dedicated attention: she needs feeding and watering at least twice a day, and this is a time consuming business, as she is blind and keeps losing her food and water, even if it is right in front of her. So my travelling companion she would be.
All Saints’, Chelsworth
I hadn’t been inside Chelsworth church since long before the start of my church tour; 5 or 6 years perhaps. At the beginning, I didn’t plan to go back to the churches I’d already played in; but, as with town churches, I’d long since changed my mind because the number of churches left to visit is no longer daunting to me. I wanted a church near home, and Chelsworth was one of the closest. The exterior of the church has long been a favourite sight of mine as I drive through the pretty village, and I was curious to see inside it again after so long.
All Saints’, Chedburgh
One Saturday, I planned to visit Depden church, a locked church whose keyholder details I found online. But after she told me she was going out at 1.30 – I wasn’t quite sure I’d make it in time – and that I would have to walk ten minutes along a muddy field edge to get to the church (at this rate in the rain), I thought it might be more sensible to try Chedburgh. This poor church, by contrast, was right beside the A143. Luckily, she had the phone number for the keyholder there, and I had no trouble making alternative arrangements.
I picked up the key nearby and went back to the church, which, at first sight, wasn’t a very beautiful one: I found its grey brick tower bordering on ugly. It passed briefly through my head that perhaps this was in fact a Victorian church, not a medieval one. But once I managed to shift my gaze to the rest of the building, I concluded this wasn’t likely.