St Clements, Old Romney, Kent
It is a surprise to learn, that before the last day of May this year, I had never been inside St Clements.
To my reckoning, I have been here twice before, neither time was the door unlocked, and so I assumed this was always the case. But as with most of the churches we visited when Simon was down, with the exception of Lower Hardres, they were all open, and I was able to add I think six interiors to my record.
St Clements is easy to reach, it is beside the A259 coast road, and is now famous for being the final resting place of Derek Jarman, I have posted shots of his grave previously.
So, with the fame, it was used in a Rank film as well, and ease of access, it is well visited, and yet, it has an air of stability and not having been renovated, at least in Victorian times. The cream coloured pews are wonderful, as is the balcony and the width and unusual structure of the church.
Over to you, John:
---------------------------------------------------------
One of the most-visited Marsh churches, built on an artificial mound to protect it from the floodwaters. There is a Norman nave enlarged by the addition of aisles in the thirteenth century. Because of its virtually unrestored state it has many items of interest, the uneven floor creating a very rural atmosphere. The two hagioscopes to either side of the chancel arch are unusually large and little more than holes knocked into the wall. The rood loft staircase discovered in the 1920s still has its medieval door-frame - a rare survival indeed. In the north chapel is the mensa of the medieval altar. The delightful altar rails are early eighteenth century and present a run of very close-set balusters. The box pews and gallery are, of later eighteenth-century date and were repainted for the Rank film, Dr Syn. The large Royal Arms of George III are dated 1800 - the lion has a particularly smug expression! An interesting and unusual sight is the font, the capitals of which are carved with different figures. They date from the fourteenth century, and are much worn, but with patience one can still pick out details of the grotesque animals. The twentieth century film-producer Derek Jarman is buried in the churchyard and is commemorated by a headstone simply bearing his signature.
www.kentchurches.info/church.asp?p=Old+Romney
Pink pews. It's just not what you expect from an otherwise conventional 12th-century village church with walls of shaggy Kent ragstone and a silver-grey shingled spire. However, St Clement's at Old Romney is full of them: handsome Georgian box pews, painted a tasteful shade of blush with black edges and white highlights. It is smart as a bandbox and looks as though it was interior-designed by Agent Provocateur. All that is missing is a cross-dressing vicar.
In fact, all that is missing is a vicar, because Old Romney – along with half of Romney Marsh's 14 medieval churches – is suffering an interregnum. The last incumbent left in October and a new one has yet to be appointed. Signs outside the churches urge visitors to contact a "Focal Minister" by phone.
"What's new?" the marsh dwellers might say. The area has a long history of neglect by the rest of Kent, let alone the rest of Britain. For centuries it was seen as remote and quite weird; alien – often dangerous – territory for outsiders. Even in medieval times, vicars appointed to local parishes often never visited them, let alone lived there.
I went to meet John Hendy, a retired teacher who is churchwarden of St George's at Ivychurch, near the middle of the marshes, and tour organiser for the Romney Marsh Historic Churches Trust. This was started by the artist John Piper, the journalist Richard Ingrams and the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Runcie, among others, and has a glittering list of members.
It has raised quantities of money for restoration since its foundation in the early 1980s, when the churches were in deep decline. This spring, John is organising the first "open" guided tour – rather than the normal private group tours – of four or five marsh churches, which will be repeated in the autumn.
The name "Romney Marsh" is used collectively for four marshes – Romney, Walland, East Guildford and Denge – occupying 100 square miles of England's south-easternmost corner. The land was reclaimed over centuries from a vast lagoon of sand and shingle formed by debris sliding off the Weald.
Hamlets formed on the islets (most marsh churches are on man-made mounds) and the fertile salt marshes around fed the famous Romney Marsh sheep, or "Kents". On the coast were busy trading settlements; Hythe and Romney, and later Rye, Winchelsea and Lydd, became part of the 11th-century Confederation of Cinque Ports.
But while trade and smuggling boomed, the marshes themselves remained sparsely populated. They were riddled with dykes, ditches and drains; the instability of the land made building difficult, there were no grand estates and people got marsh ague from the standing water. The Black Death was catastrophic and there was the threat of French raids. So why are there so many fine, if often tiny, parish churches?
"Well, this church, for example, was a statement of power by its benefactor, the Archbishop of Canterbury," John explained, gesturing at St George's. "It was propaganda, rather than a reflection of the size of the population, which probably wouldn't have been very different." Church appointments were often political stepping stones; pinned to a pillar is a list of past rectors who soared to glory as bishops, archbishops and deans.
St George's is not tiny. In fact, it has an illusory quality: from the churchyard gate it looks small, with a squat, embattled tower and sturdy, rubbly walls, but past the south porch it appears to double in size, with a surprisingly long nave. It calls itself "The Cathedral of the Marshes" (mind you, so does All Saints in Lydd, whose nave is 66 feet longer, at an impressive 199 feet) and many of its characteristics are shared by other churches that I see that day.
There are the huge beams of wood and vertical "king posts" supporting the gabled roof; there are the rough, whitewashed walls that become smoother and grander in the chancel; there is a Lady Chapel with a blocked-up Early English window and medieval floor tiles in ochre, red and black, and a St Catherine's Chapel with a piscina (a stone basin with a drainage hole, down which water from the Mass was poured).
There are Georgian text boards and a royal coat of arms. Along the south wall is a long stone seat. "Originally, there would have been no pews," John said. "People would have stood or sat on straw strewn on the floor. The elderly and infirm were allowed to use the stone bench; that's where the expression 'going to the wall' comes from."
From St George's tower we could see the discreet spires of St Mary in the Marsh and Old Romney to the east and Lydd to the south-east. Brookland and Fairfield were to the west. In the distance was the smudge of Dungeness Power Station, with its daisy chains of pylons radiating across the land.
As we visited four more churches that afternoon, I was struck by their individual quirks. St Mary in the Marsh has a scratch dial – a primitive sundial, so that the bell ringer would know when to ring the Mass bell – clearly visible on its sunny south wall. St Clement's has an ancient font on pillars carved with faces and Green Men, and a door through which the image of the crucified Christ would have been taken down from the rood screen at Easter. St Augustine's at Brookland has a separate belfry, plonked beside it like a shingled rocket and a rare lead font carved with signs of the zodiac and seasonal farming tasks.
The two that moved me most, though, were the tiny church of St Thomas Becket at Fairfield, its original wattle and daub long since replaced by brick and cement, but marooned in a peaceful marshland landscape with only sheep for company; and the large church of St Nicholas at New Romney, which used be on the quayside until massive storms silted up the port in the late 13th century, destroying the town's livelihood. The pillars in the nave have a tide mark from those momentous floods.
As for the pink pews, apparently they were painted that colour by the Rank Organisation in 1963, while a film was being made about the fictional marsh resident Dr Syn (vicar by day, smuggler by night), and the parishioners liked the colour so much they decided to keep it. See? Quirky. Let's hope the new vicar measures up.
(written in 2008)
www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/uk/souther...
St Clements, Old Romney, Kent
It is a surprise to learn, that before the last day of May this year, I had never been inside St Clements.
To my reckoning, I have been here twice before, neither time was the door unlocked, and so I assumed this was always the case. But as with most of the churches we visited when Simon was down, with the exception of Lower Hardres, they were all open, and I was able to add I think six interiors to my record.
St Clements is easy to reach, it is beside the A259 coast road, and is now famous for being the final resting place of Derek Jarman, I have posted shots of his grave previously.
So, with the fame, it was used in a Rank film as well, and ease of access, it is well visited, and yet, it has an air of stability and not having been renovated, at least in Victorian times. The cream coloured pews are wonderful, as is the balcony and the width and unusual structure of the church.
Over to you, John:
---------------------------------------------------------
One of the most-visited Marsh churches, built on an artificial mound to protect it from the floodwaters. There is a Norman nave enlarged by the addition of aisles in the thirteenth century. Because of its virtually unrestored state it has many items of interest, the uneven floor creating a very rural atmosphere. The two hagioscopes to either side of the chancel arch are unusually large and little more than holes knocked into the wall. The rood loft staircase discovered in the 1920s still has its medieval door-frame - a rare survival indeed. In the north chapel is the mensa of the medieval altar. The delightful altar rails are early eighteenth century and present a run of very close-set balusters. The box pews and gallery are, of later eighteenth-century date and were repainted for the Rank film, Dr Syn. The large Royal Arms of George III are dated 1800 - the lion has a particularly smug expression! An interesting and unusual sight is the font, the capitals of which are carved with different figures. They date from the fourteenth century, and are much worn, but with patience one can still pick out details of the grotesque animals. The twentieth century film-producer Derek Jarman is buried in the churchyard and is commemorated by a headstone simply bearing his signature.
www.kentchurches.info/church.asp?p=Old+Romney
Pink pews. It's just not what you expect from an otherwise conventional 12th-century village church with walls of shaggy Kent ragstone and a silver-grey shingled spire. However, St Clement's at Old Romney is full of them: handsome Georgian box pews, painted a tasteful shade of blush with black edges and white highlights. It is smart as a bandbox and looks as though it was interior-designed by Agent Provocateur. All that is missing is a cross-dressing vicar.
In fact, all that is missing is a vicar, because Old Romney – along with half of Romney Marsh's 14 medieval churches – is suffering an interregnum. The last incumbent left in October and a new one has yet to be appointed. Signs outside the churches urge visitors to contact a "Focal Minister" by phone.
"What's new?" the marsh dwellers might say. The area has a long history of neglect by the rest of Kent, let alone the rest of Britain. For centuries it was seen as remote and quite weird; alien – often dangerous – territory for outsiders. Even in medieval times, vicars appointed to local parishes often never visited them, let alone lived there.
I went to meet John Hendy, a retired teacher who is churchwarden of St George's at Ivychurch, near the middle of the marshes, and tour organiser for the Romney Marsh Historic Churches Trust. This was started by the artist John Piper, the journalist Richard Ingrams and the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Runcie, among others, and has a glittering list of members.
It has raised quantities of money for restoration since its foundation in the early 1980s, when the churches were in deep decline. This spring, John is organising the first "open" guided tour – rather than the normal private group tours – of four or five marsh churches, which will be repeated in the autumn.
The name "Romney Marsh" is used collectively for four marshes – Romney, Walland, East Guildford and Denge – occupying 100 square miles of England's south-easternmost corner. The land was reclaimed over centuries from a vast lagoon of sand and shingle formed by debris sliding off the Weald.
Hamlets formed on the islets (most marsh churches are on man-made mounds) and the fertile salt marshes around fed the famous Romney Marsh sheep, or "Kents". On the coast were busy trading settlements; Hythe and Romney, and later Rye, Winchelsea and Lydd, became part of the 11th-century Confederation of Cinque Ports.
But while trade and smuggling boomed, the marshes themselves remained sparsely populated. They were riddled with dykes, ditches and drains; the instability of the land made building difficult, there were no grand estates and people got marsh ague from the standing water. The Black Death was catastrophic and there was the threat of French raids. So why are there so many fine, if often tiny, parish churches?
"Well, this church, for example, was a statement of power by its benefactor, the Archbishop of Canterbury," John explained, gesturing at St George's. "It was propaganda, rather than a reflection of the size of the population, which probably wouldn't have been very different." Church appointments were often political stepping stones; pinned to a pillar is a list of past rectors who soared to glory as bishops, archbishops and deans.
St George's is not tiny. In fact, it has an illusory quality: from the churchyard gate it looks small, with a squat, embattled tower and sturdy, rubbly walls, but past the south porch it appears to double in size, with a surprisingly long nave. It calls itself "The Cathedral of the Marshes" (mind you, so does All Saints in Lydd, whose nave is 66 feet longer, at an impressive 199 feet) and many of its characteristics are shared by other churches that I see that day.
There are the huge beams of wood and vertical "king posts" supporting the gabled roof; there are the rough, whitewashed walls that become smoother and grander in the chancel; there is a Lady Chapel with a blocked-up Early English window and medieval floor tiles in ochre, red and black, and a St Catherine's Chapel with a piscina (a stone basin with a drainage hole, down which water from the Mass was poured).
There are Georgian text boards and a royal coat of arms. Along the south wall is a long stone seat. "Originally, there would have been no pews," John said. "People would have stood or sat on straw strewn on the floor. The elderly and infirm were allowed to use the stone bench; that's where the expression 'going to the wall' comes from."
From St George's tower we could see the discreet spires of St Mary in the Marsh and Old Romney to the east and Lydd to the south-east. Brookland and Fairfield were to the west. In the distance was the smudge of Dungeness Power Station, with its daisy chains of pylons radiating across the land.
As we visited four more churches that afternoon, I was struck by their individual quirks. St Mary in the Marsh has a scratch dial – a primitive sundial, so that the bell ringer would know when to ring the Mass bell – clearly visible on its sunny south wall. St Clement's has an ancient font on pillars carved with faces and Green Men, and a door through which the image of the crucified Christ would have been taken down from the rood screen at Easter. St Augustine's at Brookland has a separate belfry, plonked beside it like a shingled rocket and a rare lead font carved with signs of the zodiac and seasonal farming tasks.
The two that moved me most, though, were the tiny church of St Thomas Becket at Fairfield, its original wattle and daub long since replaced by brick and cement, but marooned in a peaceful marshland landscape with only sheep for company; and the large church of St Nicholas at New Romney, which used be on the quayside until massive storms silted up the port in the late 13th century, destroying the town's livelihood. The pillars in the nave have a tide mark from those momentous floods.
As for the pink pews, apparently they were painted that colour by the Rank Organisation in 1963, while a film was being made about the fictional marsh resident Dr Syn (vicar by day, smuggler by night), and the parishioners liked the colour so much they decided to keep it. See? Quirky. Let's hope the new vicar measures up.
(written in 2008)
www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/uk/souther...