Gipping chapel (church), Suffolk

This was originally the chapel of nearby Gipping* Hall (which was demolished in the nineteenth century), home of the Tyrell family. James Tyrell (b. c.1455) was a supporter of the Yorkist cause and thus of the Duke of Gloucester (later Richard III); he fought for Edward IV at the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471, and was then knighted by the King. He built the chapel in about 1474-80. When Richard III seized power in 1483 he was rewarded for his loyalty by being appointed the High Sheriff of Cornwall, and later the Lieutenant of Guines (part of Calais, at that time an English possession). Sir James has long been suspected of arranging the deaths (following the King's orders) of the Princes in the Tower (the twelve year old King Edward V and his younger brother, the Duke of York), though this is far from certain.

Surprisingly, after the Battle of Bosworth in 1485, in which Richard was killed (and Sir James didn't fight, being in France), when the Lancastrian Henry VII came to the throne he pardoned Sir James and reappointed him to the French post. He must have kept his nose clean for sixteen years, but in 1501 he threw in his lot with the Yorkist claimant to the throne, Edward de la Pole, the Duke of Suffolk. This didn't go well for him because he was arrested for treason, and eventually beheaded in 1502. (His father had been beheaded in 1462 for allegedly plotting to murder Edward IV.)

The chapel comprises a nave and chancel, plus a northern room leading from the chancel, a vestry and/or living quarters for the chaplain, built a decade or so later. An inscription over this room's doorway reads 'PRAY FOR SIR JAMYS TIRELL: ANNE HIS WYF' .

The tower was added c.1600, and it is widely agreed that it seriously detracts from the visual impact of the rest of the chapel; this is largely because it is cement-rendered in a horribly drab colour. It's very likely that the render is covering up some attractive brickwork.

The chapel itself provides a wonderful display of flushwork, in which dark (almost black) knapped and shaped flint is contrasted with creamy limestone; the walls are mostly chequerwork while in some places, such as above the south door, there are more complex patterns - little quatrefoils, for example. 

The most extraordinary example of this is found in the north wall of the 'vestry', where there's what appears to be a 'bricked up' (actually 'flinted up', of course) oriel window. In fact it's never been a window, and is actually - and at least a little bizarrely - a chimney. At its base there are some elaborate panels, including, in the centre, a pattern like a geometrically-constructed face within a wreath, and at the top some heraldry. Above the 'window' is the chimney's vent. (On the west side of the vestry is a 'genuine' bricked up window.)

The buttresses (those at the east end are octagonal) have flushwork panelled tracery, and various small carvings, notably the Tyrells' 'logo', a device consisting of three interlinked semicircles making something like a three-petalled flower (a reference to the Trinity), known as the 'Tyrell knot', which is found throughout the building. The letters AMLA also occur, probably a reference to Anne Arundel, Sir James' wife (her middle names were Morley Lanherne), or the phrase 'Ave Maria Laetare Alleluia' (Hail Mary, rejoice, God be praised!'). The Arundel hearts also appears, consisting of an upside down heart superimposed upon one the right way up. 

Externally the chapel is a little late Perpendicular masterpiece - the 'little' here is important as the style works best on a small scale, and gets repetitive and wearing very quickly when it's big.** The interior doesn't disappoint. There are ten big windows, all but one filled with plain glass, so the light bursts in. 

The furnishings are unostentatious. There are some 15th century benches at the west - one has the Tyrell knot carved on its end - and the rest are mostly Georgian, which were painted in 1970. Painting old woodwork is generally to be avoided, but I think it works well here, giving a unity to the interior, complementing the white walls and brick floor.

The vestry is a little disappointing - nothing much to see except the fireplace with its Tudor arch, and when I visited blocked by stacked chairs (the chapel seems perfectly sufficiently supplied with benches - where are these chairs put when they're needed?). Could this ever have been the living quarters of a chaplain, or anyone else? 

Originally some, or perhaps all, of the windows would have had stained glass, which would have been smashed by iconoclasts in the 1530s and 40s or the 1640s and 50s. (Or possibly some of them could have been removed and hidden by the Tyrells when they feared that their windows were in the firing line, which might explain why some of the figures are fairly complete.) What survived dates from c.1500 and was gathered together in the east window in 1938-9.

Peacock feathers and a boar's head from the Tyrells' crest.

On the right an extravagantly lachrymose female saint, probably Mary from a Crucifixion scene.

In the centre shields held by small hands, displaying the Instruments of the Passion: the Crown of Thorns, the Five Wounds, two whips, three nails, and vinegar-soaked sponge and lance.

On the left a weeping male saint, probably St John. On the right a few details can be discerned: a trumpet being blown by an angel (whose hand and wing are visible), and at the very bottom a small head, possibly female, with long blonde hair and wearing a crown-like headdress. 

Two bishop saints, both carrying, and evidently closely studying, books. The head of the figure on the right looks like a poor restoration. Above their heads, within the canopies, are depictions of parts of Perpendicular windows much like Gipping's. 

A king saint, probably Edward the Confessor. 

On first entering the chapel you might spot what seems to be a cupboard for hymn books etc next to the pulpit - a slightly odd place to put it, you might think. It's a pleasant surprise to find that in fact it's a very ingeniously designed (by Peter Bumpstead) compact organ (1994), exactly right for the space.

I've left my favourite feature until last. In 1743 the chapel was refurbished (many of the fittings date from that time); Gothic architecture was then generally regarded as barbaric and barely civilised, and it wasn't uncommon for attempts to be made to classicise (and thus civilise) medieval buildings. In Gipping's case this was done by having fictive classical columns, entwined by curtains, and drapery painted around the east window. Such attempted updatings were probably quite common, though many of them would have been removed during the 19th century's Gothic Revival, so Gipping's example is a rare survival. It is charmingly naive both in conception and execution.

Gipping chapel is open during the day.

* Don't ask me if it's pronounced with a hard or soft 'g'. 

** http://www.icknieldindagations.com/2018/11/spot-difference-why-i-dont-like-kings.html

http://www.suffolkchurches.co.uk/gipping.htm

https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1352278?section=official-list-entry

Cotton church, Suffolk - hanging by a thread?

I've written only seven blog posts since the beginning of 2024; this is the first since February 2025. This is largely because for most of that time I've been working on two books, the publication of the first of which I announced in my previous post, and the second of which I delivered to the publishers last week (the Northamptonshire volume in the same series as the Hertfordshire one, to be published, I think, in 2026). Each book is only 20,000 words long, so I really shouldn't have taken so long over them. Now they're done I intend to get back to blogging at better than snail's pace; I haven't forgotten about my mission (to give it a grandiose title) to write about Herts churches. But I've recently been visiting some Suffolk churches, and I'll write something about them while they're fresh in my mind. 

Cotton church was locked when I arrived one Monday morning, but a notice in the porch announces that the keyholder lives just across the road. Unfortunately they weren't in when I knocked, so I decided to go elsewhere and try again after lunch. And so it was that two or three hours later I pulled up outside the church and climbed out of the car. As I did so I noticed a lady walking two dogs across the churchyard; she called to me from twenty or thirty yards away 'Do you want to go in the church?' A very happily timed rearrival. She was the keyholder, and went off to fetch it.

The first thing we notice when approaching the church from the road is the east window, with its flowing tracery (all renewed but presumably following the original design). At the bottom are five lights on which sit four spherical triangles (their bases almost forming a transom), and above these are two concave lozenges and, at the very top, a quite large shape that's essentially a quatrefoil, albeit one with extra sub-cusps and lobes, within a mandorla which is pointed at the top, and at the bottom stretched into an ogee curve. On either side of the window are image niches surmounted by pinnacles. All this signals a building of some grandeur from c.1330.

Walking around the outside before we go in we're mightily surprised to find that the west wall of the tower ... well, that there is no west wall of the tower, at least not at ground level and for quite some height. Instead there's a tall arch with an iron gate leading to the ground level ringing chamber. This is a most unusual arrangement, and I can't believe one that's popular with the ringers, especially in winter. There's not even a door from here into the church, just a large window, so they must feel like excluded second-class citizens.

 

The south porch and doorway are another display piece, as elaborate as the east front; the doorway has three orders and a band of fleurons and fruits in the arch. At the bottom of these on each side are little figures (see the photo immediately below); the one on the right has claws or cloven hooves for feet.

The capitals have richly carved foliage.

The central capital on the right has foliate head ('green man') peering out, not at all an unusual sight, but his hands are also visible, which I don't think is at all common, and makes him seem a little threatening, as if he's about to crawl out.

The label stop on the left (if there was ever one on the right it's long gone) seems to be a lizard, or a lizard-like creature. Like some other areas of the doorway, it has the remains of what is probably greeny-yellow paint, maybe original.

On entering we find a marvellously airy and atmospheric space. The nave has five proud bays of typical Decorated quatrefoil piers, the arches richly moulded. 

The Jacobean pulpit is an exceptionally fine piece, enhanced by having a winged creature - probably a wyvern, if we're going to assign it a species - preening itself on the handrail, apparently wearing its wings like an extravagant Ascot races-bound hat. I wonder what thoughts it might engender in the priest as he or she climb the steps to preach their sermon. The reader's desk is from the same period.

The font bowl is Victorian, but the pedestal is original. The Buildings of England ('Pevsner') suggests that the eight figures could be monks or bedesmen, and I can't offer a better identification.

Undoubtedly the major attraction of the interior, the main thing that makes it definitely worth trying again later if the keyholder is out, is the double hammerbeam roof. To be exact, it's a false double hammerbeam, as the upper hammerbeams are purely decorative, and not functional at all, as can be seen in the photo immediately above. They jut out horizontally, but end in midair, with no vertical member to support anything. They also have small angels (most of them modern replacements), unlike the lower ones. There is much tracery in the spandrels - three pierced trefoils in the lower ones, solid geometrical shapes in the upper - and the three tiers of purlins also have pierced tracery running all the way along their length. I can hardly avoid running dangerously close to cliche territory and saying that the roof is the church's 'crowning glory'. A parishioner called Thomas Cooke left money for its building in his will of 1471, so we can date it to within a few years.

The roof has lasted 576 years so far, and it's easy to assume that it will automatically and necessarily last at least as long into the future. However, the keyholder lady and I chatted, and it really brought home to me the precariousness of our ecclesiastical heritage. It's quite a big church (though no bigger than many in that area), and used to have fortnightly services but is now down to monthly. There are no facilities (toilets, kitchen, etc), so the chances of its ever being used for concerts and so on are slim. (How would even an average sized wedding cope?) The village has a population of 526 (last but one census); how big the normal congregation is I don't know, but I'd guess a few dozen at most, and nearly all oldies (as an unashamed oldie myself I feel I can use this term non-pejoratively). The locals, even the non-service attending ones, probably distantly enjoy having a fine building in their village, but I doubt many of them take much active interest in it. (I'm not suggesting, of course, that the inhabitants of Cotton are unusual in this, only that they're typical of our national attitude to churches.) It's a fine church, but no finer than very many others; apart from the  hammerbeam roof there's nothing to make it stand out - no monuments, no stained glass (except a few fragments in the tracery). It must cost a bomb to maintain. If, as must be inevitable I'd have thought, closure is threatened one day - there are within a few miles other, perhaps more practical, churches (Bacton and Mendlesham, for example) to which the few services could be moved - will it be possible to save it? Will it be worth saving? (My answer would obviously be 'yes', but that counts for nothing.) Have the Churches Conservation Trust or Friends of Friendless Churches got the resources when there are hundreds of other excellent but middle-ranking churches in the same predicament? I doubt it. The future is grim, in this and many other ways.

I've not yet mentioned perhaps the most striking feature of the interior, the leaning nave arcades. A bit of a lean in a column isn't particularly rare, but I've never seen anything like this, especially on the north. The lean is clearly ancient rather than modern (and really is as bad as the photos make it look - no optical illusion). I don't think there's any danger of collapse (there are metal tie-rods across the nave, probably Victorian), but it's an arresting visual metaphor for the precariousness of the existence of many of our parish churches. They seem to be hanging by a thread. Maybe even ones as fine as Cotton will be at best maintained ruins in 50 years, or less. (If it sounds as if I'm being too gloomy and negative, I've covered some of the same points and tentatively suggested some partial solutions here.)

https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1352478?section=official-list-entry

http://www.suffolkchurches.co.uk/cotton.htm