It's exactly 50 years ago today since I first went out of my way to visit a church.

I know this because after looking around (not fully understanding or appreciating what I was seeing, of course), perhaps not knowing what else to do (and I didn't possess a camera until a good five or six years later) I made a little sketch, despite my lamentable lack of artistic competence. I happened to have some discarded computer paper with me (my father often brought some home from work for me and my brother and sister to use) and a ballpoint pen. Maybe I sat on a tombstone. Miraculously, that little doodle has survived half a century (although many other documents, far less ephemeral and more worthy of preservation, have disappeared over the years despite never having been thrown away). 

I'd recently finished sitting A Level exams and was waiting for the results. I was 18. The church in question was Hurst in Berkshire, about 5 miles from my home; I cycled there. Why I chose Hurst I'm not sure; not too far to cycle but far enough to be a bit of an adventure, perhaps. I'd recently been involved in a theatrical performance in a church (1860s, by Henry Woodyer) in Wokingham, and had to some extent registered an interest in the architecture and contents of the building. My old English teacher, Ray Winch, was knowledgeable about churches, and that rubbed off on me. That was sufficient impetus to send me pedalling off into the droughty weather of 76.

The church was open. I've sometimes wondered what would have happened had it been locked. Would I have given up and found another consuming passion to occupy me for half a century? Maybe I'd have pursued, I don't know, butterflies or milestones or steam trains instead. On the whole I'm very glad that I happened to find Hurst open and that I've spent most of my life chasing after Norm, EE, Dec and Perp.