Radwell church, Herts - where Time doesn't stand still

Radwell is approached down a dead-end street that ducks under the forbidding A1(M) and continues to the River Ivel. But despite the motorway it is peacefully pastoral, like nearby Newnham. The church is treated rather brusquely by Pevsner; he dismisses it as 'mostly of the 19th century', which is not completely untrue but hardly an adequate description. I trust that when, one long awaited day, the 3rd edition of the Hertfordshire volume of the Buildings of England sees the light it will do the church more justice. (He does cover the contents reasonably comprehensively, however.) 

The earliest datable features are the mid 14th century chancel arch and slightly later south doorway, and the walls are probably coeval. 

They were apparently plastered (again, like Newnham) until relatively recently; only the east end hasn't been stripped. The exposed materials are pleasingly hodgepodge, with flint and clunch rubble together with carstone pebbles. (Carstone is an orangey-red rock very typical of Bedfordshire buildings; Radwell is just yards from the county boundary.) In the picture above some brick is also visible, and just below the top left some tiles (could they be reused Roman bricks?).

The east window, and perhaps the tower arch (which supports no tower), are of c.1500; all the other architectural features are Victorian (1875 and 1882), including the attractive south porch, and, best of all, the oak and copper bellcote with splay-footed spirelet. I especially like the view from the east; the eye moves from the obtuse angle of the east window up to the almost equilateral triangles of the chancel and nave gables, then to the various geometrical shapes at the base of the spirelet, and finally to the acute angle of the spirelet itself pointing to the sky.

In the vestry this bill for the 1875 restoration is displayed, totalling £407 19s 9d

There is a reasonable amount to see in the church, especially considering that it's small and heavily restored, but try to visit on a bright day. All the windows that haven't got stained glass are frosted, presumably in an attempt to create a 'religious' atmosphere, but the effect is gloomy and submarine. Here, and in other similarly afflicted churches, clear glass should be substituted when funds allow.

The stained glass (of 1881) in the east window is in the style of the early 16th century (appropriately, as that's when the window itself dates from) and is successful, but the other stained glass, of twenty or so years later, is feeble. According to Church Stained Glass Windows all the glass is by the prolific firm Ward and Hughes, and it's alarming to see how their standards fell around the turn of the century. Sadly, this was the case with most late Victorian and Edwardian stained glass manufacturers.

There's a crude, battered late medieval font, and several brasses (worth looking at if you like that sort of thing).

Over the tower arch (not the chancel arch, as Pevsner says) is a fine royal coat of arms from 1825 (i.e. George IV), though it's hard to see properly (or photograph) in the murk high up in the roof.

Jacobean chancel rail

But what makes the church worth going out of your way to visit is the fine sequence of monuments from the late Elizabethan to the mid Georgian periods. They've been brightly gilded and painted in fairground colours, probably fairly recently, though I suspect that they would have originally been just as loud. Some will find the colours gaudy, or even in poor taste, but I think the monuments look splendidly ostentatious, just as those commemorated intended. You don't shell out a small fortune on a monument and then want it to go unnoticed.

I'm not going to list the most notable monuments chronologically or topographically, but in an aesthetic crescendo.

This one commemorates Catherine Pym, 'a woman of meek and humble disposition' apparently, who died in 1750. I like the way the curtains are tied back by gold ropes and the three owls in the heraldic shield. The monument is surmounted by a flame, symbolising the Holy Spirit.

Ann Plomer died in 1625; she has a gryphon and two badly sunburned My Little Ponies on top of her monument.

Her husband Sir William Plomer also died in 1625; he's dressed in armour and a helmet is depicted in the roundel at the top, along with more gryphons.

John Parker died in 1595; he is shown in the robes of a lawyer with his wife Mary kneeling behind him, and behind her their son, also John, in armour even more impressive than that of Sir William's. Mary had died in childbirth in 1574, and the younger John must have commissioned this monument to his parents and decided to include himself while he was still alive. His military prowess (or aspirations - I don't know if he had any experience, though it's possible that he fought in the early stages of the Nine Years' War in Ireland) is reflected in the military emblems on the right pilaster, while on the left his father's profession is indicated by a book, quill pen and ruler. 

Mary Plomer died in 1605 in childbirth, like Mary Parker (and like Mary Markham in Ardeley church).  She was 30, and was having her eleventh child. Pevsner calls her monument 'the one object in the church deserving a visit', and, while this is harsh on the other objects, it's true that it's much the most eye-catching, even in its current sadly mutilated state. 

She is seated and impassive, to the point of being expressionless, almost zombie-like. She wears a large ruff, her hair is stiff and her head is enclosed in a huge almost heart-shaped hood, like a helmet from a 1960s science fiction film. She holds an hourglass, an image of mortality, in her left hand. It seems that her right foot rested on a skull, but this has been removed, leaving an awkward stump.

Pevsner says that 'the carving is thoroughly rustic. The creases in the sleeve are still done with the same carving convention as at Chartres about 1150.' I've looked through dozens of pictures of carvings at Chartres, but can't find any that obviously support this claim, so I must be overlooking something.

Chartres cathedral

On the plinth are the ten children who survived infancy; however, two of the six sons are shown notionally behind their brothers, which presumably indicates that they predeceased their mother. The three youngest are wearing what we'd call skirts; it was of course common for boys to be thus dressed until the late Georgian era - it was subsequently that skirts came to be seen in the West as exclusively female wear.

On the right pilaster is this tempting display of fruits, together with a spade and scythe, further images of mortality.

The right pilaster has lost its central motif, but the images of mortality are, rather shockingly, a pair of tibia.  The details on the pilasters  are so similar  to the ones  on the Parker  monument  that  it  seems highly likely that they were made in the same workshop,

Currently sitting on a window ledge is this forlorn figure of Time, eyes downcast, with his hourglass and scythe. However, it belongs with the Plomer monument; there is an iron spike to the left of the main figure on which he should sit, and he should be reunited with it immediately. Furthermore, two other sculptural items are missing from the monument, as the two photos below (which I took in 1993) show. (The skull on which her foot rests was already gone by then.)

Originally she held a chrisom baby. A chrisom was a baptism robe, which was used as a shroud if the child died before it was a month old. The poor baby here looks as if he or she is strapped to a toboggan and is about to be sent off down the Cresta Run; their head rests on a skull. Baby and skull have either been temporarily removed for conservation or safe-keeping, or stolen. I'm a keen advocate of keeping churches open whenever possible (see here); Radwell is generally open, but even if the sculptures have indeed been stolen I remain keen, though deeply regretful. I have emailed the churchwardens to try to discover the sculptures' whereabouts, but as yet have received no reply. (The figure of Sir William Plomer and a brass were stolen in 2000, but the former was spotted in a sale at Sotheby's, having had its colouring removed in an attempt to conceal its origin, and returned the following year. The brass has also been returned.)

The last four lines of the poem which forms part of Mary Plomer's epitaph read (with modernised spelling):

So that the stone itself doth weep
To think on her which it doth keep;
Weep then, who e'er this stone doth see,
Unless more hard than stone thou be.

And it's true that if you pause to reflect you can't fail to be moved by the fate of Mary and her child. More happily, it's also true that you'd need a heart of stone not to be charmed by Radwell and its church.

A medley of 1888 photographs of Radwell hanging in the vestry. They remind me very much of the world evoked by the wonderful diaries of the Rev Francis Kilvert, written in the 1870s. At first the photo on the top left looks like a still from an avant-garde film (L'Annee Derniere a Radwell, perhaps), but a closer look reveals that they're playing tennis.

Ten more random photos

Ely

Acrobatic putti Chichester

Column base

Hoarwithy, Herefordshire

Knapped flint, clunch, and a little brick, Puttenham, Herts

Ayot St Lawrence, Herts

HMS Tornado, sunk 1917, in stained glass, Norfolk

Fireplace, Ashridge, Herts

First World War recruitment poster, Canterbury museum

So not a place to go for a quiet meal

Newnham church, Herts - fishy murals and a memorial to Reginald Hine, historian of Hitchin

Newnham is a small village between Baldock and Ashwell; despite being only half a mile or so from the A1(M) it feels very rural. The appropriately smallish church feels as if it's trying to puff its chest out and stand on tiptoe to appear bigger than it really is by being castellated throughout (except the porch). The stair-turret being taller than the tower also gives this impression, and creates some dramatic skylines as you approach from the south-west. Most of the exterior is shrouded in Victorian cement, which tends to trap water, and is now badly stained. It's been removed from the north of the nave, (or perhaps this wall wasn't cemented in the first place), exposing uneven courses of clunch (a soft chalky limestone) rubble, which is only a marginal improvement. Nevertheless, while the church may be quite small, it's quite big on charm.

The lancet windows in the north wall of the chancel imply a 13th century origin, (and it's possible that the north wall of the nave is even older, though no architectural details remain to confirm this), but essentially the church as we see it now dates from the 14th and 15th centuries.

There's a bit of a mystery over the date of the east window. Everything I know about medieval architecture tells me that it's in the Decorated style, from the first half of the 14th century, and Pevsner agrees (noting that Abbot Wheathampstead repaired the chancel in 1420-40). The total absence of straight lines in the tracery (the decorative stonework in the top of the window) surely proves that it can't be any later. However, the Victoria County History of 1908 says 'the east window is an interesting example of three lights with a double cusped spherical triangle in the head, the details showing it to be of 15th century date, in spite of the unusual nature of the tracery. It is just such an exceptional design as might arise under the circumstances.'* It's not at all clear (at least, not to me) what 'under the circumstances' means. What circumstances? The Royal Commission on Historical Monuments volume of 1910 agrees that the window is 15th century, as does the text of the document that officially listed the building as grade II* in 1968, (noting its 'unusual tracery'). Who am I to disagree with such august authorities? But I'm still going to take some persuading that it's not Decorated.

It's worth pausing in the 15th century porch before opening the (original) door.

There are two wooden shield-bearing angels, and a great deal of graffiti carved into the soft stone.

Some of it is mysterious, such as the strange shapes above (by the west window). They remind me a little of corn-dollies, but your guess is a good as mine.

Some of it is a palimpsest of old, not quite so old and new. It looks to me as if there are a number of 'VV' symbols here, (again, next to the west window), for example, under the 20 of the date 1720. This is one of the commonest forms of medieval graffiti, consisting (or so it is thought) of two overlapping Vs, forming something like a W, and standing for 'Virgo Virginum' (Virgin of Virgins), in honour of the Virgin Mary. These shallow carvings were perhaps apotropaic, in other words intended to ward off evil. But we can't know for sure.

Someone with the initials TM (perhaps accompanied by someone with the initials AE) decided to make their mark in 1720. Much more recently, someone has etched the slogan 'war no more' and a CND symbol (though why it's upside down is as unanswerable as the meaning of the corn-dolly symbols).

At least the meaning of these crosses by the south door is clear.

On the other hand, why would someone go to the bother of engraving this leaf (or dagger, or abstract shape), also by the south door?

This fish (by the door to the stairs to the tower) might be intended to represent Christ (the Greek word for fish is an acrostic for (in English) 'Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour'), or on the other hand might have been made out of purely secular and/or casual motives. The study of medieval (and later) graffiti brings us in some ways very close to ordinary people of earlier ages - we can literally touch the messages they've left behind - yet in other ways they remain frustratingly out of reach, as interpreting the messages is no more than educated guesswork.**

The interior of the church isn't crammed with objects of delight, yet it's very pleasing; it feels relatively unrestored, despite the Victorian roofs and fittings. The first thing you see as you enter the church (it's deliberately positioned opposite the door to maximise its visibility) is a large wall painting of St Christopher carrying the infant Christ across a river. Unfortunately, it's not at all well preserved (Cottered has a rather better example) and the only details that can be enjoyed are the seven vigorous fish flashing around the saint's feet between the rocks of the river bank.

All seven are different and perhaps represent separate species; someone with greater piscatorial proficiency than me might be able to name them. Is the one on the right of the picture above a flounder?

The ghosts of other murals can be glimpsed, but they're far too faded and fragmentary to be of any aesthetic interest.

The one above, for example, (by the easternmost north nave window) seems to represent, on the right, a cowled figure (presumably a monk), and dangling down onto the arch the tail of another fish.

The squat 14th century four bay arcade, the capitals more or less at head height, leans to the south. The south aisle has four plain 15th century pews, similar to those at Wallington, a rustic brick floor and a mid 19th century organ in a naive Gothic case.

The normally reliable and astute Shell Guide: Hertfordshire goes overboard by calling the font 'glorious' (it's a pretty standard 15th century design, and rather knocked around), and the monuments 'handsome' (there are only two of any note, again not especially exciting).

Font, detail

The very simple First World War memorial records that of the twenty-one villagers who went to fight, only one died. The similar Second World War memorial lists the women who served as well as the men, which I don't think I've noticed anywhere else (though perhaps I've just not been paying enough attention to such details).

At the east end of the south aisle is a tapestry by Percy Sheldrick (1890-1979), who was born and lived most of his life in nearby Ashwell. He became a famous needleworker, working as a tapestry weaver for the firm of Morris and Co (founded, of course, by William Morris). It commemorates Reginald Hine (1883-1949), the historian of Hitchin. He was born in Newnham, and worked as a solicitor, though his heart wasn't really in it. His passion was local history, and he published a two volume work on Hitchin (1927 and 1929), which has been recognised as a model of its kind. (However, it has to be said that later historians have accused him of sometimes twisting facts to make a good story; see here, for example.) In 1946 he published the autobiographical Confessions of an Uncommon Attorney, which was a surprise best-seller, and is still a highly entertaining read today.

Sadly, he suffered from depression, and when he was threatened with being struck off as a solicitor (for apparently trying to poach other solicitors' clients) in 1949 he killed himself. After an entirely normal conversation with a friend on a platform at Hitchin station, and with a return ticket to London in his pocket, he stood up, walked to the edge and threw himself under a train.

The tapestry depicts St Vincent Saragossa (the church is dedicated to St Vincent, without being specific which of several saints of that name is being celebrated), who was martyred in about 304 by being burnt alive on a grid-iron, which is depicted in the tapestry. He holds an oversized quill pen, in reference to Hine's writings. The tapestry is based on late medieval designs and brings vivid colours into an otherwise fairly colourless church. Pevsner dates it to 1949, which would seem to be entirely plausible, but in fact Sheldrick made it as a gift for Hine during the latter's lifetime; Hine chose the design and subject matter, and it hung in his house for years. It seems eccentric to say the least to have a memorial to oneself in one's home.

Newnham church - bottom right

Immediately west of the church is a very substantial, water-filled, rectangular moat. It's obviously medieval, but beyond that I wouldn't be able to date it. None of the authorities even hazard a guess. There's no trace of a building on the island (except a shed). Was the moat constructed as a status symbol, or was it a necessary defensive measure?

Newnham church has always been open whenever I've visited, and, although it's unspectacular, I love it.






* The mystery is even odder, because in a different paragraph the VCH mentions John of Wheathampstead's repairs of 1420-40, and says that the east window must date from this time. Read the entry here and see if you can make more sense of it than I can.

** I recommend Medieval Graffiti: The Lost Voices of England's Churches, by Matthew Champion (2015).