Stevenage church, Herts

 The church of St Nicholas stands on the edge of what is usually called 'Old Stevenage'; surely the post-war new town should be called 'New Stevenage' and the original settlement, which existed for a millennium before its upstart neighbour was thought of, declared an epithet-free zone and have the sole right to the title 'Stevenage'.

The view from the south-west is particularly appealing; the multiple embattlements create a touch of grandeur silhouetted against the sky. Moving from left to right in the photo at the top of the page we have firstly the south transept, built by Thomas Smith* of Hertford in 1840-2. Next is what was originally an organ chamber, built in 1914-16 by Sir Charles Nicholson, 2nd Baronet, and Hubert Corlette. Behind this are the upper stages of the tower and the recessed spire** built (on a Norman lower stage) in the 15th century. The next projection is the 14th century south chapel, and then the chancel from the same century terminates the vista. 

The visible history of the church begins in the earlier 12th century, when the lower stage of the tower was built. The west door and tower arch both have simple early Norman mouldings; the latter also has comically buttoned-up heads on the capitals. The second of the two above in particular looks as if he's primly pretending not to see some activity he regards as disreputable.

Looking east

Looking east

Looking west

The rest of the Norman church must have been considered inadequate for the parish's needs, because it was at least mostly replaced in the 13th century. The chancel, aisles and chapels were then in turn demolished or entirely rebuilt in the 14th century; the arches of the nave were replaced in the following century, and the clerestory added, but the 13th century nave columns were allowed to remain. Most of the roofs are also 15th century.

The oldest artefact in the church is the early 13th century font, which is plain and stands on four shafts with simply moulded capitals and bases. The 15th century wooden cover is much more elaborate.

Currently lying on blankets on the floor of the north aisle - presumably waiting for a more permanent position within the church - is this much damaged late 13th century effigy of a lady. Attendant figures - apparently an angel on her right (our left) and a priest on her left - support her by the elbows. 

Currently at the west end of the north aisle are these stalls with 14th century misericords, probably not made for the church (parish churches having little or no need for misericords) but brought from somewhere else, presumably post-Reformation. The first and third photos show misericords carved with oak leaves; the second a rather nightmarish, clown-like, boggle-eyed and monobrowed foliate head (apparently a later addition of c.1500); the fourth an angel with arms upraised in blessing. The fifth one is a poor quality photo; I tried to lift the seat to see what lay beneath, but it felt that if I exerted any force I'd break something, and not being keen to smash up an ancient and beautiful artefact I desisted. I put my camera on the ground and just hoped for the best, which turns out to be only minimally adequate. But you can at least see that the carving is of vine leaves, with some grapes.

The stairs under the tower leading up to the ringing chamber have been tree-ring-dated to 1360-82. Even allowing for how worn they are, they're astonishingly primitive. They comprise simply two long beams on which are rudely fixed (I don't know if they're nailed or pegged) equally rude very roughly shaped steps; there don't seem to be any joints anywhere. You can hardly call it carpentry. I must say I don't fancy risking my neck on them. Bell-ringing is notorious for working up a thirst; let's hope that the ringers wait until they're safely at ground level before quenching it. 

14th and 15th century screens

This niche for an image in the north chapel is also 14th or 15th century

Fragments of 15th century glass, inc. a monk

There are numerous examples of graffiti on various nave pillars, most of it probably medieval. How much of it was intended to have a significance and how much is just aimless doodling is anyone's guess. As in many churches, a lot of it seems to be the result of someone who's got hold of a pair of compasses for the first time and is delighting in the patterns that can be constructed.

Above the tower arch are two wooden charity bequest boards, the one on the left dated 1705 recording various sums of money donated to a variety of worth causes, and on the right, dated 1641, the founding of a  free school in the town.

There are some reasonably interesting Victorian stained glass windows:

The east window, by William Wailes, 1842. The four Evangelists

The chancel south window, also by Wailes, 1850. Noli Me Tangere

East window, south chapel (now the organ loft, making a good photo very hard), by F C Eden 1912. Te Deum

East window, north chapel, attributed to Clayton and Bell, 1858. The Agony in the Garden; the Betrayal; Ecce Homo; Christ Bearing the Cross

Two plaques in the south chapel (now organ chamber) tell an unbearably tragic story. The first records the death of Midshipman (that is, a young officer trainee) Ivon Fellowes in 1915, aged just 17. He was learning his trade on HMS Irresistible, which had been built in 1898 and thus was the same age as him. 

HMS Irresistible sinking, from Wikipedia, which has much more information

The ship was opposing the Turkish forces in the Dardanelles, but struck a mine and drifted into easy range of the enemy guns. Most of her 780 crew were rescued, but about 150 were killed, young Ivon among them.

In August 1918 his elder brother, Captain Rupert Fellowes of the Coldstream Guards, was killed leading his company into battle, aged 24. He died less than three months before the end of the war, having presumably survived some considerable time before then. Two brothers, two sons were lost. The futility, stupidity and catastrophic nature of the First World War in particular and war in general are brought home. Two further observations: the plaques take pains to thank God, and although the sons' father (a Rear Admiral) is prominently mentioned, nowhere is their mother thought worthy of inclusion. 

St Nicholas' church is generally locked; I was lucky enough to arrive on spec on what turned out to be an open day held to celebrate a recent refurbishment, which had cost a little over a million pounds (see here). As you'd expect given the money spent on it, some radical changes have been made. It's in the nature of such things that some will disapprove, virtually regardless of the actual alterations, and want things to stay the same. (The refurbishment wasn't my top priority when I was looking around: I was more interested in the historical features, so any opinions I express here are provisional.)

Some churches become museums; Caldecote which I wrote about recently is an example. Clearly any alterations there (unless they were absolutely necessary to stop it falling down) would be wrong. But most are living buildings, in frequent use for their original main purpose. I'm a non-believer, but nevertheless I'd like as many churches as possible to remain open for worship. (This is partly for selfish reasons - I like visiting churches, and if I can get other people to look after them so I can enjoy them, so much the better - but also because I recognise how much comfort, support and inspiration many people derive from their faith.) There's always going to be some tension between the desire to preserve churches as historical artefacts, and the need to make them suitable for 21st century practicalities. 

The main alterations seem to be that the floor, which was previously uneven and breaking up in places, has been dug up and completely relaid, with underfloor heating; a mezzanine floor has been added in the south transept (the kitchen there, which I think partly occupies the original organ chamber, was I believe the result of a previous updating); the lighting has been renewed; six audio-visual screens have been attached to the pillars; most of the internal stonework has been given a lick of paint (leaving the stones with graffiti unpainted).

There was a survey made of the floor before it was destroyed, and an archaeological record was kept while work was in progress; some interesting discoveries were made, and some ledger stones have been preserved. Underfloor heating is very welcome, meaning that clumsy radiators aren't needed. A level floor is a major advantage for disabled people, but nevertheless inevitably some historical material would have been destroyed. The new floor, of Purbeck marble in various shades and sizes, would probably look fabulous in the kitchen of a newly built house; how suitable it is for a church I'm not sure. I think this will be the thing that neophobes will mostly focus on. I do think that it goes quite well with the set of 1964 benches by the Robert Thompson workshop (he is known as the Mouseman as he signed his work with a little mouse, 12 of which can be found in the church if you look carefully. I'm told that his benches are much more ergonomic and therefore more comfortable than standard pews). But I have a feeling that the coloured marbles will look horribly dated in a few decades; ideally, I'd have preferred the old floor to have been patched up rather than reduced to rubble and dumped.

The audio-visual screens are an intrusion (some will no doubt find them shocking), and I can hardly believe they're necessary; are the members of the congregation really going to be glued to their close-up detail rather than watching the slightly more distant reality? But at least they could presumably be taken down in an hour or so without much difficulty. The other changes seem to me to be a successful compromise, preserving most of the old and catering for the new. If the church is going to continue to be a living building - and, as I say, I hope it is - we have to accept that some new features will be introduced, which will sometimes mean the removal of older features. Churches have always worked like this, and will continue to do so until they become museums.

I've left possibly my favourite feature of the church till last. If there's anyone who has so much time to fill that they're regular readers of this blog they'll know already of my fondness for label stops and corbels. These are small, generally unregarded little carvings that, perhaps, were left to the whim of the masons - certainly, they rarely have any obvious religious significance. St Nicholas Stevenage has a fine set of label stops, though none of the authorities mention them, even in passing. Not Pevsner/Bettley, not the statutory listing, not the Victoria County History, not the Royal Commission on Historical Monuments, not even the church guide book. They must date from the building of the arches over the 13th century pillars, that is, the 15th century (though it's possible that some have been recut). 

The range from the cute - the very modern-looking rabbit - through the comic - the snaggle-toothed, handlebar-moustached Terry-Thomas figure - to the imposing - the long-haired man wearing a badged hat and the ?woman with a ruff and what seems to be a jewelled headdress. A whole gallery of late medieval personages.

* I've written approvingly about Thomas Smith before; see my discussion of his work at Weston, for example.

** The base of a recessed spire is smaller than the tower top on which it stands, leaving an area which you could walk round should you choose.

Norman west doorway

Norman window in tower

Caldecote church, Herts: small but perfectly formed

Caldecote, despite having its own signposted turn off the A1(M), is not only probably the smallest parish in Hertfordshire* but also hardly even counts as a hamlet, consisting as it does of a manor house, farm and just six houses, plus the church. It's always been small, but was a place of some significance and even affluence from the 12th to the early 14th centuries; there were 16 households in 1321, and excavations have uncovered the remnants of relatively high-status pottery. However, it declined during the 14th century; in 1428 it paid no subsidy (tax) as there were fewer than ten householders, and in the 17th century at most only six families lived there. By the end of the century it was largely abandoned.

This doesn't mean that after the Black Death of 1349 all life drained away from the place (which is the usual explanation given for deserted villages). In June 1381 the inhabitants of Caldecote gathered together with those of other parishes against their manorial lords, the monks of St Albans, in the so-called 'Peasants' Revolt'.** In 1485 the people of Caldecote were lively enough to get involved in a territorial dispute over grazing rights with the parishioners of nearby Newnham, during which three Caldecoteans beat up one Robert Tildesley. In April of that year one of the three, Thomas Hukhill, was  in turn attacked by a Newnhamite flourishing an iron pike and what the court records quaintly describe as 'a stick called a club'. Apparently this literal turf war was still raging as late as 1544.*** 

More to the present point, the parishioners were also lively enough in the 14th and 15th centuries to build and rebuild their church. The base of the tower is Norman, and presumably there was a complete church here in those times, but either it became so dilapidated that it had to be demolished and replaced in the later Middle Ages, or it was thought to be necessary to rebuild it in a more modern style despite the declining population, perhaps to keep up with the Joneses in Newnham and Ashwell (where much work was done during this period). 

The church is small, only 51 feet (15.5m) long; it sits on a hummock in the grounds of the manor house, looking like a garden ornament. It has been much patched up over the centuries, the original clunch (a hardish chalk) and Totternhoe stone having to be replaced in many places by red and pale bricks and black and white flints, which to my mind adds greatly to its charm.

Above the north door is a small niche, which probably once held a statue. It's round-headed; could it be a reused Norman window from the original church?

The tower, when seen from the west, has hips and little lean-to roofs about half way up, so that the upper stage is smaller than the lower, a rather odd arrangement. The windows are typical early Perpendicular, that is late 14th century, which gives us a rough date for this part of the building. 

This window on the south must be a century or so later, and proves that even though Caldecote was suffering from depopulation the remaining residents were willing to spend money in order to beautify their church with the very latest fashions. 

I'd guess that this window with its square head, also on the south, is a little later than the previous one (perhaps c.1500). It's really quite fancy and can't have been cheap: note the pronounced mouldings and the little rosettes in the spandrels, and the label stops (now very decayed). The inhabitants may have been down, but they weren't going to go out without a fight (as poor old Robert Tildesley could have told you).

This window on the north, on the other hand, is a crude example of 17th or 18th century cheap and not particularly cheerful patching up; but even so, there were evidently still people around who cared about the church, and it was never allowed to fall into ruin.

The first thing you see when you step through the door is the 15th century font, rather a swagger piece. 

This must surely be one of the half dozen best fonts in the county, secreted away in one of the smallest, poorest churches. There are two tiers of decoration; at the top are eight panels of cusped geometrical shapes, all different. My favourite is in the 4th of the five font photos above, consisting of four tiddly tadpole mouchettes swimming around a central quatrefoil. It looks as if the mason miscalculated and couldn't quite fit in the one on the bottom right, and had to squeeze it in vertically rather than horizontally.

The lower tier has large rosettes and foliage alternating with shields. One shield displays the Instruments of the Passion (2nd photo), another three crowns (3rd). The latter is perhaps the arms of the donor who paid for the font, but the authorities I've consulted are silent on the question on who that might have been.

Apart from the font the church's other great excitement is the 15th century stoup in the south porch. Stoups are still found in Roman Catholic churches; they're situated by an entrance, and hold holy water which a visitor can dip his or her fingers into with which to bless themselves. Most medieval stoups were ejected from English churches after the Reformation. Caldecote's example, although much decayed, is I think uniquely large and elaborate. The stoup itself stands on an octagonal base (though only three sides are visible), which is decorated with quatrefoils (arranged in an alternating pattern). The crocketed and finialed canopy is an extraordinary extravagance; it even has rudimentary vaulting (looking in its present state a bit like a squashed spider). How did such flamboyance find itself in such an out of the way place? We'll never know.

There are two little fragments of stained glass from the 15th century. The geometrical one above, in the east window, and another in a south window which I unaccountably failed to photograph. I shall return soon to rectify this. It shows the kneeling (and now unfortunately headless) figure of the Rector, William Makesey, who died in 1424. I can't be the only person to note that in its present truncated form it's startlingly phallic.

From about the same date is a set of pews, very similar to those in Wallington. It's easy to imagine the small congregation sitting in them (they'd probably accommodate nearly every parishioner), listening to the Rev. Makesey or his successors, raptly attentive, or maybe daydreaming through tedious sermons.

This pleasingly rustic memorial commemorates the death of Francis Squire in 1732. The pulpit, with its single candleholder on a rotating stand (the equivalent of an anglepoise lamp), dates from the same century.

One novelty is a window of transfer glass. This 19th century technique was a way of producing pictorial glass relatively cheaply; unfortunately, as Caldecote's example shows, the results were short-lived. (There is another example, somewhat better preserved, in Hautbois, Norfolk.) The technique involved an engraved metal plate which was inked and then wiped, so that the ink remained only in the engraved lines. Paper was then pressed onto the plate with sufficient force that the ink transferred to the paper. While the ink was still wet, the paper was then carefully pressed onto plain clear glass, creating a monochrome image. The picture could then be touched up, and even coloured, by the addition of enamels. Caldecote's window seems to show biblical scenes, but they're indecipherable now.

Among the minor pleasures of the church are the various candelabras**** and an oil lamp (there doesn't seem to be any electricity). I'd guess that they're Georgian and Victorian, and although they're nothing special individually, collectively they have great character. I especially like the pyramidal one in the middle of the nave. There are also two foot-powered harmoniums, both covered in plastic sheeting on my most recent visit.

Given the steep decline in the numbers of people living there, it's surprising that Caldecote's church lasted as a going concern for so long, rather than being abandoned centuries ago (as had happened to, for example, Chesfield and Minsden in the county). Services must have been very sparsely attended for many years (though occasionally marriages were celebrated there into the 1950s, as the magnificent photo above attests). Eventually the Church authorities gave up any hopes they may have had of retaining the building, and declared it redundant in 1974. 

This must have been a dangerous time for the church (though at least, being so far off the beaten track, it must have been pretty safe from vandals). I'm sure the locals continued to love it, but maintaining it would have been quite beyond them. R M Healey's Hertfordshire: A Shell Guide (published in 1982 but presumably researched over the previous year or two) paints a very depressing picture: he describes it as 'derelict', the graveyard a 'mess of brambles, tottering headstones, nettles, tree-stumps and fertiliser bags'. The 'roof is propped up internally', the stoup 'as green as an alien being . . . liable to dissolve into a heap of beautiful medieval moist chalk.' The church could so easily have been left to slowly collapse on itself.

Very fortunately, this disaster was averted when the ownership of the church was passed to the Friends of Friendless Churches in 1982. A handsome stone quatrefoil plaque, by Lida Lopes Cardozo Kindersley, commemorating this event was placed in the chancel in 1992. (It also commemorates Thomas Inskip, Viscount Caldecote (1876-1947), former Lord Chancellor.) The Friends are responsible for over fifty churches and chapels in England and Wales; together with the Churches Conservation Trust they make an absolutely invaluable contribution to the maintenance of a very significant proportion of our architectural heritage, and I recommend that you support them in any way you can.

I've visited a number of times over the years, finding it locked more often than open. However, on a recent visit there was a notice on the door implying that in future it will be generally open; good news. Peter Robbins' fine 2008 guidebook was reprinted in 2016, and is on sale in the church along with several other much better than average local history leaflets. (There's no price list, however, nor anywhere obvious to leave money.) 

Major - but sensitive - restoration work was carried out in 2009, and now it is in excellent shape, probably better than it's been for centuries. (Of course, that's not the end of the story, because buildings, and especially old buildings, need constant care and attention.) It makes me blanche to think that without the Friends it could even now be mouldering away. It's very much my kind of church: a bit out of the way, often overlooked, small and not showy but with several features which make a visit a rewarding experience.

* It extends over 325 acres. For comparison, neighbouring Ashwell has over four thousand, and even Radwell, which is generally acknowledged as being a small parish, is more than twice as big as Caldecote. (A football field is about one and three quarters of an acre.)

** Now often referred to as the Great Rising, as many or most of the rebels weren't peasants, and it wasn't so much a revolution, intended to turn everything upside down, as a protest designed to win concessions. Whatever we call it, it failed.

*** See Caldecote, Hertfordshire: A History of the Village to 1600 by Christopher Dyer, Caldecote Church Friends, 2010, and The Victoria County History.

**** Strictly speaking, the plural is 'candelabra' and the singular 'candelabrum'. However, insisting on this seems unnecessarily pedantic. When tempted to use fancy foreign terminations I think of the apocryphal story of the maths professor who invited his colleagues to a conference on a Saturday to discuss 'some conundra about pendula'. One of them replied that he and his friends were not going to waste their weekend 'sitting around on our ba doing sa'.