Sunday 19 September 2021

Eyes that follow you

Visiting quiet country churches has long become a staple of my holidays. I generally fit in two or more on most days. Each one is different; each reveals something about local families and local affairs; and the architecture and ornaments may well be unusual or even unique. I am always careful for the sanctity of the place: I may not be religious myself, but I am never going to be anything but solemn and serious while inside one of these buildings. Some country churches are so ancient that their very age commands silence and respect.

Ideally I hope for a one-to-one relationship with an old and hallowed place, with nobody else present. I'm not always so lucky. I have once or twice blundered in on someone else's communion with the infinite. Occasionally a churchwarden or florist will be there, and conversation ensues. Only rarely, thankfully, do I encounter the priest. I try to go when the church is most likely to be empty of other human beings, so that I can look around inside just as I please, and take whatever photos I like. 

For of course there is pleasure to be had, exploring a church with a camera in hand. Few other environments are such a challenge to the photographer. The interior light is often dim, making the fine details of monuments, tombs, bench-ends, organs, floors and ceilings hard to capture. As in these shots at Morwenstow in Cornwall:


On the other hand, if sunshine floods in, then exposing correctly for a stained-glass window makes the rest of the picture turn deep black. As in this shot at Cricket Malherbie in Somerset:


But if I use a proper exposure for the surrounding wall, the window becomes merely a chink of bright light, with all detail lost in the glare. Well, I do my best.

Photography requires an easy mind. If I feel inhibited in any way, then taking pictures becomes difficult, and sometimes absolutely impossible. For if someone else is there, I am turned into an intruder. My freedom to explore and record is curtailed or completely denied. Perhaps I shouldn't feel like that. But at the best of times, I know that I am, in a sense, trespassing; and I dread the potential embarrassment of being caught up in a minstrels' gallery, or belfry, or too close to the altar - even though there is never, of course, any notice that says 'Keep away, if you are not here to worship'. Even though I am certain that heavenly eyes, if any are watching, would prefer me to come in and look around, and not stay away.

Two afternoons ago I came to the church at Milton Damerel, deep in the countryside between Holsworthy and Great Torrington in Devon. It was mid-afternoon on a Friday. Unless anybody was making next-day wedding preps, I should have the place to myself.

I opened the stout oak door and had a shock. 

There was a man inside, grinning at me.

Next instant, I realised he was a life-sized cardboard cut-out, offering churchgoers the chance to make a donation via PayPal. But how lifelike he seemed in the dim light!


A friendly face, yes. But not what you want to be suddenly confronted with, in a place where you expect to be alone. I gazed at him for a moment or two. I was sure that his eyes were looking straight at me, and would follow me around the church. As if somehow he was conscious of me personally. How creepy is that? 

I shrugged this uneasy notion off, and began to examine the church interior. But I was always aware that, next to the exit door, this man was waiting for me. Call me daft, but I began to grow apprehensive about passing him on the way out. Would he come to life, and step forward with a 'Gotcha!' and drag me away to some netherworld? 

Inevitably the time came to put Lili's lens cap on, and turn back to the door. It had to be faced. Damn. I could see him there, looking at me.


'Come on, get a grip,' I thought. But his eyes never left mine as I walked as firmly as I could towards the heavy oak door. I fumbled with the iron latch. Hell's bells, would it never open and let me out? All the time, PayPal Man was staring at me. I was sure he'd say something. Supposing he touched my arm and held me fast - would I scream, or just faint? 

Then I was outside, closing the ponderous door - and safe. Phew!

Safe, and feeling rather foolish. After all, he'd only been a cardboard cut-out, albeit a life-sized one with eyes that followed me around. I wondered if anyone else visiting the church had ever felt the same. Or did they always do it in company, never finding themselves alone inside with this man? 

I was getting a trifle over-imaginative in my old age! I smiled ruefully.


As you might well think, Waitrose in Holsworthy was the perfect antidote. Nothing creepy can happen in their aisles!

4 comments:

  1. I'm going to show a copy of your Paypal photo to our churchwarden. He's always looking for ideas, so perhaps we can scare the good parishioners of Lydney witless.

    Just for fun, I scanned the QR code on the photo and I was imediately invited to make a donation to Holy Trinity Church.

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  2. It will certainly impress on them that there is a dark and frightening side to life!

    Lucy

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Oops! It was actually the church at Milton Damerel, not Newton St Petrock. Tsk.

      Lucy

      Delete
  3. Thank You Lucy for sharing your travels with us. Exchanged emails with you today with regard to Shrewsbury and Cadfael and it was wonderful to read of your observations through Cadfael's eyes. Brilliant!

    ReplyDelete


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