FULL OF BEANS

 

The strange tower of Beeby church

Just outside Hungarton I cross what I guess are the remains of real ridge and furrow strips, judging by the sizeable mounds where the plough would have turned. They remind me of the excellent, rather moving Michael Wood TV series of the early 10s in which he tells British history from the point of view of the village of Kibworth Beauchamp, not so far from here. 

Next comes a negotiation of unexpected footpath alterations by the landowners at Waterloo Lodge Farm, possibly not officially sanctioned, to allow what from their point of view are sensible divisions of grazing for their various equestrian clients. No help to walkers though, as we work out the deviations from the OS for ourselves. Beyond the road there’s a jolly footpath, mostly nicely cut as a swathe through ripening wheat, which takes me to Beeby. Along the way, where a house’s paddock is being cut by a chap who looks less than overjoyed that a PROW passes through his property, I meet a gaggle of regular walkers from Charnwood. Usually, such groups are uber-friendly to loners, but all this team will say is that they’re hot. Perhaps their leader has had them on a route march since six this morning. Alternatively, their taciturnity means they think I’m too damned nosey.

All Saints Beeby is maintained by the Churches Conservation Trust, whose resources are finite. No doubt the CCT’s services are being eyed up by many struggling parishes at present, but it won’t be possible for them to meet more than a few requests. They seem to me to do brilliantly when the buildings are small and simple – I think of Furtho near the A5 at Milton Keynes, and the little jewel at Preston Deanery. Where the buildings are larger – as at our own Wakerley, and here – it’s a harder task.  There are bat droppings everywhere, and even after the occasional gentle showers of the last 24 hours, drips of water pattern the floor. All of this can turn a visit from glorious inspiration to despairing sadness. The nave at Beeby is wonderful: high and cavernous and making me think of French country churches we’ve visited in the past. I can see why it was thought worthy of preservation. The population of the village is just 115. Outside the unlikely benefaction of a local millionaire, there’s little they can do for this, their spiritual home.

Inspired (!?) by the village name, here's a silly rhyme/song you can turn into your own game for long car journeys, by making up your own (better)verses. Then, as you’ve probably guessed, sing it to the tune of ‘Who put the colours in the rainbow’… 

Who put the busy bees in Beeby?

Who dropped the topping toffs in Toft?

Who caused the sodding stains in Stainton?

(Would someone find a cloth?)

Who left their errant ex in Exton?

Who got divorced in foggy Fylde?

Who got spliced in hilly Hitchin

Then went out on the tiles?

 

Eyam and Cheam and Bream and Hoole

Deal and Zeal and Seal and Poole

Dunoon and Croome and Frome and Goole

God loves all of these…

Over to you. It’s strange what the brain gets up to when you walk…

The onward path towards Leicester from Beeby is initially friendly, and then two-thirds of the way towards civilisation a huge field of beans looms ahead, the foliage now chest-high. Not so many people have passed this way recently: there’s enough crop destruction to indicate the way forward, but only just. Stumbling and occasionally cursing, I struggle to the road which flanks the eastern approaches to the city, north to south. It’s a cut-through without pedestrian facilities i.e. there’s me, the tarmac and a hedge. Various 20/30 somethings in VW Golfs hurtle by, listening to hi-volume grime/deep house/drill/garbage and oblivious to me from behind their blackened windows. I shake my stick, and shout at their rearview mirrors ‘Take care, my dear young fellows…’ As Alan Bennett long ago in ‘Beyond The Fringe’, at least, that’s the gist of what I say… 

Nearer Scraptoft, a funeral procession passes, led by an immaculate horse-drawn carriage. The undertakers are likewise immaculate in dress and deportment. They cut a mournful companion piece to the horse and carriage images familiar from old-fashioned Christmas cards. The latter would of course be in hunting black and red, depicting rubicund Dickensian gentlemen shouting ‘Hail fellow well met/God rest ye merry’. Their funereal counterpart is pristinely clinical, slightly creepy black and creamy-white, more horror film than celebration of a life. There’s silence apart from the hooves, and the purr of the motorised hearses which follow behind.

We’re due to attend the funeral of a dear friend tomorrow, so right now my sympathies for all those who mourn are particularly engaged. But ‘occasional offices’ (funerals, weddings, baptisms) have become increasingly strange over a couple of decades, and perhaps like much else, the COVID interlude has accelerated a trend. In recent weeks I’ve played ‘All things bright and beautiful’ and ‘Jerusalem’ (twice) listened to Eva Cassidy and John Denver (singing ‘Let it be’!) on CD, heard Queen’s ‘Best Friend’ and Eddie Van Halen’s ‘Jump’ rendered (exceedingly well) on a church organ. But hey, the music is just a peripheral, isn’t it? And yes, all these items had absolutely justifiable connections to the themes of the funerals and weddings concerned. I get it. 

Nevertheless, I still don’t know what it’s right for us to do. Should we just let our visitors have whatever they want, and be grateful they’re having whatever it is in church? Thus, if someone wants to make ‘off-colour’ references in a eulogy, should we just drop our gaze and ignore it - which has happened twice in my hearing in the last couple of years.  Or should we say more clearly, ‘this is what we do, these are the parameters, and if it doesn’t work for you, well there are other alternatives…’. If we allow everything, we weaken our brand, and deny our God. Because She doesn’t think absolutely anything goes, does She? 

There’s a caveat. From our side, we have to be on top of our game. No rambling sermons which miss the opportunity to succinctly explain what we’re about. No botched pleas for credit-card donations. The written prayers we offer are beautiful, but they sometimes need better accompaniment. To my sorrow, they will be missing from the humanist funeral we shall hear tomorrow. 

More beans on the way back east towards Keyham, and there’s a brief shower, so my lower half is soaked by the time I pitch up in the village, which is very pretty. In the little church – another All Saints – I find a lovely tribute to its one-time vicar Phillip Davidson, who died in 1988. He was ‘ a cheerful and optimistic man with wide-ranging knowledge and ability. He could speak Hebrew, Greek, Malay and many African languages, He enjoyed and taught Biblical history. He was a capable accountant and administrator.  He suffered little children at all times and fools beyond the call of patience…He is sadly missed.’

On the way back to Hungarton, I pass under a rookery in a large tree, hyperactive and vexatious. Do they ever pick on humans I wonder, outside the realms of film?  And then a buzzard, hunting over the little valley, alone and powerful, an imposing apex predator.

 Walk on

OK pilgrim.  What do you think you’ll find?

A partner? A calling? Some healing of the mind?

This year’s fashion in ‘great ways to unwind’?

Walk on.  Another mile.

 

OK pilgrim. Where do you want to go?

Somewhere exotic that only you will know –

So you’re primed for a village hall powerpoint show?

Walk on.  Another mile.

 

OK pilgrim. What do you hope to see?

A virginal vision? A visit to the Pope for tea?

Something to remember when you’ve lost agility?

Walk on.  Another mile.

 

OK pilgrim. Will there be an end to this

restlessness to know the turn of the coming bend?

No, if there’s one last breath to expend.

Walk on another mile.

Despite all

We walk another mile.

 

Hungarton – Beeby – Scraptoft – Keyham - Hungarton

19 km. 6 hrs. Sun and cloud alternating. A shower or two.