Ringed by wonky tombstones, our pretty village church sits on top of a small hill. Called ‘All Saints’ – to cover all the holy bases – the unassuming little building is an eclectic blend of eras – Norman, Georgian, Victorian and modern. The Norman bell tower features a rare folksy thatched roof, and the east window is rumoured to be from Rouen Cathedral, picked up for a song following the French Revolution.
Our micro-cottage nestles at the foot of the hallowed mound, and I pass by the church when popping out for rations. Now and again, I take a stroll around the fir-lined graveyard and while away some me time on a memorial bench. I’m no God botherer, but I find it soulful and restorative, a welcome distraction from a scary world. And now spring has finally sprung, the sight of perky daffodils glowing in the afternoon sun is pretty restorative too.
