The Church in the Rock

Name of lady of cragg

The sign above says it all.  But there is more information here:

Crag church entrance

Another hermit.

440px-St_Robert' or perhaps not – further along, the River Nidd was the home of an almost Saint. Robert of Knaresborough (St. Robert) (c. 1160 – 24 September 1218) was a hermit who lived just further along in another cave (then known as St. Giles’ Priory). It is said that King John visited him and Trinitarian friars also venerated him.

A Church in a Henge.

A henge is a name given to the outer bank and ditch that usually surrounds stone circles such as Stonehenge and Avebury. They are not protective in the way that fortresses are protected by a moat. Rather they overlook the circle, and indeed some authorities believe they were used as viewing platforms for people to see the ceremonies are going on inside.

Henges were constructed in the neolithic and bronze ages, generally surrounding places of worship so it is unusual to find a Church built inside a pre-Christian, pagan era, henge, yet there are a few in Britain. This one surrounding Knowlton Church in Dorest is one such place.

Knowlton Church, near Wimborne in Dorset.

Was it the new religion annexing the holy places of the Old? We shall never know, but interestingly there were around 35 henges in the surrounding area, making this the biggest concentration in Dorset. There is also evidence of an Anglo-Saxon graveyard nearby so there may well have been a church on this site almost since the introduction of Christianity into Britain.

Yet does the old still exerts its influence?  Just behind the church are two yew trees, old and ancient as yew trees can be.  And within their sheltering embrace, the trees have been decorated as the ancient Celts might well have done two thousand years ago.


Shown below are the colourful decoration. In the midst of the ancient Yew trees, they add a sense of the Divine and of human loss to this mysterious place.



A pub and a Church under the same (small) roof

The Church of All Saints in Dale Abbey, Derbyshire

The church of All Saints, at just 26 by 25 feet, is probably one of the smallest in the country. But it also has other claims to fame. It dates from the mid-12th century and shares a roof with an adjoining farmhouse.  Most unusual perhaps is that for some time before 1820 the farmhouse was used as a pub called the Blue Bell, the bar being used as a vestry, with a door into the aisle. Through this door, it is said that “worshippers were accustomed to steal to refresh themselves.”

A Thin Place.

“A Thin Place” was a Celtic pre-Christian term for a place where the gap between this world and the Other is at its thinnest. I was fortunate enough to discover one of those places and to linger for a little while in its embrace.

The first indication that this might be such a site are the remains of an Abbey. Destroyed as so many were by Henry VIII; now all that remains is a forlorn but graceful arch reaching its cupped hands silently into the sky as if in prayer.


There would have been an assembly of monks working here and praying to God for five centuries until its dissolution in 1538. Yet this did not feel like a thin space.  A nearby sign points in the direction of a hermit’s cave. I walk the 170 metres in the direction it indicates and disappear into a grove of trees. Quickly the ground rises steeply upwards and there it is in front of me.


It is a cave, hewn into the side of the rock face, still secluded and hidden amongst the grove of trees.


The hermitage was first mentioned in the 12th century. It is believed that it was created by a baker from Derby named Cornelius. He had a vision which told him to go and live in Depedale (the old name for the nearby Dale village). When he arrived he found the place was a marsh, `exceedingly dreadful and far distant from every habitation of man’. He carved a small dwelling and altar from the sandstone rock, and lived there `by day and night, he served God in hunger and thirst and cold and nakedness’.


The simple cave has openings for a door and windows, and a cross engraved on one wall. When I went inside I was surprised how dry and sound the cave looked. It also felt as though its occupier had just stepped outside for a few minutes and might be back shortly.

I stopped and directed a silent prayer toward the wall marked with the cross, which also looked surprisingly fresh, as though it had been only recently created.  Then a few minutes of silent reflection before I stepped back out into the summer sunshine. As I did so, something vigorously stirred the fallen leaves at my feet. It was as though a voice had said, “Welcome stranger, I bless you for your prayer.” Perhaps it was just a breeze, you might say? Well, perhaps it was,  though I do not recall seeing the leaves of the surrounding trees moving. And the feeling that accompanied the rustle of the leaves – a feeling of  – otherness. Perhaps that too was simply my imagination.

Or perhaps not, because such things happen in a thin place.


Wharram Percy*

In distance, ten, twenty miles. In time, five, six centuries.
Here, a roofless church looks out across a fish pond.
Once, it would have supplied food for the winter, water for the mill.
Now, it provides, peace, tranquility, a place of rest and reflection.

Long, long ago the village of Wharram Percy would have been bustling,
busy with the affairs of the day. No longer.
Small hummocks speak of what was,
Houses, a manor even, now long gone, almost hid from sight.

A track, grass covered, runs through the mounds.
A whole village once stood here. Forty, fifty or more houses.
Vanished, gone. The Voices that once echoed from house to house.
Are stilled, long forgotten. Except in the graveyard.

A small bench provides a seat, a place to sit and ponder what was,
and to enjoy what is. The sound of birds, wind rustling leaves,
Sunlight, white clouds, green hills and woodland. The movement of,
Ripples crossing the pond, a sense of peace, a place of beauty.

Soon it will be time to return, back, back,
To the roar of traffic, the noise of people.
But not yet. Stay, stay a little longer,
For where else is found such serenity?


*  It is hard to believe but there 3,000 or so known deserted medieval villages. The village of Wharram Percy was continuously occupied for six centuries before being abandoned in the 1500s. Now it stands deserted on the side of a remote and beautiful valley deep in the Yorkshire Wolds.


A Cosmic Joke

I know nothing. I understand less than nothing.
A whole lifetime spent searching, seeking,
Reading, practising, listening to the guru.
And for what? For what purpose, to answer what question?

Ah yes, the question, wait, I dimly recall, the question was “Why?”
Why, why, yes that was it. And the answer, well at times if felt close by,
Yet, whenever I reached out my hand to it, it moved away, vanished.
And now I laugh, for I know the cosmic joke. You are the answer you seek!