St Leonard's, Kirkstead
Back in 2020 I received a message from a priest I’d never met, asking me if I wanted to come and visit his church. I was dogsitting an extremely lazy greyhound and had nothing much to do for the many hours he slept between his morning feed and walk and his evening feed and walk, so obviously I was like “hell yeah I do!”
So he sent me the church name, and it’s post code. No street name. No village. Nothing else. It was weird. Then he sent me co-ordinates.
I looked them up. The church was in the middle of nowhere, a full mile away from the nearest village - and unlike other lonely churches in the UK the village was always there, it didn’t move, or lose it’s population due to the plague, leaving the church behind. The church was built all the way out here. Why? Well… we'll come to that!
I plugged the co-ordinates into my phone and, with no sense of self-preservation, climbed into my tiny little car and drove to meet a random man I’d never talked to before in a layby in the middle of nowhere. I do not recommend doing this, but I just really love a weird old church.
My car is not exactly made for going anywhere other than a nice paved surface, and the church isn’t on a paved road, so we’d have to walk the last half a kilometre or so.
Luckily, I wasn’t murdered, the day was bright, the sky blue, and the breeze through the tall crops was soothing, not ominous.
Soon, we came across a great fragment of shattered wall, alone in the fields; dressed stone, rubble core, the memory of a roofline… This was an Cistercian Monastery, once.
Built in the 1100’s, Kirkstead Abbey was dissolved in 1537, just after the Lincolnshire Rising. The Abbot, and some of the monks were executed, and all that now remains of it above ground is this fragment of the south transept, alone among the fields.
This is why St Leonard’s church was built here, so far from the village. Centuries ago it would have sat a little outside of the Abbey walls, but now it sits alone, with nothing but fields for company.
So, onwards, through those fields, until the crops turn to trees and bushes.
And there, alone among the fields, sits St Leonard’s Church.
Built in the 1200’s, St Leonard’s is a beautiful example of Early English Gothic architecture, with tall thin windows, and beautiful carved detailing. Possibly built as a Chantry Chapel for Robert de Tattershall, it is still used for occasional services, but has no electricity or running water, and is rarely open. The inviting doorway, with it’s tall thin doors is, these days, more often a barrier than an entrance.
Around the doors, there’s old graffiti, and beautiful carvings, barely weathered by 800 years of rain.
Even the hinges are the original ironwork, from 800 years ago.
But I know you want to see inside, so let’s duck down a bit, and peer through the keyhole.
Closer…
Closer… There!
Luckily, that tantalising glimpse, so often all that people get to see of this church, is not the end for us. Because we’re here with the priest, and his set of keys!
Let’s go inside, shall we?
The interior of the church is just one big rectangular room, lined with pews, and divided by a rood screen and altar step at the east end. When I visited it was 2020, and though there would usually be a service once a month in summer, because of covid not a single person had been inside for over six months, leaving a film of dust and cobwebs. Without heating it’s slightly cold too, even on a sunny day, and green algae has found a home on the cool stone floor.
Though tiny, this place is full of little treasures. Stepping up into the east end, there’s the effigy of a Knight beside the altar. This is believed to be one of the earliest military effigies in England; there's only three others still in existence in England with this style of chain mail, and only seven with this barrel helmet style.
But most interesting is the rood screen. Most medieval rood screens were removed and destroyed during the Reformation, and the ones you can see up and down the country today are much later recreations. Like many of those recreations, this one dates to the 1900’s. Unlike almost any other, this one contains, within it, large sections of the original rood screen from the 1200’s. It’s one of the oldest examples in existence.
The top and bottom parts of the screen, in darker wood, are the new additions, but the lighter panels are all original. It’s believed they were used to decorate the front of the pews before being restored to their original position - if true, that repurposing would be the only reason they survived.
These panels are an astonishing survival. And it’s moving to see these pieces of 800 year old wood fulfilling the purpose they were carved for, centuries ago. The thin and delicate columns by turns dull and aged, with bases smooth, and almost shiny, from the polishing friction of time.
The structure of the church itself, is incredible. The carved details are cathedral quality work, done by highly skilled masons. It’s extremely unusual to find work of this quality in a church this small - I’ve certainly never seen anything like it before or since - and it’s likely that the masons working on the Abbey also built this church.
Over the altar itself, a roof boss depicting the Lamb of God sits at the confluence of three arching ribs, the work precise, orderly, and neat.
Around the walls, foliage sprouts from the stone. This style of carving is a hallmark of 1200’s Early English Gothic architecture and is called “stiff leaf” because… well… because the leaves look kind of stiff. We saw some earlier, around the doorway, but inside they’re completely untouched by the weather.
This little church is a strange place, almost entirely silent except for the birds. The stone untouched for so many centuries, forgotten among the fields, and lost to time.
I sat to pray, and afterwards the vicar told me how, once a year, they do an evening carol service out here; the church lit entirely by candles, the sound of voices unaccompanied. How, every year, this church spills candlelight and song across the fields, its thin lancet windows glowing and stretching through the cold winter night. How, afterwards, when they extinguish the candles, and walk away, down the track, through the dark, the stars open up above them, and the moon guides their feet home.
After lingering a while, we turn to leave, and I spot, in the corner, a tiny door. And behind the door, a staircase. So, of course, we climb.
It’s dark and short, barely a spiral, before we spill out above the vaults.
Here is the underside of the slightly bizarre modern roof, perched awkwardly on top of the medieval church, with gaps all along the edge, as if it's too scared to touch the stone.
And beneath the roof, the vaults themselves. The jumbled undulation of stone which gives us such beauty and grace beneath.
After a while we descend back into the church, and out, into the bright sun.
In the churchyard the noise of the birds and insects, and the rustle of the breeze through the crops seems almost loud, after being muffled by the thick stone walls of the church.
I wandered for a while, read the gravestones, sat, stared, listened. The vicar was telling me people were still buried there, occasionally, and I wondered what it must be like, to await the resurrection in such a place, undisturbed by the passage of time.
After a good long while, I turned, to make my way back down the track. The gravel crunched underfoot and when I turned back, the church had already disappeared behind the trees that surround the graveyard. For a moment I wondered if it was ever there at all, if this improbable place was even real. If I had, in all reality, spent those hours in a place so utterly disconnected from time. Adrift, and yet anchored, in those sunny Lincolnshire fields. I put the thought aside, and walked on. After all, there was a greyhound back in the city in need of his dinner.
Poem of the Post
A Congregation of None
By Jay Hulme
When the churches are alone
they say their own prayers
to God. If you're patient
you might hear them speak,
in the spider-rustle and mould-song,
or the creaking of wood as it
swells and contracts with the sun.