|
|
I'd
had a nice time exploring nearby Kelsale church,
but as I headed south again through the fringe of
Saxmundham suburbia towards Carlton church, the
rain began to fall again in weeping sheets. It
had been raining heavily on and off for a
fortnight, the great East Anglian drought coming
to an end as more rain fell during April than had
fallen throughout the whole of the long winter.
The landscape dissolved, the fields were under
water all across East Suffolk, the lazy Gipping
and Deben rivers overflowing their banks and
finding their natural levels. The joint
parish of Kelsale-cum-Carlton is on the outskirts
of the town of Saxmundham. Kelsale has an
identity of its own, a pretty village with old
houses separated from the sprawl by at least a
field, but Carlton is little more than an
industrial suburb these days. But Carlton church
is set in a dip in the fields, with hardly
another building in sight. To see it, you would
not know it is actually just a short distance
from Saxmundham high street by foot. To reach it
by road you need to go out of the town and then
double back on yourself downhill. The track down
to the church is in poor condition, on this day
of rain little more than two rivulets running in
the tractor ruts. I was on a bike, but despite
still having my winter tyres on I slid about all
over the place in the mud. Eventually, I had to
give up, get off and push. I would not have dared
attempt it in a car. Eventually, the ground
levelled off and, turning to approach the church,
became less rutted. I got back on my bike and
cycled the last hundred yards or so, and, as the
rain stopped, I became conscious of the great
silence that was surrounding me.
Kelsale
church, where I had just been, is beautifully
kept, and open and welcoming to visitors every
day. But I can only think that the same people do
not look after Carlton church. I have never found
it open, never found a keyholder notice, and
neither has anyone else I know. Its fine little
red brick tower is striking among the fields, and
this could be such a pretty little church if only
someone would love it. That nobody does is
immediately obvious; although the graveyard is
still in use and is well-kept, the church is in a
dismal state. The rotting woodwork and crumbling
masonry of the porch are immediately obvious for
all to see - I dread to think what is happening
up there under the roof. As it is, the sagging
gutters are another sign of the lack of TLC from
which this poor little church suffers.
The tower was built in the
last years before the Reformation, the blue brick
banding typical of the fashion of the times. It
was joined to a church still showing clear
evidence of two hundred years earlier, the
Y-tracery windows survivng to this day, although
at least one of them is a modern replacement.
Mortlock, who saw inside in the 1980s, thought it
unsophisticated, which sounds rather nice. There
are 15th Century stalls which may be survivals of
Alice Hainault's chantry chapel, which was still
employing priests up until the dissolution. A
more certain survival of the chantry is a
fragment of the founder's inscription, and there
are also a couple of brasses from the last years
of the 15th Century. One of the figures carries a
rosary. I wonder if they are still in situ?
Turning
my back on the church, the graveyard was a much
more pleasant prospect, and clearly well used -
many of the graves were recent, bedecked with
flowers and favours. Perhaps Saxmundham people
come here to be buried now that the church
graveyard there is closed. Perhaps Carlton church
could have a future as some kind of mortuary
chapel, I mused.
While the church is clearly
still in occasional use - a laminated
sheet clumsily stapled to the memorial
noticeboard gave details of the monthly
services for the year ahead - I couldn't
help thinking that it won't be for much
longer. To be honest, I found it a
depressing place, and it wasn't just the
weather. Here was a perfectly serviceable
little medieval church, soon to be lost
to us. Gloomily, I poked around in the
graveyard, finding the headstone of Paul
Randolph Cobbold, a member of a minor
branch of the locally important Cobbold
family. Paul Cobbold was the younger brother of
the Reverend Robert Henry Cobbold, a
celebrated far eastern missionary who was
also, incidentally, the only Cobbold to
have rowed in the Oxford v Cambridge boat
race. They would have been cousins, I
think, of that more famous Reverend
Richard Cobbold, the author of Margaret
Catchpole. A student at Trinity
College, Paul Cobbold died at the age of
just 22 in Cambridge. 1849 was the year
of a major cholera outbreak in the city,
so perhaps he succumbed to that.
Curiously, he seems to have found the
time and opportunity to marry. Almost
certainly, he would have gone into the
church if he hadn't died. |
|
|
|
|
|