Saturday we managed another early start. We had a reluctant visit planned to a hillfort… reluctant because of its history. We were, however, pretty much doomed to failure as there appeared to be no footpaths marked or signed regardless of how we searched. To be fair, we had no idea where to look at that point… were not even certain we knew which of the many hills this one was… though the nausea that hit as we drove beneath one did eventually prove to have been prophetic. So, knowing only where it should be, we went in search of our hill and a chambered cairn we had seen marked on a map that takes inexactitude to new heights.

We knew the cairn was above the village of Taddington and of course, there was a medieval church. I pulled up on a surprisingly busy village street and we headed over to the lych gate to find the churchyard humming with people and stalls for the annual well-dressing… yet another we had stumbled across by accident. There was also a Norman cross shaft near the path, almost overlooked with its veil of lichen.. a good sign that this has been a sacred place long before the building of the present church in the 14th century. With the chambered cairn and wells in the village, as well as the proximity to Fin Cop, we could be fairly certain that sanctity of place reached back beyond history.

We do prefer to have these places to ourselves when we visit; as our interest in their symbolism is not strictly orthodox conversation can be limited when there are others present, but in this little church it really didn’t matter. The place had a really lovely ‘feel’ to it, especially today with soft chants filling the stone with song. The village had chosen to mark the fallen of the Great War with its well dressing, animal and human alike, and had done so with flowers.

Regardless of any views on the evils of war, the sacrifice given by those who serve their country can be honoured and here, in this sleepy little village, they had done so in a gentle and meaningful manner. The font was draped in a blue veil to commemorate those lost at sea, flowers and flags were everywhere and where Great Hucklow had, perhaps, shown English eccentricity at its best, here there was only quiet and loving pride.

I was moved to tears almost immediately by a carved elm trunk, rescued from a tree that had obviously meant a great deal to the village and its story was written for us to read… told as a legend and very beautiful. A notice invited each visitor to add a small, flower shaped tack to the stump and both of us felt we should. There was something about the place that was intrinsically healing.

The rest of the church, no matter where we looked, was full of the same care and detail. The notices were all written from the heart and we have seldom felt we would like to meet their author. Grotesque medieval carvings adorn the walls and complement the religious symbols; the stained glass is stunning and unusual, and fitted perfectly with the Bible passage left open on the altar. A carved head caught my companion’s attention laying by the pulpit, while my eye was drawn to a Celtic cross, evidently made by the children, in one of the displays and a wall painting high on the west wall that would take some deciphering.

You never know what you are going to find in these places… sometimes one era obliterates the rest, sometimes traces in wood and stone mark the passage of a thousand years of prayer, and in these the stones themselves seem to breathe peace. It matters not at all if this is your own fragment of the path towards the Light… we are all travellers on that road, no matter what path we choose or that draws us onward, and in these little village churches that remain at the heart of their community, that Light welcomes you somehow, with a warmth that transcends denomination or faith.