I think most regular readers of this blog know that when I'm not unearthing obscure and unpopular music or riding my bicycle I can be found teaching in a comprehensive high school in Devon. Whilst there I have the pleasure of teaching a GCSE Photography course, and at this time of year we are inevitably getting into the final assignment project set by the exam board. It's pretty much my favourite time of the teaching year, mainly because I get to dirty my hands by doing the project a week or so ahead of the students. I started doing this some years ago and every year it reminds me of several things: doing the project myself helps me clearly understand the process I expect the students to go through (and therefore better prepared to teach it); the students appreciate me making the effort (they know I have a load of other work to do - but then so do they!); there is no better way of modelling than doing everything I ask them to do myself; and finally, it reminds me every year that just about very single one of my students works bloody hard.
All of which is by way of explanation as to why I found myself walking several kilometres in the rain and hail yesterday to take photos of three local churches. The first of these, St Mary's in Rewe, was exceptionally atmospheric. As I opened the simple wooden gate and entered the church yard the Rooks in the trees immediately started cackling and circling above. Rumbles of thunder drowned them out momentarily before a hail storm of biblical proportions engulfed the village. It was almost like someone knew I didn't really belong there… For such a small village Pevsner has a fair amount to say about St Mary's. The bulk of the interest appears to be attached to the interior though and sadly, this being a Saturday in the 21st Century, the church was resolutely locked and impenetrable. Such a sorrowful reflection of our times.
The ringing bells of my own village church (St Mary Magdalene of Stoke Canon) told me that it was clearly inhabited but again the doors remained barred (to me at least). I was unable therefore to see the 12th Century Font, nor the exceptionally tall and slim Jacobean pulpit. So I again made do with a mooch around the exterior. This time I remembered to use my phone to make a field recording of the bells.
Finally, after a thorough drenching, I stopped off at the diminutive St Mary's church in Huxham. I've always rather liked this church. It feels appropriately utilitarian. No nonsense. Just the thing you would expect from something in such a rural location. It sports a screen that Pevsner reckons looks exceptionally early, but again I've not had a chance to see it.
Churches are quite a new area of interest to me. Perhaps it's something to do with growing old. Maybe it's something we all feel when we reach a certain age: the pull of ancient sites; the nag nag nag of spirituality. Then again, perhaps it is also just the pull of image-making. It struck me several times yesterday that 'all' I was really interested in was in the finished image - or the collective energy of the images together. There was little or no interest in the religious spirituality. I looked in my heart and didn't really see any soul at all other than the passion for the image. Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's more than enough.
And then there are the pylons. The pulsing lines of power surging across the landscape. Connected cathedrals of power. Has anyone written a hymn for the electricity pylons? It sounds like something Darren Hayman or Hefner should have written. Perhaps Rob Young has a song or two squirrelled away somewhere? The closest I could find in my library was St Etienne's 'The Pylons' from 'What Have You Done Today Mervyn Day?' It doesn't appear to be online so here is my field recording beneath the cables straddling the road to Huxham. It sounds like rain, but it is just the fizzing of electricity in the wires. Magic.