wodewose.co.uk - formerly Sylly Suffolk: The medieval image in East Anglia

In East Anglia - essentially the English counties of Suffolk and Norfolk - you are never far out of sight of a medieval church. This heavily agricultural region is still predominantly agricultural, a land of villages, and almost every village has its old church. And then there are the churches that no longer even have a village. With few hills to speak off, the countryside is not known for sweeping views - yet there are places here where you might five or six church towers simply by turning your head.

If the great era of cathedral-building in England came in the 13th and 14th centuries, the peak of achievement in parish churches came in the so-called Perpendicular style of roughly 1350-1500.

These were the years of economic and social recovery after the devastation of the Black Death. They were the years when East Anglia's wealth was at its peak, when the land-owning rich became conspicuously richer – and when so many of the region's wonderful churches reached pretty much their present form. The grandest of them, at such places as Lavenham, Long Melford, Salle and Mildenhall are often referred to as "wool churches", but it was not just sheep-rearing that financed them, but the export trade in fine cloth woven from the wool – and especially the consolidated wealth of those great families who had the good sense, or good luck, to support Royal adventuring in France or back the winning side in the Wars of the Roses.

The unique joy of East Anglia is to have been the richest and, after London, the most populous area of England in the 150 years or so when the building or re-building of parish churches was at its peak of both quantity and quality – and then to have fallen on relatively fallow times. The result is a glorious heritage of wonderful buildings, rich in historic art.

Since the ancient city of Dunwich fell into the sea many centuries ago, Suffolk has had no real cathedral. The parish church of St James in Bury St Edmunds may have held that title since 1913, but it has no especial historical right to it, and it doesn't feel like a cathedral, despite the bizarre project of topping it with a copy of a cathedral tower from Canterbury. There are many much finer churches in Suffolk – together their beauty, variety, charm and historical fascination cannot be matched by even the grandest cathedral.

However much awe a great church like Durham or Gloucester might inspire, the people from the past you commune with there are bishops, monks, choristers and deans. To stand in a parish church like Westhall, Blythburgh, Denston or Troston is to feel the presence of generations of ordinary people – the wheelwright, the carpenter, the yeoman farmer – perhaps, too, to see their portraits, in wood, stone or distemper.

The lords of the manor may be there in name and effigy. You may still find an invitation to pray for their souls. The common folk are there too: if you can't see their carved or painted likenesses, you can still share their hopes and fears. Nowhere were these more present than in the parish church, and nowhere is there more evidence of them still to be found.

The humblest rural church can take your breath away. Its very walls and windows may provide links with every century of the last thousand years. Inside it may have a medieval font, sculpted with a strange mix of saints, wild beasts and obscure symbols. Perhaps there is a hammerbeam roof with wooden angels soaring above you. There may be carved bench-ends, painted walls and rood screens, monuments in stone, wood and inlaid brass. You may think the glass in the windows is all plain and clear – until you notice a medieval fragment, perhaps depicting St Apollonia with pliers and a tooth in her hand (the patron saint of toothache-sufferers was an understandably popular figure in the Middle Ages).

We may be living in a less godly age than any other in recorded history. It can be a surprise when investigating the past of our churches just how crucially central to the lives of ordinary people they were. Very few of us indeed now lead lives regulated by religion in the way that was once almost universal. The Anglican community is shrinking to the point at which is no longer sensible, viable or fair to expect the remaining practising Christians alone to bear all the responsibility for preserving the heritage of their church buildings and the wonders they contain.

Today it is impossible to consider the medieval churches of Ipswich, the county town of Suffolk, without a deep sense of regret and anxiety. While four remain in use for Christian worship, they are outnumbered by those now redundant. One has found new meaning as a Tourist Information Centre, another is being converted by the diocese into a business centre; another four are at best embarrassments, at worst calamities waiting to happen. But this is not yet the age of greatest threat to our parish churches and their artworks.

Apart from our unique architectural tradition, and the predominant use in East Anglia of flint as a building material, what makes our old churches so different from those in Catholic Europe is the relative absence of imagery. Every medieval carved or painted saint surviving in England today is a treasure to be cherished.

Reading the guidebooks to be found in many churches, you might think this all the fault of one man – William Dowsing. The Parliamentary Visitor did indeed inflict considerable damage during his official rampage across Suffolk in the Civil War year of 1644. He recorded his own deeds with such relish (or perhaps just bureaucratic care) that we know every detail. His journal makes fascinating reading: you can almost warm to the man, while simultaneously gnashing your teeth at the catalogue of loss he claims responsibility for. But Dowsing was really just the last wave of a process that had been going on for more than 100 years.

When you read accounts of the reign of the Protestant boy-king Edward VI (1547-53) or the reforming, anti-Catholics laws passed by his father Henry VIII (1509-47) and half-sister Elizabeth (1558-1603), it is almost surprising there was any pre-Reformation imagery left for Dowsing to destroy.

Most history books of this period are almost inevitably partisan. It is not many years since an orthodox introduction to the subject would present the Reformation as a Good Thing, the Protestants as Good Guys, the Catholics as Bad. More recently, there has been a movement, led by the excellent Eamon Duffy, to turn it round the other way. As neither Catholic nor Anglican, I have no axe to grind: I see the Reformation as neither a good thing nor a bad, but simply as historical fact. It swept away, depending on viewpoint, either a mass of superstition (a word that has always really meant "someone else's religion") or "all godly Ceremonyes & good usys of the Church". What is beyond debate is that iconoclasm was central to the reform and left our churches denuded of colour and imagery that was once a vivid part of every churchgoer's life – and that was everyone.

For 200 years after Dowsing the main threat was neglect. Deprived through the series of reforms and counter-reforms of their old wealth, our churches literally fell apart. Then came the great Victorian re-building spree, when many churches were undoubtedly rescued from collapse, but at the cost of becoming pseudo-medieval – a process continued into the 20th century with love-it-or-loathe-it chutzpah by the architect Sir Ninian Comper and others.

Despite these waves of more or less well-meaning destruction, much can still be found in East Anglia of the genuinely medieval glories that made this region pre-eminently sylly or holy . If you know where to look, and what to look for, you can still find traces, and images, of medieval East Anglians, lords and ploughmen, at every stage of their lives, from birth to deathbed, as well as the God they worshipped, the saints they prayed to, and the devils and beasts they feared.

Of course, some people still come here to worship God, even if their understanding of what that means has changed radically over the centuries. The nature of Christian worship is now so far removed from what it was when they were built that medieval churches are no longer very suitable for the function. In at least one East Anglian parish, the congregation has moved, with great relief, out of a big, cold and draughty medieval church into a cosier, warmer, more comfortable and better-lit village hall. Their needs are now better met. How long will it be before they rebel – quite reasonably, one might think – against the burden of paying for the upkeep of the ancient empty building they no longer use? That building, and the works of art and craft it contains, were created for a medieval Catholic priesthood, congregration and liturgy. It is no longer needed for that function, yet if as a society we care at all about our past, its preservation is vital. And this is not just one village, one church building, but thousands across the country – more than 500 of them in Suffolk alone, still more in Norfolk.

When Simon Jenkins published his book England's Thousand Best Churches in 1999, he opened many people's eyes to the splendours that lurk in urban and rural parishes throughout the land. But it is, of course, an impossible, almost meaningless, task to list "the best". There are simply too many wonderful churches, with wonders of many different kinds. One man's opinion cannot encompass them – even if he could visit them all. There are many churches in East Anglia whose omission from Jenkins's list is only comprehensible if one assumes he did not visit. You may have a favourite church, a favourite painting or carving, that is not mentioned on this website. My hope is simply that these words and pictures can help you to see and interpret things both familiar and unfamiliar around you.

The visitor will often find a sign written by a well-meaning vicar or church-warden asserting that the building is not a museum. To which Simon Jenkins retorts, oh yes it is. And here I emphatically agree with him. Of course, that's not all it is. But it would be an important step towards preserving the most significant artistic, architectural and social heritage we have in Britain if we were at least to admit that's what our churches are. Collectively, our parish churches are a far finer and more important museum than the British Museum, the Victoria and Albert, and all the other collections in London and other cities across the land.

When you have seen the richness of medieval survivals depicted and described on these pages; when, perhaps, you have been inspired to seek out those to be found in your own locality, maybe view them with newly opened eyes; then I hope you will agree with me that these treasures that have lasted among us since the 13th, 14th or 15th centuries or earlier must be cherished and enjoyed, not allowed to perish from neglect in the 21st.



In East Anglia - essentially the English counties of Suffolk and Norfolk - you are never far out of sight of a medieval church. This heavily agricultural region is still predominantly agricultural, a land of villages, and almost every village has its old church. And then there are the churches that no longer even have a village. With few hills to speak off, the countryside is not known for sweeping views - yet there are places here where you might five or six church towers simply by turning your head. If the great era of cathedral-building in England came in the 13th and 14th centuries, the peak of achievement in parish churches came in the so-called Perpendicular style of roughly 1350-1500. These were the years of economic and social recovery after the devastation of the Black Death. They were the years when East Anglia's wealth was at its peak, when the land-owning rich became conspicuously richer – and when so many of the region's wonderful churches reached pretty much their present form. The grandest of them, at such places as Lavenham, Long Melford, Salle and Mildenhall are often referred to as "wool churches", but it was not just sheep-rearing that financed them, but the export trade in fine cloth woven from the wool – and especially the consolidated wealth of those great families who had the good sense, or good luck, to support Royal adventuring in France or back the winning side in the Wars of the Roses. The unique joy of East Anglia is to have been the richest and, after London, the most populous area of England in the 150 years or so when the building or re-building of parish churches was at its peak of both quantity and quality – and then to have fallen on relatively fallow times. The result is a glorious heritage of wonderful buildings, rich in historic art. Since the ancient city of Dunwich fell into the sea many centuries ago, Suffolk has had no real cathedral. The parish church of St James in Bury St Edmunds may have held that title since 1913, but it has no especial historical right to it, and it doesn't feel like a cathedral, despite the bizarre project of topping it with a copy of a cathedral tower from Canterbury. There are many much finer churches in Suffolk – together their beauty, variety, charm and historical fascination cannot be matched by even the grandest cathedral. However much awe a great church like Durham or Gloucester might inspire, the people from the past you commune with there are bishops, monks, choristers and deans. To stand in a parish church like Westhall, Blythburgh, Denston or Troston is to feel the presence of generations of ordinary people – the wheelwright, the carpenter, the yeoman farmer – perhaps, too, to see their portraits, in wood, stone or distemper. The lords of the manor may be there in name and effigy. You may still find an invitation to pray for their souls. The common folk are there too: if you can't see their carved or painted likenesses, you can still share their hopes and fears. Nowhere were these more present than in the parish church, and nowhere is there more evidence of them still to be found. The humblest rural church can take your breath away. Its very walls and windows may provide links with every century of the last thousand years. Inside it may have a medieval font, sculpted with a strange mix of saints, wild beasts and obscure symbols. Perhaps there is a hammerbeam roof with wooden angels soaring above you. There may be carved bench-ends, painted walls and rood screens, monuments in stone, wood and inlaid brass. You may think the glass in the windows is all plain and clear – until you notice a medieval fragment, perhaps depicting St Apollonia with pliers and a tooth in her hand (the patron saint of toothache-sufferers was an understandably popular figure in the Middle Ages). We may be living in a less godly age than any other in recorded history. It can be a surprise when investigating the past of our churches just how crucially central to the lives of ordinary people they were. Very few of us indeed now lead lives regulated by religion in the way that was once almost universal. The Anglican community is shrinking to the point at which is no longer sensible, viable or fair to expect the remaining practising Christians alone to bear all the responsibility for preserving the heritage of their church buildings and the wonders they contain. Today it is impossible to consider the medieval churches of Ipswich, the county town of Suffolk, without a deep sense of regret and anxiety. While four remain in use for Christian worship, they are outnumbered by those now redundant. One has found new meaning as a Tourist Information Centre, another is being converted by the diocese into a business centre; another four are at best embarrassments, at worst calamities waiting to happen. But this is not yet the age of greatest threat to our parish churches and their artworks. Apart from our unique architectural tradition, and the predominant use in East Anglia of flint as a building material, what makes our old churches so different from those in Catholic Europe is the relative absence of imagery. Every medieval carved or painted saint surviving in England today is a treasure to be cherished. Reading the guidebooks to be found in many churches, you might think this all the fault of one man – William Dowsing. The Parliamentary Visitor did indeed inflict considerable damage during his official rampage across Suffolk in the Civil War year of 1644. He recorded his own deeds with such relish (or perhaps just bureaucratic care) that we know every detail. His journal makes fascinating reading: you can almost warm to the man, while simultaneously gnashing your teeth at the catalogue of loss he claims responsibility for. But Dowsing was really just the last wave of a process that had been going on for more than 100 years. When you read accounts of the reign of the Protestant boy-king Edward VI (1547-53) or the reforming, anti-Catholics laws passed by his father Henry VIII (1509-47) and half-sister Elizabeth (1558-1603), it is almost surprising there was any pre-Reformation imagery left for Dowsing to destroy. Most history books of this period are almost inevitably partisan. It is not many years since an orthodox introduction to the subject would present the Reformation as a Good Thing, the Protestants as Good Guys, the Catholics as Bad. More recently, there has been a movement, led by the excellent Eamon Duffy, to turn it round the other way. As neither Catholic nor Anglican, I have no axe to grind: I see the Reformation as neither a good thing nor a bad, but simply as historical fact. It swept away, depending on viewpoint, either a mass of superstition (a word that has always really meant "someone else's religion") or "all godly Ceremonyes & good usys of the Church". What is beyond debate is that iconoclasm was central to the reform and left our churches denuded of colour and imagery that was once a vivid part of every churchgoer's life – and that was everyone. For 200 years after Dowsing the main threat was neglect. Deprived through the series of reforms and counter-reforms of their old wealth, our churches literally fell apart. Then came the great Victorian re-building spree, when many churches were undoubtedly rescued from collapse, but at the cost of becoming pseudo-medieval – a process continued into the 20th century with love-it-or-loathe-it chutzpah by the architect Sir Ninian Comper and others. Despite these waves of more or less well-meaning destruction, much can still be found in East Anglia of the genuinely medieval glories that made this region pre-eminently sylly or holy . If you know where to look, and what to look for, you can still find traces, and images, of medieval East Anglians, lords and ploughmen, at every stage of their lives, from birth to deathbed, as well as the God they worshipped, the saints they prayed to, and the devils and beasts they feared. Of course, some people still come here to worship God, even if their understanding of what that means has changed radically over the centuries. The nature of Christian worship is now so far removed from what it was when they were built that medieval churches are no longer very suitable for the function. In at least one East Anglian parish, the congregation has moved, with great relief, out of a big, cold and draughty medieval church into a cosier, warmer, more comfortable and better-lit village hall. Their needs are now better met. How long will it be before they rebel – quite reasonably, one might think – against the burden of paying for the upkeep of the ancient empty building they no longer use? That building, and the works of art and craft it contains, were created for a medieval Catholic priesthood, congregration and liturgy. It is no longer needed for that function, yet if as a society we care at all about our past, its preservation is vital. And this is not just one village, one church building, but thousands across the country – more than 500 of them in Suffolk alone, still more in Norfolk. When Simon Jenkins published his book England's Thousand Best Churches in 1999, he opened many people's eyes to the splendours that lurk in urban and rural parishes throughout the land. But it is, of course, an impossible, almost meaningless, task to list "the best". There are simply too many wonderful churches, with wonders of many different kinds. One man's opinion cannot encompass them – even if he could visit them all. There are many churches in East Anglia whose omission from Jenkins's list is only comprehensible if one assumes he did not visit. You may have a favourite church, a favourite painting or carving, that is not mentioned on this website. My hope is simply that these words and pictures can help you to see and interpret things both familiar and unfamiliar around you. The visitor will often find a sign written by a well-meaning vicar or church-warden asserting that the building is not a museum. To which Simon Jenkins retorts, oh yes it is. And here I emphatically agree with him. Of course, that's not all it is. But it would be an important step towards preserving the most significant artistic, architectural and social heritage we have in Britain if we were at least to admit that's what our churches are. Collectively, our parish churches are a far finer and more important museum than the British Museum, the Victoria and Albert, and all the other collections in London and other cities across the land. When you have seen the richness of medieval survivals depicted and described on these pages; when, perhaps, you have been inspired to seek out those to be found in your own locality, maybe view them with newly opened eyes; then I hope you will agree with me that these treasures that have lasted among us since the 13th, 14th or 15th centuries or earlier must be cherished and enjoyed, not allowed to perish from neglect in the 21st.		Introduction The wodewose Seven Deadly Sins The day of Doom A medieval zoo A hungry dragon The pelican Iconoclasm A wealthy benefactor About Links Home Church pages on AidanSemmens.co.uk