St Lawrence, Ingworth

It would be hard, I'm sure, to come across this rugged little thatched church and not think it beautiful. Sitting in a busy little village just to the north of Aylsham, it has been through the mill a bit. The tower collapsed in the early 19th Century, and the stump was rebuilt as a vestry with its own conical cap of thatch about a hundred years later, giving it a kind of Arts and Crafts feel. At some point, probably in the 14th Century, the nave was widened. There is no arcade, no aisle, but it has left the chancel and tower pleasingly off-centre. A new tower seems also to have been planned, and perhaps even started, for a a stair turret has been begun in the south-west corner. It leads to the upper storey of the porch, and then continues upwards for a metre or so, later being bridged across to the now-lost old tower.

The large grass mound is at the heart of the village. The Mill is opposite, and narrow lanes meet here, busy about their business. An old lady was painting the wrought iron fence on the occasion of my first visit back in 2005. She told us that in late spring this fence keeps in the sheep that graze the churchyard. Sheep in a churchyard is always a pleasant sight, but it is more than that, of course. The church, the sheep, the graves of the dead, almost timeless. Coming back here in the summer of 2021 it was just as I had remembered it, except for one thing I am afraid, for the church was no longer open to visitors. A notice in the porch put up by the priest in charge of the benefice explained that no one could be found who was prepared to open it up and close it each day. This was probably because of the Covid pandemic which was still fully in people's minds at that time, but all the other churches in the benefice were open.

And so I was not able to refresh my memory, and all the photographs at the bottom of this page were taken in 2005. But I recalled stepping into an interior where the 19th Century restoration was masterful in leaving a neat, rustic little church that was at once mindful of its past and fitting for its present. Full without feeling overcrowded, it was as if everything necessary was here, but nothing more. Directly opposite the south doorway there is an organ gallery on the north wall, with access from the former tower stump. Cautley thought that the font below it was one of the Seven Sacrament series, but the panels have been completely erased. Turning east, there are pastel walls and a plain, simple brick floor stretching between makeshift benches and 18th Century box pews. It is a church of the common people.

Beyond a cut-down pulpit with its hour-glass still in situ, and the remains of the 15th Century screen elaborated in the 20th Century, the tiny chancel was full of light, with balustered communion rails and a simple Sarum screen to the altar. It is a lovely setting for a single panel of continental glass in the east window, depicting the Presentation in the Temple. Balancing it at the far end of the church is an elegant carved royal arms for William III, an unusual survival.

This is a place to sit and just think for a moment, especially if you are on a helter-skelter church-exploring journey around this area as I had been back in 2005. And then, time to go, out through the crumbly old porch, which loving local hands have made good and mended over the years. Two rosemary bushes flanked the entrance, and I took a couple of cuttings. On its little mound in the middle of its village this church is utterly beguiling, and it seems such a shame that if is no longer possible to go inside.

Simon Knott, February 2022

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