September 23, 2016
by: Jane Owen
It is Ride+Stride day when thousands of people in the UK walk or ride from church to church raising money to prop up what remains of these lovely buildings following the attentions of Henry VIII, Cromwell and, more recently, indifference and dwindling congregations.
A banker friend raised £4,000 by persuading two colleagues to sponsor him for £50 and £100 a church without mentioning his cycling prowess and extreme competitiveness. He scored 26 churches in a 50-mile cyclathon of Oxfordshire. This year, five of us go mad near Oxford, or rather set off with more modest ambitions.
Through the teeming rain, past bumper-to-bumper 4x4s and lavishly appointed trailers heading for the Blenheim horse trials, we carve out a hilly route of back roads where pristine woodland meets pastures of picturesque longhorn cattle, landscaped streams and well-maintained cottages in tasteful livery.
Verges bristle with newly planted oaks. Corpulent pheasant lard their way along the roadside. They will be easy prey for even the most hopeless guns. Rain trickles down our necks and we discover our expensive waterproof cycling gear isn’t waterproof.
By screwing up our eyes against the rain, we can just about make out the charming countryside. Drystone walls stand to attention and hedgerows drip orange and red rowan, rose hips and crab-apples and the dark smudges of damsons, sloes and blackberries.
The potholes, drains and Range Rovers are less attractive and difficult to avoid when rain is stabbing itself directly into your eyes. The other jeopardy is created by baby rabbits playing dare with traffic. We splash on.
The first church is elusive but everyone is helping with the navigation. “The route is on the corner of these two maps and they’re a bit soggy but I think we turn right here.”
“No it’s definitely this way. My fail-safe OS app says so. Oh **** I forgot to turn it on.’’
“Well Google Maps says … ah … I’ve lost connectivity.”
There are no signs to the church. And it is not visible from the road. We leave the bikes at a gatehouse. We are in the middle of nowhere but the woods and meadows are riven with lights and cameras. Fifty metres from the church a disembodied voice bellows that we have strayed from the path, and there is no hope for us etc etc. We are wearing high-vis jackets, walking rather slowly and talking about gargoyles. Hardly obvious armed robber/terrorist/jihadist material but we have indeed deviated at least six metres from the path
A security guard appears. “We had armed police here all last week,” he says, visibly disappointed that our party of church-visiting cyclists doesn’t merit a repeat armed visit.
The church is the usual creation for this area: Norman font, nave modernised in the late middle ages, chancel modernised in the 18th century, wonderful moustachioed stone face corbels. Waiting for us in the worn stone porch is a stack of Ride+Stride stickers and a clipboard to sign for proof of arrival. None of us has a pen and the stickers will not stick to our soaking clothes. The next church has a pile of rosy apples which we crunch while some of the party get arsy about Victorian restoration and some get arsy about being late for lunch where we are meeting non-cycling friends.
The rain has won. Our feeble five-church/25-mile ambition has dwindled to three churches and 18 miles. Four dry friends are waiting at the pub. One has arrived by swanky car with his swanky bike stuck on top even though he has no intention of riding it through the tempest. He is glamorous and somehow gets away with this.
The day after the tempest the sun comes out and the day gleams and glistens as it should have done yesterday. Time to head down to the river possibly for the last swim of the year. In theory the river should be at its warmest now that the whole of the summer’s heat has beamed into its gentle eddies. I ease down the bank to the reedy river bottom and my toe touches a hard, smooth surface. It is a Depressed River Mussel, nearly as long as my opened hand. There are no others around and I have never before seen one here.
Maybe it was so depressed it has come here to find solitude. Maybe it was depressed not only because of the shape of its shell but also because it is endangered.
Like our churches.
Jane Owen is the editor of House & Home and the Financial Times