Month: January 2026

Tempus Fugit

Chris Swift

A churchyard feels an appropriate place for a sundial, even in January when the daylight is fleeting. In addition to its timepiece, the fabulous Norman church of Stillingfleet is surrounded by mature yew trees, with their pagan and Christian symbolism and, according to some, once offering a living arsenal for the bowmen of the village. Today they tower over graves that are a mix of the well-maintained and the tottering. In places the elements have gouged out the ancient letters, leaving a ribcage of indentations on the once smooth surface of stone.

Of course, as many have come to realise, Stillingfleet’s churchyard is a sanctuary for nature untroubled by construction and development. The dead offering protection for so much that is living but all too often struggling to survive in the modern world. From lichens to snowdrops, the gentle neglect of holy ground provides space and tranquility for life to flourish.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,

         Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

         The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Lines from Grey’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

The most astonishing architectural feature of the church is the south door, described as ‘a door of national importance‘. I have written about this door previously, but as impressive as the door is the Norman doorway surround. The carved images of beaks and human figures are a marvellous survival across more than eight centuries. The clarity of the images today might owe something to their position on the south side of the building, and the durability of the stone used to create them. While we are familiar with seeing such churches surrounded by later buildings, they must have been a truly extraordinary sight when family dwellings were more rudimentary. On winter nights, candlelit services must have made these churches extraordinary images of light when so much of the world was in darkness, and homes couldn’t wholly keep out the elements.

Across the many centuries in which churches have retained their ground and provided the space for worship, much has changed. The chaos of our own time would be familiar to many who have gone before us, and I’m quite sure that it will also be a part of the lives of generations to come. We have the time we’re given, an opportunity for good or ill, and we pass on its risks and opportunities to others. I haven’t entirely given up hope that the lanterns of faith left by former generations might still hold some light for the future, and trust that the prayers said by those lying in their narrow cells were not exclusively for their own salvation, but for the good of the world as a whole.

Snittering

Chris Swift

Many years ago I was on retreat on the beautiful island of Iona. It was the beginning of winter, and the island experienced some bitter weather. One evening, another retreatant had arranged to give a recital of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The community library was offered as the space, with a roaring fire providing both light and warmth for the reading. Almost without a single pause, the magical story of Gawain was recited on this enchanted isle, as the first days of winter began to bite.

Among the other memories I have of this unexpected story-telling, was the word “snittering”. The retreatant gave a short introduction to the poem, which she had studied at some point. In describing the weather as somewhere between snow and hail, she had chosen to retain this word used in Gawain’s original Middle English alliterative verse. Many other translators have opted for more familiar terms. However, she told us that while once staying with the family of a boyfriend from the north east, she had heard the word used in conversation. It was a living, not an archaic term. Its existence in the north east perhaps suggests a Viking origin. Snittering has a wonderfully onomatopoeic quality – even as you speak it, the sound of icy rain upon glass comes to mind.

With cruelty enough from the north to torment the naked flesh.
The snow fell snittering sharply, nipping the wild creatures;
The whistling wind whipped down upon them shrilly from the heights,
And filled the hollows of every dale up full with heavy drifts.

From Sir Gawain and the Greek Knight https://www.jstor.org/stable/25650810?seq=2

It isn’t hard to work out why snittering came to my mind this morning. Driving out from York to lead worship in the Garrowby churches, the bitter weather made its presence felt. It’s not often I take a service these days and see my own breath! Despite heating being on from an early hour, the cold in the stone of St Andrew Bugthorpe was remarkably slow to yield to any warmth.

The East Window of St Andrew Bugthorpe contains glass by Edward Moore. It depicts Our Lady with the Christ Child in a mandorla, alongside St Andrew and St. Charles Borromeo, the sixteenth-century reforming Bishop of Milan. The patron saint of the Second Viscount Halifax.

As we approach the Eve of St Agnes, and the Keats poem with which it is associated, the poetry of an icy England can give some vicarious pleasure to those safely sat somewhere warm. Cold weather can be lovely to look at but potentially dangerous to those who find walking on ice covered by a sheen of water a daunting prospect. Thankfully I only had to drive through a few millimetres of slush this morning, although I took the slightly longer route to avoid a steep hill. In a warm car the snittering sleet was a reminder of past winters, and the time when harsh weather in the UK was experienced with much greater cost to health. Sadly, for many people here, and more so in other parts of the world, winter continues to inspire a sense of dread due to its economic cost, and the pressures it places on the boundaries of survival.