Church crawling

Jenkins to hand, Caroline and I set off inland today on a wet morning to look at two churches with seven stars between them. Even looking at lesser churches in Cornwall gives me great pleasure, if only for their churchyards' old slate tombstones: they last long enough to reveal much fine lettering still.

Getting to Blisland was itself a delightful journey of discovery, passing garden-gate produce stalls, ancient signposts and through a maze of narrow lanes. The church is almost worth visiting for its name alone: the only one dedicated to the brothers Protus and Hyacinth, whose feast was yesterday. John Betjeman raved about the Victorian screen, which runs gaudily across the entire width of the church. I especially liked looking up to the giddy-making wagon roof of the nave.

Blisland has a newish community building to boast of also: a vast shed, housing shop, post office, café with internet and large screen, doctor's surgery... all run, it's said, on as little energy as possible. There's a sign pointing out the cost of a drive to the nearest supermarket: "Shop here and save yourself a fiver."

St Neot's church is more celebrated even than Blisland's - "the cathedral of the Moor" - on account of its mediaeval stained glass. But it seemed less welcoming to me, possibly because of the sign forbidding unauthorised use of the photographs we visitors take. It's not as if there's a decent choice amongst the church's own photographic postcards. And anyway, dissemination of religious images is all part of spreading the Gospel surely! Why alienate visitors in this way?

Yes, the glass is interesting, especially the Old Testament scenes (Eden and Noah in particular). But give me Fairford any day.

During our stay, we met the owner of a remote Cornish home, who was moaning about a proposed wind turbine. "Only 450 yards away, and it will take £100,000 off my house," she had complained. We happened to pass by the property on our way to Blisland: it's sunk in a deepish, very wooded valley. Even if she's right about the loss in value - surely doubtful - you have to ask how many people in less fortunate circs. would give their eye teeth to be able to arrest an unwanted "development" within 450 yards of where they live; and to question whether one individual should be able to elevate her property rights above the needs of the world for more renewable energy. This, along with the extreme "whiteness" of the retired and holidaying community down here in Cornwall.

Padstein

It's been a dry day, but only fitfully sunny: cool in the wind. Walking down to the Coast Path across Beniguet's large, springy-turfed lawn, we made our way this morning via an almost deserted Daymer Bay and the golf course to St Enodoc's Church.

After buying postcards and admiring John Betjeman's tombstone, we skirted Brae Hill and climbed over the dunes to the beach, where the Padstow ferry was kindly waiting for us. Nicely sprayed during the crossing, we were unloaded into a seething mass of people: to escape the crush, we fought our way uphill from the Harbour as quickly as possible before collapsing into a café. Having set off eventually to continue in the direction of Stepper Point, I realised my poles were still propped up against the café wall; so we redeployed to collect them and explore instead the nether reaches of Padstow itself. The beautifully-maintained church of St Petroc turned out to be well worth discovering.

All the Apostles are clearly distinguishable on the four faces of a handsome 15th Century font, and an early 17th Century Prideaux monument plus later memorials leave one in no doubt as to which family has been running the place for some centuries. Peter Prideaux-Brune, the present incumbent of the big house - a Catholic - must surely be happy that the church is now officially shared, with the blessed sacrament reserved in the Lady Chapel. (I have not spoken to him since 1956, when he and I sang in Messiah together under Roger Bevan.)