The writer looks back at an old church where she was once married. It still holds a special place in her heart.

The old place looked forlorn, nestled amongst knee high grass and nettles. Why had the surroundings been so neglected ? Was it lack of money? she wondered, strolling down the cobbled path to the door where she twisted the heavy circular handle round.

Inside the ancient church, musty with age, she smelled fresh lemon polish and the fresh summer roses amid tall grasses in a huge vase besides the high pulpit .She gazed up at the matching gargoyles, little imps shouldering their heavy load. They’d always amused her. Then, she saw the copper plaque commemorating, ‘the death of our son Harold Cross, April12th. 1916.’ In the sanctuary, she tipped up one choir seat to examine the marvelous carved fifteenth century miserere.She'd been a member of the choir there for eight years. In the stillness, she knelt at the altar rail and saw again the tiny recessed ombre, which had housed the sacrament since the twelfth century. It’s shiny emptiness spoke volumes about the many times, a hand had sought vessels there. She loved this peaceful place, the simple altar and brass cross, glimmering in the afternoon sun.

Turning, she admired the lovely rose window near the west door, then walked over the red carpeted grating where someone’s bones rested, past the old ornate organ to the plaque which listed rectors.  She could almost her her old friend Scott playing as Mr. Jones accompanied him on the violin -especially on her wedding day. She perused the names from John de Courtney 1068-1074 up to Charles Craft 1950-1961.’ She knew Reverend Craftwell; he’d encouraged  her to be a Sunday School teacher and then married her to her husband at this altar. That was forty years ago. She felt a part of all this history, a part of this special place.