I arrived and parked at what used to be the Chelwood Primary School. The ‘C’ had eroded from the stone.
I kept taking pictures of the sky with just small parts of the village intruding the composition. I photographed the edge of roofs, the tips of trees and the tops of gravestones.
There was a stream of well dressed people walking from their shiny cars to a function of some kind. There was a magnificent horse who kept coming closer to me whilst it’s owner hollered and shrieked a field away.
Chelwood was a village where I had arrived with no plan or strategy. My mind was blank. I let the sky lead me.
I was drawn to the crooked gravestones and then thought of the clouds in the sky. I considered how the clouds made the rain, that made the ground wet, which made the graves lean away from the heavens. I considered that every grave is destined to be untended eventually.
The church door was locked, so I sat in the porch of the church.
I wrote about death and the sky and the ground.
It was recorded on a cassette dictaphone. It’s supposed to sound like this.
I had been visiting an ill relative in the north. I should have driven straight home but Scruton called out to me. It was an unusually sunny autumn evening and the village was a stone’s throw from the A1. I promised myself the briefest of stays in Scruton. I would catch the last of the light and hang on tight to whatever idea came to me.
Scruton is neatly kept and the houses are surrounded by neat hedges and flowers. I find red berries and pink houses. Dog walkers take their last opportunities before dusk. Huge four by fours purr as they crawl on to the loose gravelled driveways. People are coming home after Sunday errands and visits.
There is a pretty heritage railway station on the edge of the village. It was closed to passengers in 1954 and re-opened by rail enthusiasts in 2014. This is the first village I’ve come to that sometimes reverberates to the sound of steam trains.
In the middle of the village is a triangular green covered with golden, fallen leaves. Bare trees are scattered across it and cast long, dark shadows. A lone swing stands in the centre and I find a bench at one side next to the vicarage.
For once I leave the church be and decide that this might be my last chance of the year to record outside.
I tap out a rhythm on the bench and strum out lazy major chords on a Spanish guitar. I start to sing but the only word that comes out is ‘oh’.
Welbury is the first village I stayed in overnight. I wanted to capture the villages at every time of the year, in all weather and at different times of the day.
I was also starting to think about my interaction with the villages and the villagers themselves. Sometimes, like with Aisholt and Stocklinch I want to be welcomed in; I want to sit and talk, listen and learn.
With Welbury I wanted to move about like a ghost, silent and unseen. For a few years now I’ve been interested in the idea of wordless music describing a sense of place. This idea is at the heart of the Thankful Villages project, that the location should inform the music in some way.
I wandered through the village in the dead of night. Interior lights glowed red and orange through thick curtains. A few houses had modest Christmas lights wrapped around trees even though it was October. I thought about the idea of ‘home’ and ‘warmth’. I remembered my first job as a paperboy and doing the same thing, staring at the house lights and being jealous of those on the inside.
I imagined how different all those living rooms would be to each other but all representing safety and security to someone. I went back to my room and set up a small studio with a Moog synthesiser and a nylon-strung guitar. These machines make me feel at home. I tried to make comforting music. I wanted repeated refrains that were all similar, yet slightly different.
I recorded the phrase over and over at incrementally slowly speeds so the melodies gently collide and overlap.
In Welbury I was on the outside, dreaming of the inside.
Strethall is the only Thankful Village in my home county of Essex. This time I took a group of friends with me, David, Emma and Donal. It was a cold and golden day. We were lit by a winter sun.
I had gained permission to record in a thousand year old church. We hung microphones from the rafters. We threaded leads around the altar.
St Mary the Virgin Church can be dated back over 1000 years and for this song I found a story from the parish records from 1607.
Robert Parker and Agnes Ewens had committed adultery and were to have a child out of wedlock. The cost of raising the child would fall upon the parish unless responsibility could be laid elsewhere. Robert’s father John was called to account. Many babies were lost in childbirth at the time and an illegitimate child could ruin lives and reputations. This was time without a welfare state.
I thought about the possibility of a village secretly wishing a baby out of existence.
A black dog came and visited us. We all sang with full voices between the pews. The low sun made the chapel yellow.
On the evening of Remembrance Sunday 2014, I arrived in Stocklinch in a cheap suit with a crumpled poppy in the lapel. It was later in the same day that I had visited Aisholt. I sat in St Mary Magdalen Church or the ‘lower’ church as it is known.
Stocklinch has two churches, one is dead, one is alive. A folk tale tells of two sisters who are both in love with the vicar and have churches built for him. The ‘upper’ church is St Mary of Ottersey. Ottersey and Stocklinch were once two villages but they gradually merged to become one. The upper church fell out of use in 1973.
I sat on a pew with a blank mind, doodling with sounds on an ipad, feeling out of place and lonely. I was exhausted and possibly having my first doubts about the project. Ros Harding walked into the church and looked me up and down. She had a cloud of white hair and bright, wide eyes. I was thinking about how to best explain myself when Ros said, ‘Would you like to come round my house and have a cheese sandwich?’
They were the most beautiful opening words I’d heard from a stranger and right then there was nothing I wanted more than a cheese sandwich. Ros was another Church Warden. I helped her turn on the gas heaters for the evening service before walking back to her home.
On the walk Ros pointed out various buildings; who lived there and had lived there before. She knocked on a few doors and completed some small errands for people. We walked past a red telephone box that had been turned into a book library.
Ros’ house was beautifully cluttered and I looked through books on folk medicine and local history as Ros made tea and sandwiches. She seemed unconcerned about my reasons for being there and just nodded a head in affirmation at my request to record her talking.
Ros talked about the upper church and the lower church and a painting that travelled from one to the other. She talked about her grandchildren, who she loved but had now moved away. She talked about her career in teaching.
We get ready to leave for the evening Remembrance service. ‘Where did I put those keys,’ she says. ‘I just had them, oh well, never mind, one of life’s little mysteries.’ I want that patience. I want this pace of life.
Ros turns on the lights in the church and rings the bells whilst I chat with the organist. There are eight of us in the congregation, five of whom come up to talk to me at the end. Strangers are enthusiastically welcomed in Stocklinch.
The following day I painted two pictures of the phone box and sent one to Ros. She sent a postcard back of the upper church. I sorted through the recording of her words and looked at her postcard. I realised for the first time that I had missed something in this Thankful Village. I had found Ros and the lower church but I hadn’t visited the upper church. I picked up the postcard, got in my car and drove back to Stocklinch.
Aisholt is hidden in the folds of the Quantock hills in North Somerset. A tiny knot of buildings clustered behind incredibly narrow lanes. Tim Whittingham reads at humanist and non-religious funerals; he is also the Chair of the Friends of Aisholt. He raises money for the maintenance of the church even though he doesn’t go to church himself. The church, as in many of these places, is the heart of the village. It has a purpose outside that of religion. It binds the community together.
We met him the day before Remembrance Sunday and he read a poem for us by Dollie Radford about the Quantock hills.
Dollie Radford was a contemporary of William Morris and Tim knew that my previous project had been based on his words. I love it when these connections throw themselves up, when the songs seem to write themselves.
Peter is a church warden of Church of All Saints who invited us to his house for soup and tea. We sat and spoke with his wife and then he took us up the clock tower. Peter showed us the clock mechanism and I recorded it slowly clicking and whirring. We stood on top of the church tower and saw the hills surround and look down on us.
Peter asked if we would return the next day to record the village singing on Remembrance Day. The next day the sun shone and the church was full. I recorded the bells ringing and choir singing. I wove them in time with the clock mechanism and Tim’s soft patience voice.
I wrapped them around themselves just like the green rolling fields envelope the village. Aisholt is all warmth.
Imogen Griffiths took the photos and did the filming.
We arrived in Holywell Lake during the heaviest rain. It was Remembrance Sunday and nothing was open. We found a crumpled paper poppy in the gutter. We found a crumpled paper poppy in the guitar. Torrents of water ran down the hill. The car windows misted up and we kept the windscreen wipers and heaters on. I was reminded of doomed childhood holidays and waiting for the rain to clear.
We started to film and collect sounds, the rain falling down the drain, the water splashing on corrugated plastic roofs, a cheap set of wind chimes clinking in the wind. I was thinking of repetition again and the type of downpour that never stops.
I thought of home and the days when you are happy that you never have to go outside, but we weren’t home, we were just passing through. I tried to make something warm amongst the cold. I sheltered in a covered part of the pub garden. Holywell Lake tinkled and pulsed in the background.
Rodney Stoke is dominated by St. Leonard’s church. It stands tall and proud on a small rising by a sharp bend.
The village is partially named after the Rodney family and many of them are buried in the church. A small room to the side of the alter houses tombs and statues of the Rodneys. Some of them are beautiful and macabre. Others are unintentionally comical.
Arthur Mee describes them in detail in his Somerset guide book: part of his series, The King’s England, from which the name Thankful Villages derives. I follow the directions from nearly a hundred years ago and hunt for hidden carvings behind pews and altars.
A man arrives to read the electricity meter. We search for the meter together but it cannot be found. Just strange, stone ghosts.
The words spoken on this piece are from Arthur Mee’s entry for Rodney Stoke in The King’s England.
It was blowing up a storm as I entered Little Sodbury. It’s very hard to record in wind that strong. I recorded the wind in any case. The wind made a distorted sound as it entered the microphone; a harsh white noise.
The church door was unlocked, and during my travels for this project I found that many of them were.
I sat on a pew and tried to get my clumsy hands to master my new concertina. A local called Steve entered the church and asked if he could watch. Talk turned from concertinas to synthesisers. Steve used to make music for computer games.
Steve said he didn’t like how churches were often made to be the natural place of remembrance for war. He didn’t think churches – with their lists of the dead and the graves of victims and survivors alike – and war belonged together.
When I got home I added a synthesiser to the song for Steve.
Unlike most of the villages Stoke Hammond has a huge sign as you enter saying ‘Stoke Hammond – A Thankful Village’
It is also one of the biggest villages I have visited, almost a town. I struggled to find somewhere I could hide away. I was drawn to the outskirts. At the end of a dusty lane I happened upon a stretch of the Grand Union Canal. Everything was still and the sun was slowly setting.
I tried to clear my mind and thought of the endless movement of a river or canal. I thought of a musical scale I sometimes taught beginner musicians, a simple scale in C, but going from F to F. I recorded it on the portable recorder I had. I recorded it again and again and again. The flies fluttered over the canal and the water rippled so gently it almost looked like glass.
I tried to make the music ripple and flutter too. This was the first piece in this project where it took me some months to come back and finish it. When I came back to the canal recordings I was filled with regret and wanted to be back there with the low sun. I had stones I wanted to bury beside the river.