'Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds' - Dune Messiah

     I don't usually issue a 'spoiler alert', as I make an effort when writing a review not to disclose too much plot information, but just enough to intrigue. However this book cannot really be discussed without revealing more than usual. You have been warned.

     Apologies for this post having taken so long: firstly lockdown has really taken it out of me and although I am functioning and not just slumped in a heap in a corner with depression motivation is something I have lost. Secondly this post, like the 'Dune' post, has been subject to endless editing as I have been trying to get to grips with what is an extraordinary piece of literary imagination. 

     'We saw our parents' nakedness; Rivers of blood will be required to cover them. Rivers of blood.'

     I've been re-reading 'Dune Messiah' by Frank Herbert, the second novel in his 'Dune' sequence - a slim intermezzo of a book between the behemoths of 'Dune' and 'Children of Dune'. Not that I would want to suggest that 'Dune Messiah' is in anyway 'light' or frivolous. It is certainly neither. This re-reading, I have to admit, has been prompted partly by the growing excitement on social media over Denis Villeneuve's new film adaptation of 'Dune' but also by a loss of direction in my reading. It was there at my bedside and I just picked it up for want of something better. I suspect 'Dune Messiah' gets called a sequel for convenience sake - I certainly did in my post about 'Dune'. However we would be wrong to do so: Herbert originally conceived the first three novels (of what would eventually be six novel cycle) as one. It was his agent who got Herbert spilt them into three worried that they would make too hefty a tome for easy reading. (Herbert speaking at UCLA 17.04.85) Certainly there are parts of 'Dune Messiah' that were written at the same time 'Dune'.

     And I must say I'm glad I did, for although at times, as I mentioned in my previous 'Dune' post, the 'Duniverse' is a very strange place at times - the climax of 'Dune Messiah' is one of the weirdest and saddest things I have yet read - this has been an intense, immersive experience. In fact it has had quite a profound effect on me, causing me not only to re-asses my attitude to the Sci-fi but causing me to loose sleep as its strange and hermetic themes swirled about my head. So much so that I changed by bedtime reading to the much duller world of Margaret Drabble and 'The Ice Age', a state-of-the-nation novel of the mid 70s. What I was really looking for was 'The Great Fortune', the first of Olivia Manning's fabulous Balkan Trilogy. (I have already the third novel in the sequence: 'Friends and Heroes'.) Anyway 'The Ice Age' has turned out to be oddly successful for a novel that is virtual all 'tell' and no 'show', and I would recommend it.

     'He remembered his earliest visions of the jihad-to-be, the terror and revulsion he'd experienced. Now of course he knew visions of greater terror. He had lived with the real violence. He had seen his Fremen charged with mystical strength sweep all before him in the religious war. The jihad gained a new perspective. It was finite, of course, a brief spasm when measured against eternity, but beyond that lay horrors to overshadow anything in the past.'

     'Dune Messiah' is, I suspect, not so much read as 'Dune' and this has allowed the latter to be misinterpreted. David Lynch's film of 1984 certainly did (Why on earth did it rain at the end of the film killing off all the sandworms destroying thereby all spice production and consequently ending space travel?) and I fear that the latest cinematic adaptation directed by Denis Villeneuve may well be found guilty of the same. I really cannot emphasise enough that Paul Muad'dib is not a hero. He is not as Timothee Chalamet said in a 'Vanity Fair' interview 'Think Greta Thunberg, only she's a Jedi with a diploma from Hogwarts'. (Unless, of course, he knows something about la Thunberg that we don't.) It doesn't bode well. And he is certainly not the 'Mightey-Whitey' of Noah Berlatsky's article in escapist.com.* I think it might have helped his case if Mr Berlatsky had actually done some reading in preparation. Otherwise how do you explain such a wilful misreading of the texts? Paul is not the leader of some armed liberation movement, but a mass murderer guilty of genocide on an incomprehensible scale, or else, to exonerate him a little, merely the facilitator of such a gargantuan crime:

     '[]....at a conservative estimate, I've killed sixty-one billion people, sterilised ninety planets, completely demoralised four hundred others. I've wiped out the followers of forty religions [] We'll be a hundred generations recovering from Muad'dib's Jihad.'

     The Fremen jihad was a war for the political and religious domination of the Known Universe - not a war to set themselves free from oppression, but a revenge on the rest of humanity for thousands of years of perceived subjugation. Just a niggle but it is never explained how the Jihad commences, or how the Fremen achieve such cataclysmic results. Yes, we are told that they are fanatics, but still.... Historically, the success of the Islamic/Arab conquests were in part due to the exhaustion of the two great powers of the day, the Eastern Roman Empire and Sassanid Iran, after an apocalyptic war. There is no evidence of any such civilizational fatigue in the Dune Universe, unless one counts the lack of religious belief among the elites of the Empire. My guess is that after the defeat of Shaddam IV and his Sardukar troops on Arrakis the Empire momentarily collapsed into anarchy and the Jihad grew out of Muad'dib's re-assertion of Imperial authority, but it is only speculation.

     'No more terrible disaster could befall your people than for them to fall into the hands of a hero.'

     'Dune Messiah' opens twelve years after the events of 'Dune'; Muad'dib's Jihad - that 'blood-dimmed tide' - has, as we have seen, spread to nearly all the inhabited worlds; the small Arrakid city of Arakeen is now the Imperial capital and the centre of all religious life in the Empire - thousands make the Hajj, the pilgrimage, to its temples and shrines; Muad'dib's promise to 'green' the planet advances. Never has there been an Emperor as powerful as Paul Muad'dib. And yet....and yet....Arakeen still feels empty and provincial - though crammed with vulgar, bombastic monuments and surrounded by ugly monotonous suburbia that is prey to constant intrusion by the desert. And the Fremen are disillusioned (as happens so often after a revolution). There is a sense that things have taken a wrong turn. They have had their revenge on humanity, but now their lives are largely empty, devoid of meaning and direction. The Jihad failed to become the moment of re-integration with the world, as the former jihadi Farok, speaking early in the book, believed Muad'dib offered his followers. And not only Muad'dib, but, as explained in 'Dune', the Bene Gesserit have been there before him inadvertently tilling the ground in preparation for all this violence and failure when all they wanted to do was protect and promote their own. Instead of bringing liberation the jihad only furthered the alienation of the Fremen as it effectively destroyed their past in the process, leaving them suspended between that lost past and a non-existent future. In effect they merely exported Arrakid chaos to the rest of the universe. There is now a desire among the Fremen to return to ways of the desert, and towards the end of the novel we learn that the newly constructed qanats (irrigation canals) and other symbols of the new Arrakis have been sabotaged, the Golden Flower rejected. Ennui envelops and corrupts many. They are ripe for exploitation at the hands of plotters.

     And it is with the plotters, a motley crew if ever there was one, that the real weirdness steps in. In particular we are presented with two products of the Bene Teilaxu: the Guild Steersman Edric, and the face dancer Scytale (both genetically engineered mutations). Connected with the plot are two more products of the Tleilaxu; the human distrans Bijaz, (another piece of genetic manipulation) and most importantly the ghola Hayt. The other conspirators are Helen Gaius Mohaim and the Princes Irulan (both Bene Gesserit). In addition there is Korba, who like Farok we have encountered in 'Dune', a fighter from Seitch Tabr and later a Fedaykin leader and now one of the Qizara Tawfid, the priests of the new religion of Muad'dib. A long term intimate of Muad'dib then, but he and his own separate coterie of plotters are not happy either. 

     And then there is Paul Muad'dib himself that strangely disengaged prophet, complex and contradictory, conflicted and more isolated than ever: his mother, the Lady Jessica, and Gurney Halleck (one of the few survivors of the Atreides household, of any rank, to have escaped the Harkonen purge) have returned to Caladan. The estrangement between Paul and his wife Irulan has deepened, his relationship with his concubine Chani under increasing strain. He rules by personal fiat - he is a benign autocrat surrounded by a small coterie of counsellors. He refuses both a constitution and to rule as a god. And what is more Paul's prescience has become a curse rather than a gift. He has become its prisoner, unable at times to assert his own autonomy and agency. (It is not as though his prescience is 'all seeing', indeed it is partial, selective; obviously something else is at play here, most likely the unconscious. It is certainly not an objective 'sense'. Similarly I don't view the collective unconscious, as exemplified as the collective memory of the Fremen, as in anyway objective. Perhaps like memory prescience is a creative process. In the case of the Fremen we cannot rule out the influence of the hand of the Missionaria Protectiva either.) Estranged from wider society by his semi-divine powers he draws closer to his younger sister Alia. It is impossible to not feel a deep sympathy when encountering Alia, St Alia-of-the-Knife, Abomination, object of veneration. Merely a teenage girl. Prescient and fully conscious at birth. 

     With all of that established, and bubbling away nicely, we witness the arrival of an embassy from the Spacing Guild headed by steersman Edric. Among the entourage is a gift, Hayt. The ghola. Paul recognises immediately that Hayt is in fact Duncan Idaho - his friend and weapons trainer. Dead Idaho. The Idaho murdered by the Harkonens 15 yrs previously. Restored to life. Re-animated as it were. Re-heated and served. The Bene Tleilax are good at that sort of thing, manufacturing not only humans to order but other even more morally reprehensible things: war, famine, & poverty. Soon we learn that Hayt has been trained as a mentat and in Zensunni philosophy, but importantly, for the plot at least, he has no recollection of his earlier life. The gift is accepted, and a strange relationship develops between Hayt and the Atreides that only serves to further isolate them from the Fremen, who are rightly suspicious of the Tleilaxu and their 'products'. They have a particular aversion to the ghola's eyes which in common with all of his type are metal.

     Slowly the plots converge. Muad'dib looses his sight in a terrorist explosion (A small nuclear device known as a 'stoneburner' is detonated within the Imperial capital) and then his prescience. And at the climactic, melodramatic conclusion of the novel, Paul and Duncan end their exile, their occultation. Their identities restored, they become once again fully integrated human beings. And thus restored Paul walks out alone into the desert. Perhaps we are supposed to have in mind here the death of Alexander the Great at a similar age, and the occultation of T E Lawrence at the end of WWI. Unlike Indra, the slayer of Vritra, who I discussed in my 'Dune' post, Paul rejects his cosmological dharma. It is left to others to fulfil that terrible purpose. (This is for others to explore, but I do wonder if in the relationship between Paul and Duncan there is an echo (and a faint one at that) of that between Arjun and Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita. Just a thought. Be that as it it may, Duncan can be seen as Paul's moral anchor.) 

     'Dune Messiah' has caused me reassess my attitude to Science Fiction and Fantasy writing. I still haven't changed my mind about the literary quality of both genres, but I've come to see that both fulfil important roles within the culture. It works something like this: the Enlightenment with its emphasis on reason degraded the position of myth in Western Culture, echoing both the earlier Protestant Reformation, and its jihad against 'superstition' **, and British Deism. These movements tended toward dis-association, an alienation in humanity. One that industrial, mass society has exacerbated. It helped feed the growing 'Meaning Crisis'. Romanticism 'rediscovered' myth, as a means to heal the breach. Think, for instance of the work of William Blake. It, Romanticism, had perhaps a better understanding of being human than the Enlightenment. However, dis-associative culture remained and continues today in certain sections of elite culture. In the twentieth century Carl Jung attempted to end the crisis in meaning by attempting to re-incorporate myth into what was essentially a new metaphysics. Later other thinkers have attempted the same: Joseph Campbell being a notable example whose cultural influence has been immense. It was Campbell, I believe, who pointed out that myth is the mirror of the self. In our own time both Jordan Peterson and John Vervaeke are attempting the same. I believe that both Sci-fi and fantasy are popular and 'spontaneous' attempts, largely outside elite culture and the academy, to heal that breach, to fill the vacuum created by Modernity. They are not therefore to be dismissed. Specifically I've come to see the 'Dune' sequence, in all it richness and complexity, to be very cultural important. It speaks to our time. I begin to wonder if the sequence is an extended metaphor for the Pax Americana.

*   Berlatsky is not alone in this. See Haifa Mahabir's essay 'Dune and Orientalism' on the 'Munitions of War' website. I'm not entirely sure whether she has read 'Dune' or not. I think not though.

** I've come to take the view that the Reformation in its attack on the sort of customs, such as ashing or the production of religious art, and which are common to other religions, as a form of de-naturing. Sadly attempts to re-nature ourselves, such as Anglo-Catholicism, have largely failed by being largely prescriptive and self-conscious, lacking in spontaneity (being overly concerned with the correct externals).

'Die Nibelungen'

      Apologies yet again for not having posted anything of late but the whole lockdown thing has been corrosive of my equilibrium. The depression and anxiety have returned. It has only served to further my mistrust of the msm; their coverage has been at times alarmist. I'm thinking of yesterday's front cover of 'The Daily Telegraph'. So much so I have given up watching and listening to the news, the better to protect my mental health. There really has to be a better way of managing this crisis.

     Over this last week the bf and I have been making our way through the immense, the epic 'Die Nibelungen' and what a gargantuan piece of cinema it is. All four hours and forty five minutes of it. (But no where near the length of Jacques Rivette's 'Out 1; Noli me Tangere' which weighs in at a staggering 13 hrs. I barely got past the grunting.) A brave undertaking, none the less, by one of the masters of German cinema, Fritz Lang (1890-1976), who with his wife, Thea von Barbou , wrote the script. Lang was a leading exponent of Expressionism, and here that heightened language is blended with an Secessionist aesthetic; Lang being directly inspired the illustrations, by Carl Otto Czeschka, in an abridged children's version of 'Die Nibelungen', even it appears borrowing the title. Both film and book, and Wagner's Ring Cycle, are based on the 12th century German epic, the 'Nibelungenleid', which itself has deep origins in the Germanic oral tradition, and in real events in Late Antiquity.

     The film, unlike the Ring Cycle, stays pretty faithful to the original. It is essentially a story of love and revenge. The film is divided into parts 'Siegfried' and 'Kemhilds Rache'.  'Siegfried' is the story of the the eponymous hero, his love for Kremhild the sister of the Burgundian King Hagen, and his betrayal and murder. The second part is the story of Kremhid's revenge upon his murders. And a thorough job she makes of it. I should add here that each part is sub-divided into Cantos - reflecting, I suppose, the structure of the original text. (It does make it easier watching at home. You can watch it in instalments as we did.)  I suppose those divisions to make for a 'literary' film, but don't be put off; they have little, if any, effect on the narrative drive which reaches a suitable dramatic and compelling climax as the bodies pile up. This is a visually stunning film, beautifully shot. Sometimes rich and complex, sometimes austere. There is a strong hieratic quality to scene after scene - very often the camera is static and the actors compose themselves like those in Czescka's illustrations. Though, I suspect, that isn't the only artistic influence; Kremhild, played by Margarete Schon, looks as though she has stepped out of a painting by the Belgian Symbolist Ferdinand Knopf. Scenes are often framed with architecture or members of the cast. Costumes are eclectic - part Byzantine, part Gothic, reflecting the cultural interplay of a 12th century text and a narrative set in the collapsing Roman Empire. Eclecticism, too, in a setting that has dragons, magic, Germanic paganism and Christianity. At times a fairy-tale world of wonders - and horrors.

Die Neblungen                                                                                                       

1924

Producer:                Erich Pommer
Director:                  Fritz Lang
Cinematographer:  Carl Hoffman, Gunther Rittau, Walter Ruttmann

'The River'

     More than likely in common with many other households in Britain we have a little ritual every evening after dinner that consists of sitting ourselves down in front of the television picking up the remote control and/or the Radio Times then complaining about the lack of something intellectually, emotionally engaging to watch. The word 'crap' is used. Repeatedly. Night after night, faced as we are by a never ending stream of mediocrity. Invariably we watch a repeat rather than 'live' TV. For months now we have been working the Doctor Who back catalogue. It is a cause of small wonder to me that a series that at times is so dreadful inspires such devotion.

     I really have little sympathy for the 'Defund the BBC' campaign, what after all would replace it? I was lucky enough to grow up during the Golden Age of broadcasting and it has left an indelible and welcome mark on my cultural and intellectual life. I'm looking to revive not remove. However I do wonder if its demise in now inevitable, along with say the mainline Protestant churches and the Universities - particularly the humanities departments. They really are, frankly, trashed. Some museums, newspapers and, here in the UK, the National Trust seem to be heading the same way. All of these organisations have positioned themselves as 'Blue Church'*. The recent BLM debacle post-Covid is not the real agent of this change, but the symptom of a greater cultural decline, which is a failure of purpose rooted in the collapse of narrative and in particular the collapse of religion. We are in the midst of a meaning crisis and Identity Politics, as Douglas Murray as so convincingly argued, is an attempt to establish a new metaphysics, a new meta-narrative. Yet another one, and one (I would argue) that has only intensified the crisis.

     Anyway enough with the pontificating, last week the bf came to the rescue and helped slough off the ennui with this wonderful film directed by Jean Renoir and based on the eponymous novel by Rumer Godden (1907-1998). It is a delight. Engrossing and visually rich. It seemed to me rather like the contemporary work of Powell and Pressburger, a feeling enhanced by the presence of actor Desmond Knight who appeared in a number of the latter's films.

     The setting is India during the British Raj, the time the early 1920s - the aftermath of WWI. Important that. The film is, essentially, the evocative  re-telling of Godden's own admittedly idyllic childhood. Not that it doesn't contain an iron fist in that velvet glove, but to explain that would be to reveal too much of the plot. It does however contain a familiar theme in Godden' work: the emergence from childhood of a young woman, with all its blind rages, joys and losses. A process here initiated by the arrival of a wounded American soldier, who inadvertently brings conflict in his wake as three characters vie for his attentions. The political situation in India as the independence movement gathered pace is handled tangentially. (It does not occur at all in the book.) 

     This will, no doubt, annoy some - but ignore the ire of the woke with all their simplistic puritanical censoriousness. (Intellectually its all pretty fraudulent in any case). Sit back and enjoy this quiet masterpiece. Of the two cinematic adaptations of her work - the other being 'Black Narcissus' - this apparently was Godden's favourite.

* for a definition of the 'Blue Church' and its opposite the 'Red Religion' see the work of Jordan Hall and Rebel Wisdom

The River                                                                                                               

1951

Producer:                 Kenneth McEldowney, Jean Renoir
Director:                  Jean Renoir
Cinematographer:  Claude Renoir

St Cadog, Llanspyddid

     On our journey back to the Infernal City we stopped briefly at Llanspyddid, between Brecon and Sennybridge (that whole valley of the Usk being some of the most beautiful countryside in Britain) so that I could photograph the church having noted, every time we pass by in the car, how beautifully it sits in its surroundings. An ancient place, dedicated to an early abbot of the monastery at Llancarfan in the Vale of Glamorgan. That picturesque quality is aided, I think, by the yew trees in the graveyard - the Ancient Yew Group has a system for classifying old yews: Ancient, Venerable and Notable and according to the The New Naturalist Library 'Brecon Beacons' edition (2014) Llanspyddid has one example of each. I didn't count how many yews are currently growing there (7/8 apparently), but there were once more: Edwin Poole in 'The Illustrated History and Biography of Brecknockshire',1886, mentions fourteen.

     Alas, on closer inspection it was all a bit of a disappointment - the church an orchestral player not a soloist. Its interest scenic rather than architectural. The graveyard is a mess - a visitor would be hard placed to find the pillar stone of the 7th-9th century AD that is traditionally said to commemorate Aulach, father of Brychan the founder of the ancient kingdom of Brycheiniog. And, to be honest, the church is somewhat lacking in interest. Not only was it closed but had the air of being abandoned. That said the porch, which by the looks of it was originally all of timber, and the little Victorian bell turret make a nice composition, but on the whole the church is somewhat dull. A simple unicameral structure like a Medieval church in rural Scotland. I suppose you could make the argument that St Cadog is a good example of how an ancient building, grown up in harmony with its surroundings, can fall foul of Modernity, and be left reeling. It suffered a restoration in 1886 at the hands of Charles Buckeridge of Oxford, though Edwin Poole praised it highly enough. Buckeridge who restored quite a number of churches in Breconshire, about twelve in all, was a pupil of George Gilbert Scott and heavily influenced by George Edmund Street, so you would think he might know better, though judging by Street's assault on North Luffenham church, perhaps not. The odd bit of research on the internet suggests that it did retain its Tilestone roof until the second half of the 20th century when it was replaced with artificial plain tiles. Artificial!! Buckeridge deserves some credit therefore for its retention at the time, when he could have easily swept it away and replaced it with slate. I suppose in its previous state the church must have resembled, somewhat, St James in Kinnersley. Buckeridge's bellcote is fine, but as for his east window the least said the better. And now, with the continuing decline in religious observance, indifference is completing the work. 

     I'm not a fan of comprehensive restorations - they tend to sweep too much away in the process, and after all an ancient structure such as this is an accretion of things, a layering of history, in which for good or ill each part has as a role to play. However here I would be willing to make an exception seeing Llanspyddid as a place that needs an 'unrestoration', a careful unpicking of Modernity.

     Richard Hall, (1817-1866), the local poet is buried in the churchyard.

Update 15/08/2026 On our way to the Royal Welsh Show in Builth Wells we noticed that there was a for sale sign up.  I've done brief search just now on the internet and found nothing.  So, perhaps it has been sold.

St Michael, Tenbury Wells I

     We had a further three stops on the way to Bewdley; Monkland Cheese Dairy (we really do recommend a visit), Leominster, and our third, which concerns us here, St Michael Tenbury Wells. From the burgeoning Late Gothic Revival at Kinnersley back to High Victorian Gothic.

     This, it has to be said, is a quite extraordinary building, best Camden Society approved middle-pointed, built both as parish church and school chapel, for it is part of a complex of buildings, such as All Saints, Margaret St or All saints, Boyne Hill, Maidenhead. Fruits all of the Tractarian movement intended to develop and nurture the spiritual and intellectual lives of the surrounding people and that have their origins in the work of Pugin, particularly in his polemical book 'Contrasts'. Here church and school are parallel to one another linked, umbilically as it were, by a cloister so as to form a quadrangle open to the west. From a distance the church looks like a gigantic scale model of a French High Gothic cathedral that had been dropped into the unsuspecting Worcestershire countryside, and to some extent it is a building out of time and place, for although it partakes to a degree of local materials and local styles it isn't vernacular like St James back in Kinnersley. Something is different, and that is, I suppose, that it is a product of an industrialising society, of Modernity. It is to a certain point self-conscious design, while Kinnersley organic. A building that at one time in the mid 20th century would provoke hatred among many architects and critics, but love in others such as Sir John Betjeman. Perhaps a building constructed out of antinomies. Changeable. Mannered - it is no mere copy of a medieval building, but an imaginative, thoughtful, if not wilful, set of variations on a theme. The details are ever inventive, and seem occasionally to move into unknown territory. Restless even, certainly it has that relentlessness and intensity common to that stage of the Gothic Revival. Earnestness, and muscularity are terms often used in this context. That context being a forceful reaction to the good manners of most 18th and early 19th century architecture. The architect was Henry Woodyer (1816-1896) one time pupil of William Butterfield. It was built for that remarkable man Sir Frederick Ouseley - professor of music, priest, composer and Baronet - with the intention of not only satisfying the spiritual requirements of the local population but playing a national role in the revival of English church music, a role it played until the closure of the school in 1985. Since then the church has continued parochial, and until June this year the school occupied by another educational establishment. The building is now empty and apparently up for sale. I wish I had known this at the time as I would have taken some photos of the school buildings.

     Alas, due to the current events we couldn't gain entrance, so here are the photos I managed to take of the exterior of the chapel.  

St James, Kinnersley

     Back to Worcestershire at the weekend for a family birthday with three stops en route. The first was the church of St James at Kinnersley in the far west of Herefordshire. Ever since we've been making this particular journey I've been intrigued by this church - it looks so beautiful from the road. A visit was a must particularly on learning that the church contained work by that great Late Victorian architect G F Bodley, and that the graveyard contained his mortal remains. Thankfully our visit did not end in disappointment. The church is a delight. Small, aisled, nestling under a vast roof of riven Herefordshire Tilestones of local sandstone. The square headed aisle windows are a delight - very elegant. Medieval or Bodley? There is a timbered porch and there's that wonderful, masculine tower. Architecture that seems in harmony with the landscape it inhabits.

     Inside there are two arcades, one sturdy, the other one light and lithe Perp Gothic. It has those small inconsequential capitals we saw in the choir of Malvern Priory.  There are a number of monuments too, the most spectacular being the Smalman monument in the chancel. Carolean and in need of much help. And then there is the work by Bodley. Most conspicuous and beautiful are the large areas of diaper pattern above the aisle arcades. They are fading a bit. The church is currently undergoing a restoration/repurposing; I just hope they do as little as possible to the wall paintings here.  They are in just the right state of 'pleasing decay'. However I think that Bodley's work in the chancel would probably benefit from a more proactive approach. I should add here that the work is not by the usual suspects but the then incumbent the Rev Frederick Andrews under Bodley's supervision. Andrews incumbency started in 1873 and ended in 1920. In addition to all the painted work there are Bodley tiles in the chancel (made by Godwin of Lugwardine, also in Herefordshire), organ case and beautiful wrought iron chandeliers like those at St Helen's Brant Broughton in Lincolnshire (Bodley restored the church there in the early 1870s) and were made by Coldron's in the village. I suspect they supplied the chandeliers here too. I suspect too, that the roofs were replaced by Bodley or in an earlier restoration by Thomas Nicholson in 1867-9. I would suggest also that the chancel was decorated first, the nave second.

     As I said the parish are currently busy at work on the church - there is much do. I only hope the work will not rob the church of its special atmosphere. As it is there is too much clutter.

RIBA Traditional Architecture Group Exhibition

     Put out the flags! Sound the Trumpet! Let each true subject be content to hear me what I say!

     The Traditional Architecture Group, of which I am an associate member,  is currently holding an online exhibition - the times being what they are. And I am pleased and honoured to have two works on display for your perusal and delight. Here lies the link.