St Gerrans, Portscatho, Cornwall
The Celtic Cross in the churchyard has weathered to a stone lollipop, and I’d have missed it, if I hadn’t seen a photo. Alfie spotted it first.
Frank had been on a trip to his local church in Ombersley, and was knowledgeable about the features and their use. Alfie read tombstones with alacrity, quite a feat for a five year-old. Well done those teachers!
We paused at the Holy Water stoop in the porch, a sure sign that this portion of the church pre-dated the Reformation. I explained what it was for, and we made the sign of the cross together. Some holiness would have remained. It is timeless.
According to legend, St Gerran was rowed across the bay in a golden boat with silver oars, but when the Bronze Age barrow was excavated, there was no sign of a saint, or a golden boat: this may have come as a disappointment.
I was impressed that the church was open, and made a point of leaving a donation. There was a card reader, and I have a phone. What a long way we’ve come since the days of golden boats and silver oars.
I knelt at the altar rail and prayed for peace.. Alfie said in no uncertain terms that he prayed every day and didn’t see the need to join in now. I wasn’t going to argue, I only invited participation to be polite.
Frank was keen to explore the gallery, so we ventured upstairs There was much to wonder at: rain dripping into a bucket, a “Concert Here 7:30pm” hand-written sign stuffed behind a chair, an ancient stained glass window ….
I had noticed a sign indicating that servicemen were buried here, and we found four war graves. I always stop to pay my respects, and was pleased to see that the plots were well tended.
One, of a merchant seaman, “Known Unto God,” brought tears to my eyes. Was this young man washed ashore below, identified only by the remnants of his uniform? I wondered about his family, and for a moment, felt their grief.
I am a lifelong explorer of churches, and always find peace within.
Here’s a poem by Philip Larkin than sums up my feelings entirely
