Whenever I learn of extreme places – End to Ends, alphas and omegas, highests and lowests – I can’t help plotting a bike route between them. So when I found that Britain’s Biggest Church and Smallest Church are connected by endless miles of mostly car-free, pleasant promenade riding, I had to ride it.
SEE THE ROUTE
‘Smallest Church to Biggest’ at cycle.travel
That Biggest Church is Liverpool Cathedral, and that Smallest Church is St Trillo’s, on the north Welsh coast just outside Colwyn Bay. Which is where I started this bleak, grey, drizzly morning, after a ludicrously early train ride whose only window views were my haggard reflection against the background darkness.
There are various candidates for ‘Britain’s Smallest Church’, depending on definition (seating capacity? volume? footprint area? intact? open? regular services?).
St Trillo’s is a simple delight, and a likeable contender for the title. It’s convenient – right on the seafront cycle path in Rhos, next to Colwyn Bay. It’s open – even at 8am on this miserable February morning. It’s got that timeless vibe – built 1500s, restored 1935, but on a sacred site (and holy spring) of antiquity.
And it’s generally recognised as Britain’s smallest active church. Because it’s certainly active (regularly used for weddings, for example) and is just eight feet by eleven, seating six people (so a good way of keeping the guest list brief). I’ve seen bigger garden bike sheds.
The chapel’s simple interior also has some lovely stained glass with an image of St Trillo himself, perhaps patron saint of birdseed, not sure.
My prayers to him were immediately answered with the revelation of a welcoming cafe open for breakfast. The Coast Cafe lives up to its name with a nautical theme (toilets: ‘buoys’ and ‘gulls’), good coffee and a lively atmosphere of locals.
An NCN5, the cycleway runs east from here right along the waterside all the way to Prestatyn, virtually all traffic-free and on a succession of wide, smooth, flat, all-tarmac promenade paths; I cycled it in 2021. It’s one of Britain’s most stress-free bike routes – though if anxiety does strike, there are regular beaches, cafes, pubs and shops to alleviate the symptoms.
However, I didn’t go all the way to Prestatyn. At Rhyl I cut inland down the NCN84 to snack at St Asaph (Welsh: Llanelwy), in keeping with my ecclesiastical-extremes theme. The village – population 3,300 – is actually a tiny city: of the UK’s seventy-odd, only St David’s, down in Pembrokeshire, is smaller.
(If you’re confused by what makes a city, see the excellent and funny Map Men YouTube video on the subject. You’ll be no less confused afterwards, though.)
St Asaph’s Cathedral is worth a look, not least for its display cabinet showing a copy of the original Welsh Bible, in William Morgan’s 1588 translation. For example, the first commandment is ‘Nid wyf yn y swyddfa ar hyn o bryd. Afonwch unrhyw waith i’w gyfieithu.’
Asaph himself, by the way, is the patron saint of doing things as quickly as possible, hurriedly, I think.
A series of back roads and lanes rolled me east over the gentle hillsides to my next snack stop and next sacred target: the holy well in the village of Holywell, whose name origins are lost in time. St Winifred’s Well is dubbed the ‘Lourdes of Wales’; but in contrast to France’s miracle spring, which only appeared in the 1800s, Holywell’s has been producing uncanny happenings for many centuries.
Uncanny happenings such as people self-reporting medical cures unsupported by randomised, controlled, double-blind, peer-reviewed studies. Why? How? Nobody knows. It’s a spiritual mystery.
The chapel at St Winifred’s has some more lovely stained glass: images of St W herself and her colleague St Beuno. He was part of the holy well story, which started when a sexual predator attacked Win. She resisted, and the evildoer cut off her head in fury. However, Beuno was there, and pluckily replaced her head, which miraculously reattached itself, restoring her to life, just as the magic spring appeared.
Winifred’s Lazarus-like comeback makes her a pretty good role model, showing how virtue can be rewarded. Beuno meanwhile is sometimes called ‘Bono’ in English, so may be the patron saint of overpromoted pop singers.
Now back on the NCN5 coast path, my bike bottle replenished with holy water, I went through Flint (Welsh: Fflint). I cursed Sustrans for taking me on an unnecessary detour before realising it was all in good cause, namely to take us right past the imposing remains of Fflint Ccastle. I climbed the stairs, admired the estuary views to the Wirral, and carried on towards Cconnah’s Qquay.
From Connah’s Quay NCN568 runs alongside the industrial-looking canal to Chester: seven miles of dead straight, flat, smooth, wide, and, erm, rather boring towpath. But as a way to get to the splendid galleried, half-timbered, Wetherspooned city – my destination for the night – it was very welcome, especially with a helpful tailwind.
Miles today: 50