Earlier this year I cycled between Britain’s biggest and smallest churches, Liverpool Cathedral and St Trillo’s, Colwyn Bay. (You can probably guess which is which.) So on this sunny day I couldn’t resist doing the Yorkshire equivalent, riding from its largest – York Minster – to the smallest, forty-odd miles to the east: the tiny Wolds gem of St James in Fordon, out Bridlington way.
I live within the sound of the Minster’s bells, which must make me the York equivalent of a Cockney, or something. I ride past it most days, and it’s a glorious sight I never tire of; neither do the crowds of tourists taking selfies in front of the magnificent South Transept on the shared bike-ped route.
The Minster recently marked (with a light show) the 40th anniversary of the infamous fire of July 1984, which destroyed much of the South Transept roof. Lightning was the overwhelmingly probable cause, though some people were determined to put it down to Divine Retribution for something. Maybe the pedestrianisation of the former main road that ran in front of that South Transept. Nobody will ever visit if you can’t drive, after all. That’s why York is a ghost town today.
Anyway, it all looked stunning this morning, and I soaked up the sunshine and the fume-free atmosphere before trundling off east along the Foss Islands path to Dunnington, where I got a pricy but tasty pork pie.
Just before Stamford Bridge I peeled off and took quiet lanes through Buttercrambe, which always puts me in mind of sponge cake, Burythorpe, Birdsall and Wharram-le-Street. Hardly any traffic, lots of sheep and cows, and several mild climbs.
At Duggleby I admired the elusive Gypsey Race, a winterbourne chalk stream that rises here and flows all the way to Bridlington harbour, ducking and diving and disappearing here and there en route.
Its name is nothing to do with Travellers, by the way – the name comes from the Old English for ‘burst into life’ – so if the Minster goes up in flames again people won’t be able to blame it on Divine Displeasure for politically inappropriate nomenclature.
After Duggleby I had the luxury of a long gentle downhill with a tailwind on a road virtually devoid of traffic. It was all rather lovely. At Wold Newton I stopped to have a snack by the pond and chatted to a local lady litterpicking. They like to keep their villages neat and tidy.
In the old, much-derided county of Humberside, which existed from 1974 to 1996, Wold Newton was the northernmost village. Curiously, the county’s southernmost village, down in what had previously been Lincolnshire, was also called Wold Newton. Some boundary-drawing civil servant must have had great fun gerrymandering that.
I pedalled up the tiny lane north to Fordon, home of Yorkshire’s smallest church in regular use: St James. It’s about the size of a typical domestic garage, in other words just too small to contain a modern-sized car.
There’s not much to the hamlet either, which sits at the junction of some groovy chalk dry valleys: just a few houses and a farm or two, plus the charming little church of St James near the crossroads.
St James has been closed and reopened more than once in its history, and it’s said that smugglers used to hide inside. Sadly I couldn’t get in to admire the decorated font or the miniature organ – they keep the building locked because of vandalism, and the key had gone AWOL today – but I could peek through the window.
There’s just enough space to comfortably accommodate the twenty or so regulars who come from round about to attend the services on the first Sunday of every month. (For comparison, York Minster holds over 2,000.) Though apparently you can squeeze in fifty or so people at a push. Which it would be.
The church itself is Norman, and celebrated its 900th anniversary in 2015. The then Archbish of York, John Sentamu, came along to enjoy the festivities. They were enlivened by a special festive beer made by Wold Top Brewery, the fine brewers whose base is a mile or two away.
It obviously didn’t take too long to walk around the church. So after a tranquil hour on the bench enjoying the afternoon sun, and waiting for the key which never turned up, I carried on up and over a wold. From the top I could suddenly see Scarborough and its hills in the distance, the North Sea, and the plains below. I plummeted down to the train station at Seamer, having rehydrated with a quick pint of Old Peculier at Cayton.
Big, small… size matters, but what’s inside matters more. I like the sound of that. I should make it into an inspirational poster.
On second thoughts, having just looked inside my panniers and seen the chaos of clothes, bike tools, bungees, electronics, books, stationery, snacks… maybe not.