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St Peter,
Brampton If there is
a more intensely rural and deliciously remote spot in
Norfolk than Brampton churchyard then I do not know of
it. As before, I had come here from the church at
Burgh-next-Aylsham, stepping down out of the churchyard
into the water meadows of the Bure, the lazy river
winding aimlessly on its way to the far distant sea and
separating the parishes of Burgh and Brampton. A wooden
footbridge crosses the river and then a muddy track takes
you downstream through clambering thickets of angelica
and nettles energised by the spring sunshine after the
long cold sleep of winter.
I was cycling from Cromer to Norwich through the back
lanes, and this was one of the highlights of the day for
me - still the sun beat down, and my heart was full. A
doleful swan regarded me with hope from beneath the
footbridge. When she saw I had nothing for her to eat,
she snorted and turned away huffily. I didn't mind. I was
happy to be here.
If you are in a car, of course, you cannot make this
journey from Burgh to Brampton. Only pedestrians,
cyclists and those on horseback can do so, and even then
I had to push my bike. Eventually, the track took me up a
steep bank and into a farmyard on the far side of the
river. There is a narrow road beyond, and already I could
see the brick crown of St Peter's round tower above the
trees.
I knew that the church would be locked, and that there
would not be a keyholder notice. Brampton church seems
always to be locked - except for one occasion, when I
came this way on one equally sunny Saturday in 2005,
almost thirteen years ago to the day exactly.
It was the first time I had crossed from the Burgh side
of the river, and as I got closer to the church I could
see bunting suspended from the trees, and a small marquee
set up among the gravestones. What on earth was going on?
The door was open. With some surprise, I stepped into the
open church to find it a hive of activity. It was the day
of the parish spring fair, and there were about twenty
people standing behind tables laden with jumble, raffle
tickets, cups of tea and what are known as 'crafts'. It
sounds terrible, but it wasn't - they were mostly elderly
people coming together in the one building at their
centre of all their lives, to celebrate another winter
survived, I suppose.
I was pleased to be there, not least for the cup of tea I
had been gasping for during the last thirty miles. I felt
slightly awkward at first, as I was the only customer,
but they made me feel welcome, and were quite happy for
me to wander around taking photographs. It only made me
wonder why they didn't welcome pilgrims and strangers at
other times.
This church is heartily Victorianised inside, with tiles
and pitch-pine benching. At some point, the arcade
between the south aisle and the nave has been removed,
presumably to allow a single roof span, and the result is
a large, square space with the long, thin chancel off at
one corner. It isn't possible to see the altar from most
of the nave.
If you only read Cautley, you probably wouldn't bother to
visit St Peter. For some reason, he fails to mention this
church's one great treasure. But surprise, surprise, it
has fine figure brasses, more than half a dozen of them,
as well as numerous inscriptions, all to members of the
Brampton family, half a century or so either side of the
Reformation. Some, unfortunately, are remounted
vertically on the wall and in the splay of a window (if
there is ever a fire, they will melt and run like butter)
but the best are in the sanctuary floor.
Best of all is the one that Pevsner unaccountably missed.
It lies on the north side, a metal flower-stand placed
roughly on top of it. It shows Robert Brampton and his
wife. They lie in shrouds, their inscriptions still
intact, a shield between them. They gaze up at a perfect,
precious and rare image of the Holy Mother of God and the
Infant Christ. How on earth did that survive the Anglican
and Puritan reformers? It felt like a secret, here.
Coming back in 2018, I wasn't able to see it again, but I
thought of it, ancient and secret, while the churchyard
boiled with the coming of spring, the singing of birds,
and the surreal yet happy laughter of a wedding party in
the garden of the old rectory across the road. I stood
there for a while, and then got back on my bike and
headed on to Stratton Strawless.
Simon Knott, March 2019
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