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All
Saints, Hilborough
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Hilborough
church, like its near neighbour Great
Cressingham, is big, impressive,
architecturally important, and apparently
little-known. The two churches have more specific
similarities: the way a magnificent tower has
been built against an aisled and clerestoreyed
nave, but retaining the chancel of almost two
hundred years earlier, and the symbolism in the
flushwork, with the crowned M of the Blessed
Virgin Mary and the crowned sword of St Michael
alternating in the base course at both churches.
The reason that both are less-well known than
they should be is also the same, I am afraid. Unlike its
neighbour, All Saints is not far from very busy
traffic on the Thetford to Swaffham road.
However, unless you knew it was there, you would
not think to look for it, for it is set in the
grounds of Hilborough Hall, not a quarter of a
mile from the road, but invisible from it. There
is no signpost to it, either: you travel down a
track which leaves the main road almost opposite
the lane to Foulden, and eventually the splendid
tower emerges out of the trees.
The
track sets you down gently in a meadow to the
south of the church, but it is clear that this
building was intended to be seen from the west,
because the frontage of the tower is spectacular.
In the spandrels of the door, a wild man holds a
severed head, while a merchant of the 15th
century looks across at him. In between are the
arms of the Lords of the Manor flanked by shields
which were probably painted at one time.
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The
graveyard is a peaceful spot, the trees absorbing the
sound of the traffic. But when you go up to the south
door, you will probably find it locked, and there is no
keyholder notice. I was all prepared to be fairly grumpy
about Hilborough church, but I think the lack of easy
access is probably more a consequence of the church's
secrecy and quietness than any deliberate attempt to be
unwelcoming; when I spoke to the churchwarden and to the
Rector I found that they were both the loveliest people,
and the churchwarden, who has the key and lives on the
road to Foulden, is very happy for people to come and
have a look. Perhaps it has just not occured to them to
make it easier for people to visit, although there is
absolutely no reason why this church should not be open
during the day. Most likely, they do not think of this
building as a potential act of witness, or as an
opportunity for strangers to experience a sense of the
numinous, but rather as a rather flash venue for their
Sunday Club, subsidised by grant aid from charities and
central government.
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called on the churchwarden earlier, and found her
out, but when we arrived at the church the door
was open anyway. Two men were refurbishing the
organ, and there was also an interment of ashes
underway in the graveyard, and for once it made
Hilborough seem like a busy place. In fact, this
sense of a backwater is something of an illusion,
because on a couple of occasions in history this
parish has touched the national consciousness.
For a couple of centuries, the Rectors here were
members of the Nelson family, including the
Admiral's father, who left here for Burnham
Thorpe shortly before Horatio was born. However,
on the occasion of the bicentenary of Trafalgar a
couple of years ago, the Norfolk County Council
guide almost completely neglected to mention
Hilborough, stating simply that Horatio
Nelson spent some of his holidays here. The parish,
it must be said, were not unhappy with this,
prefering to stay out of the limelight, but the
Rector was most indignant, even going as far as
appearing on BBC Radio Norfolk to state
Hilborough's case. As a result, there was a
lavish celebration here, probably the most
spectacular event in the church for years, and as
a consequence Hilborough has been placed firmly
on the Nelson Trail. As the Rector said to me,
'Barsham have got his mum, he was born at Burnham
Thorpe - but we've got seven Nelson bodies in the
graveyard, what more do they want?!'
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Sam
Mortlock described the nave of All Saints as a calm
interior, and this is exactly right. There are no
Victorian dramas - no 19th century glass at all, apart
from the unfortunate banding in the east window - and the
overwhelming impression is of dust gently settling
through creamy light onto old woodwork. The one great
excitement is above the south doorway now. This is the
early 17th century tympanum which once fitted into the
top of the chancel arch, and bears a spectacular royal
arms to James I, dated 1611. The rose and the thistle
have never looked so verdant, and above them is James I's
unforgettable motto, Exurgat Deus Dissipentur Inimici,
'Rise up oh God and Scatter my Enemies', a Latin phrase I
often find myself muttering under my breath during a
typical working day.
At the end
of the south aisle is a pretty little lady chapel, which
is of particular interest because its furnishings came
from the church at West Tofts, restored by Pugin
in the 19th century, but marooned for nearly seventy
years now within the Battle Training Area, and
inaccessible to the public. The statue of the Blessed
Virgin and the infant Christ here once graced the lady
chapel there.
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chancel was used as a mausoleum by the Caldwell
family in the 17th and 18th centuries, and their
memorials are scattered somewhat bizarrely over
the walls, one creating a kind of blank entrance
where the sacristy door would once have been. But
the piscina and sedilia are the originals from
about 1300, with characterful faces at the
intersections, including a monk and a knight.
Above, chirpy angels look down, holding the
instruments of the passion. Wandering
back through the cool light towards the
blank-faced 14th century font, I looked down at
the ledger stones, and saw that they were all for
members of the Nelson family. But curiously, the
Nelsons were not the only famous military family
of the 19th century to touch this place, for
resident in the Hall next door in the 1840s was
Arthur Richard Wellesley, MP for Norwich, and,
more significantly, eldest son of the Duke of
Wellington. We may suppose that his father
visited him here and attended Divine Service in
All Saints. Wellesley the younger had to resign
his post and leave Norfolk when his father died
in 1856, to become the second Duke. This was the
occasion on which he is said to have uttered that
immortal line Think
what it will be when the Duke of Wellington is
announced and only I come in.
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