Lord, Thou knowest me better than I know myself. I am growing older and will someday be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody's affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest Lord that I want a few friends at the end.

When you go cycling regularly around the East Anglian countryside, some days are better than others. I enjoy cycling in all weathers, although high winds can defeat me and rain at the end of the day makes me gloomy. Similarly, a day spent visiting medieval churches can uplift and inspire; but it can make the heart very heavy when you are locked out of almost everywhere. A combination of bad weather and locked churches does little to lift the spirits.

And so it was that I came to Rushall at the end of a long afternoon, just as the heavy skies were starting to weep. It was my thirteenth church of the day, but I had only found two of them open. Of the others, I had got into some by tracking down keyholders, but the rest were simply soulless fortresses, with no keyholder notices or welcome signs. At Dickleburgh, I had nearly despaired. At Billingford I had thought how sad it was, that the parish appeared to have no need to be open as an act of witness to strangers, pilgrims and those with a thirst for a sense of the spiritual. Indeed, I wondered if they actually had room in their hearts to welcome the tax collectors and sinners who might respond to the sense of the numinous they'd find by wandering into an open church on their own, on a weekday. And at Scole I had been told brusquely by the churchwarden's wife that they simply didn't open the church to visitors.

Most Norfolk churches are open during the day - but around here in the Waveney Valley they are not. There are little spots of light - an enthusiastic historian at Thorpe Abbotts, the nine keyholders of Starston, the glorious open church of St Mary at Diss. But it was mostly darkness, a glowering sulk beneath God's sky.

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others' pains, but help me to endure them with patience.

At locked churches, I often find myself told by the churchwarden that their insurance company won't allow them to keep the church open, or that they've had a break-in. This always seems very curious to me, since Ecclesiastical Insurance, the main church insurance company, actively encourages churches to be open - indeed, it is the first point on their advice sheet.

Of course, it may simply be that such churches are not willing to make the effort that would enable them to be open - locking valuables and equipment away, making sure furniture is security coded and bolted down, and the like. And, of course, insurers of churches are like any other insurance companies - they know that the vast majority of claims they receive are for incidents at locked premises, not open ones; most of the claims made against church insurance companies are for damage caused by break-ins, not for valuables that have been stolen.

A leading member of Churchwatch contacted me to tell me that, statistically, locked churches are far more likely than unlocked ones to be vandalised, are more likely to be broken into, and are even slightly more likely to have something stolen from them.

If we all left our cars unlocked and immobilised, with no valuables left inside, insurance premiums would plummet overnight. It is the same with churches. Of course insurance companies want churches to be open!

I dare not ask for an improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessing cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken. Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint - some of them are so hard to live with - but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.

And I came to Rushall, and it was locked and it was raining, and I had cycled almost fifty miles to get this far, and there was a padlock on the door and I was feeling very sorry for myself. I photographed the early round tower with its late-medieval octagonal top, the refaced walls and refurbished window tracery, and then I came back to the porch. I shook the padlock, partly in frustration and partly in the hope that it might spring open (this happened to me once at a church in Northumberland). The rain fell in sheets across my back, and as soon as I had photographed the padlock on the locked doors (you can see the photograph above) I snuggled my camera under my jacket.

I heard a movement behind me, and discovered that I wasn't alone in the churchyard. There was a man, bearded and in his early thirties, wearing a white rain cape. At first, I wondered if he was looking at gravestones, but he walked up the path towards me. It never bothers me meeting strangers in country churchyards; I am always pleased to see a human face in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps it would be different if I wasn't six feet tall and thirteen and half stone. I always assume that I am big enough to dissuade anyone from any monkey-business, and fit enough to run away if necessary. But as it happened there was an air of peace about him that you find more often in older people.

We greeted each other, and I said something about the church being locked, and joked that I'd hoped he might be a keyholder; actually, I thought this was unlikely, since he seemed to be some kind of rambler or hiker rather than a local. He smiled, and took the padlock in his hand.

I don't exactly know what happened next, because he certainly didn't have a key; but the next thing I knew was that he was pulling the doors open towards him - and here's the strangest thing: the padlock was still in his hand.

I said something stupid, like "wow, that's a useful skill!"

He smiled. "Come and see", he said, beckoning me to follow.

They were the first words he'd spoken. "Hang on a sec", I mumbled, and took a photo of the opened porch, which you can see below. Funny thing is, I could have sworn that I got him in this shot as well; but he isn't in the photograph, so he must have already gone inside.

By the time I followed him into the porch, he had opened the inner door and gone into the church. I can only assume that this door must have been already unlocked - after all, the trick of opening a padlock is one thing, but undoing a solid Victorian door lock without a key is quite another.

Inside, it was much as you would expect; substantially Victorianised, all pretty much a result of the 1870s. There is a flamboyant prayer desk, which Pevsner thought might be Spanish. Not much else was exciting, but it was pleasing, and obviously well-looked after. If I had found it open, I'm sure I would have liked it a lot. I took a photograph or two as he stood there. I'm not sure if he was watching me, or if his mind was on other things; I don't think he was actually praying, so perhaps he was just soaking up the atmosphere, wallowing in the sense of the numinous. I've often noticed that people in old church buildings do this, as if they are seeking to feed a hunger for the spiritual, a need that the world outside can't easily meet. It seemed rude to interrupt.

He turned to go - but I called him back, and asked him to stay awhile. I had some sandwiches in my rucksack, and I offered him one. He took it, and broke it, and in that moment I was sure I recognised him; but, of course, he vanished from my sight.

Simon Knott, July 2005