The little Church sprawls somewhat among the trees, a kink in the roofline giving it a slightly hump-backed look. The truncated tower is rather primitive; but it is not as old as it looks, being a 15th century perpendicular affair cut down to size and rendered in cement, probably by the early Victorians. An action like this is usually a sign that a place fell on hard times after medieval prosperity, and there was not enough money around during the 19th Century Anglican revival to rebuild it properly. The body of the church is slightly older than the tower; and, although the Victorians were busy here, Mortlock thought the 19th century windows were probably fairly accurate reproductions of what had been here before. The building is pleasingly irregular, and seems to slope up towards the east.
The red brick porch is early 16th century, and has the curiosity of two flanking niches at ground level. The upper part seems to be largely restored, but it would be interesting to know if there were once niches there as well. The modern copper sundial had weathered considerably since my first visit in the 1990s. It replaced a wooden 19th century one which is now inside the porch, above the south doorway. We unlocked the door and stepped inside. I must say that I found the interior rather gloomy, having come here from light-filled Elmsett. The west end of the nave feels rather crowded, thanks to a fine 18th century west gallery. The view to the east is slightly curious: there is no chancel arch, but the space is filled in above a roof beam to create a tympanum. Beyond, the chancel is filled with coloured light from the attractive east window with glass as jaunty as that in an ice cream parlour.
The roof is entirely rustic, the uneven ceiling rising above the roughly-hewn tie-beams. Perhaps the greatest treasure of the building is the elegant 13th Century holy water stoup by the south doorway. Did it come from here originally, I wonder? By contrast, the font of a century later is a plain, blockish thing. The benches are mostly Victorian, but one at least dates from 1589, when John Wilson, presumably the churchwarden, saw fit to have his name engraved upon it. Overall, the sense is of being in a plain and simple rustic building which speaks mostly of its post-Reformation history. William Vesey's memorial from the end of the 17th century appears rather grander than it would in a rather less humble setting, and I like St Margaret all the more for that.
The church is open to explore
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