By my calculation, I've walked into more than fifty churches, chapels, abbeys and cathedrals this year. And yet, if I'm honest, and there's something rather embarrassing about all this, I still don't really understand what I'm looking at.
I've admired the architecture, wondered at the age of the buildings, deciphered gravestones, read memorials to long-dead landowners and stood beneath towers whose bells have rung across their villages for centuries. I've discovered chantries, monasteries, abbeys, chapels and churches that have been rebuilt, enlarged, stripped, restored and rebuilt again.
I don't know my Baptists from my Methodists. I know that there were Protestants and Catholics, but I'm not entirely sure when those terms became useful, or what they actually mean. I've encountered Congregationalists, Calvinists, Puritans, Dissenters and Nonconformists, and I'm reasonably sure they aren't all different names for the same thing.
Then there's Henry VIII and the Reformation, the Dissolution of the Monasteries, Cromwell and the English Civil War. There are Catholic churches that look medieval, Anglican churches that were once Catholic, cathedrals that somehow aren't Catholic at all, and chapels that seem to have appeared because someone disagreed with someone else about something.
And then there is the money.
Quite often the biggest tomb in the church belongs to the local landowner. The grandest memorial commemorates a family who funded the tower, rebuilt the nave or paid for a new set of bells. A chapel may have been endowed by a wealthy benefactor. A monastery might once have owned vast areas of land. And then, at some point, that land and wealth changed hands.
The more churches I visit, the more I realise that religion isn't simply a story about what people believed. It's also a story about who had authority, who held power, who owned the land and who paid for everything.
And that, I think, is where this starts to get interesting.
First, a confession: this isn't an attempt to explain Christianity to Christians.
If you were brought up attending church, you may find some of what follows painfully obvious. You may also find my attempts to disentangle the various strands rather amusing or simplistic.
I'm writing this because I'm the person who turns up at the church on a walk, reads the information board, admires the medieval font, wonders why there is a monument to some enormously important family taking up half the wall, and then discovers that the building has been through three religious upheavals, a Civil War and the Dissolution of the Monasteries.
I want to understand it. And perhaps I'm not alone.
Because churches are everywhere on our walks. They are often the oldest buildings in the village, and sometimes the best surviving evidence of what the place was like hundreds of years ago. To understand the church is, therefore, to understand something about the village itself.
So, let's start at the beginning.
Catholic and Protestant: what actually happened?
For most of medieval England (Middle Ages: 5th to 15th Century), the Western Church was Catholic, and ultimately recognised the authority of the Pope in Rome.
That doesn't mean that everyone went around describing themselves as "Catholic" in the modern sense. It was simply ‘the Church’.
Then, in the 16th Century, came the Reformation.
It wasn't one argument and it wasn't one event. Across Europe, people began challenging aspects of the established Church and arguing about Scripture, authority, salvation, worship and the role of the clergy.
The movement produced a number of different reforming traditions, which collectively became known as Protestantism. The word itself comes from a formal "protest" made by supporters of the Reformation in 1529. So, yes, there really is a protest in Protestant.
But England's story was rather different from the simple idea that Henry VIII woke up one morning and decided to become a Protestant.
Henry VIII: religion, marriage and money
Henry VIII's break with Rome began principally over his desire to have his marriage to Catherine of Aragon annulled. The Pope wouldn't grant it.
Henry eventually broke the institutional relationship between England and Rome and established the monarch as supreme head of the Church in England.
But this wasn't initially a wholesale rejection of Catholic belief. England's religious settlement then changed repeatedly during the reigns of Henry's (three legitimate) children:
- Edward VI (on throne from 1547–1553): Son of Jane Seymour, he became king at a young age (10!) and pushed England in a more Protestant direction.
- Mary I (ruled from 1553–1558): Daughter of Catherine of Aragon, she is known for her persecution of Protestants, restoring Catholicism and attempted to reverse the Reformation. Often referred to as ‘Bloody Mary’.
- Elizabeth I (ruled from 1558–1603): Daughter of Anne Boleyn, she is celebrated for her long and prosperous reign known as the Elizabethan Era. She established a settlement that became the foundation of the Church of England as we know it.
So, when you see the word Anglican, it essentially means relating to the English tradition of Christianity that developed through the Church of England and its wider family of churches.
And this is where my confusion over cathedrals begins.
Are cathedrals Catholic?
Well, some are. But not necessarily.
Winchester Cathedral and Salisbury Cathedral, for example, were founded as Catholic institutions in the medieval period. They became part of the Church of England during the Reformation.
So today they are Anglican cathedrals.
The word "cathedral" doesn't describe whether a church is Catholic or Protestant. It describes its role as the principal church of a diocese, traditionally containing the seat of a bishop.
So, a cathedral can be Catholic, Anglican or belong to another (bishop-led) Christian tradition.
Another piece of the puzzle.
Then came the Dissolution
This is one of those phrases that keeps appearing in the history of the places I walk through: The Dissolution of the Monasteries.
It sounds almost administrative. It was anything but.
Between 1536 and 1541, Henry VIII's government closed England's monasteries, convents and other religious houses, confiscating their assets.
That word — assets — matters.
The monasteries weren't simply collections of monks living in old buildings. They could own enormous amounts of land, collect rents, receive bequests and donations, run farms and businesses, and employ large numbers of people. They were major economic institutions.
So, dissolving them wasn't simply about changing the way people worshipped. It was one of the greatest transfers of land and wealth in English history, greater even than the Saudi Wealth Fund buying Newcastle United.
The Crown acquired huge amounts of property, and much of it was subsequently sold or granted to favoured individuals.
That helps explain something else we repeatedly encounter on walks: the great landowning families.
Some families whose names appear prominently on church monuments became enormously wealthy in the centuries following the Reformation.
And wealth buys influence.
It pays for churches. It pays for towers. It pays for bells. It pays for chapels and memorials. It pays for restoration. And it buys a rather impressive place to be remembered.
Follow the money
Perhaps the most useful thing I've learned is that when you enter an old church, you shouldn't only ask: What did these people believe?
Ask: Who paid for this?
Who built the church? Who endowed the chantry? Who owned the land? Who paid the priest? Who collected the tithes? Who funded the tower? Who paid for those bells? And whose tomb is taking up half the church?
The answers often tell us as much about the village as the religious history does.
A medieval church could be a place of worship, but it was also part of the economic and social life of the parish. Landowners could act as patrons. Wealthy families could establish chantries, where priests were supported to pray for the souls of the dead. Ordinary people contributed through tithes, offerings, fees and bequests.
The church was therefore not detached from the economic life of the community. It was right in the middle of it.
And when religious institutions were dissolved, that economic relationship changed too.
What's a Dissenter?
Here's another word that has repeatedly confused me.
A Dissenter, or Non-conformist, was generally someone who rejected the established Church of England while remaining within the broader Protestant tradition.
This is important because a Dissenter wasn't necessarily someone rejecting Christianity. They might simply believe that the established church was wrong about how Christianity should be organised or practised.
And this is where the collection of names begins to multiply:
- Baptists.
- Congregationalists.
- Presbyterians.
- Quakers.
- Methodists.
- And others
They aren't simply different flavours of the same disagreement.
Some differences concern theology — what Christians believe.
Some concern church government — who should make decisions and how churches should be organised.
Some concern worship and practice.
And some concern things as fundamental as who should be baptised.
Baptists, Methodists and Congregationalists
The Baptists are particularly associated with the believer's baptism: the belief that baptism should follow a person's own ‘profession of faith’ rather than being something automatically administered to infants.
Congregationalists place particular emphasis on the independence of the individual local congregation rather than having authority imposed through a hierarchy of bishops.
Methodism came much later. It emerged from an 18th Century revival within the Church of England, associated particularly with John Wesley and his brother Charles, before developing into a distinct movement and, eventually, separate denominations.
And then there is Calvinism.
That one is especially confusing because Calvinism isn't simply another denomination sitting alongside Baptists, Methodists and Congregationalists.
It is primarily a theological tradition associated with the 16th Century reformer John Calvin and the wider Reformed movement.
Some denominations have historically been strongly influenced by Calvinist theology.
So perhaps the simplest lesson is: Not every religious label describes the same kind of thing.
Some describe a church. Some describe a theological tradition. Some describe how a church is governed. Some describe a historical relationship with the established Church.
No wonder I've been confused.
And then Cromwell walked in
Just when England's religious story seemed complicated enough, along came the 17th Century.
The arguments over religion did not disappear after Elizabeth I.
They intensified.
Puritans wanted further reform of the Church of England. There were disputes over worship, church government and the authority of bishops. These religious disagreements became entangled with arguments about the power of the monarchy and Parliament.
And as a result, eventually England descended into civil war.
The English Civil War is often remembered as Cavaliers versus Roundheads, King versus Parliament.
But beneath that simplified picture were arguments about religion, authority, government and the nature of English society.
Oliver Cromwell was a committed Puritan and Parliamentarian who eventually became the dominant political figure in England after the execution of Charles I.
The monarchy and the established Church were abolished for a time, with Cromwell a key figure in the establishment of a Republican Government. As ‘Lord Protector’, he was head of state from 1653 to his death in 1658. He sought to create a society aligned with Puritan values, banning traditional festivities deemed sinful and instituting days of fasting and prayer.
And then, in 1660, the monarchy was restored.
The story didn't end there. Religious divisions continued, and those who would not conform to the Church of England remained outside the established church.
Some of the chapels we encounter today are part of that much longer story.
The chapel next door
This is where the history starts becoming visible on a walk. A church and a chapel may look similar to us. Historically, they could represent very different relationships with authority.
The parish church belonged to the established Church.
A chapel might serve a particular community, denomination or purpose.
By the 18th and 19th Centuries, Nonconformist chapels were becoming an increasingly familiar part of the English landscape.
And these weren't marginal buildings in some insignificant sense. They were often at the heart of their own communities, with their own ministers, congregations, schools, burial grounds and social networks.
In some towns and villages, the chapel tells us that the religious history of the place didn't end with the Reformation.
It continued to evolve for centuries afterwards.
Look at the church — then look at the graveyard
One of the things I particularly enjoy about old churches is the way the building and its graveyard tell two different stories.
Inside, there may be magnificent memorials to landowners, benefactors and clergy. Outside, generations of ordinary people lie beneath much simpler stones and that contrast can be striking.
And sometimes the church itself tells you who had the money.
A new tower might bear the name of the family who paid for it. A brass plaque might commemorate the person who funded restoration. A grand tomb might dominate the chancel.
The wealthy could quite literally write themselves into the fabric of the parish.
But look closely and there are other stories too: tradespeople, sailors, farmers, labourers, children, families lost to disease and war, and generations whose names would otherwise have disappeared.
The church is not just a monument to the powerful. It is one of the few places where the powerful and the ordinary are still physically gathered together.
Some of the places I've already walked
I've begun to realise that I have been collecting examples of this story without knowing that I was doing so.
At Slapton, the remains of an old chantry college survive beside the Tower Inn. The tower is a fragment of a religious institution that once had resources and purpose of its own, while the parish church provides another part of the story.
At Ewelme in Oxfordshire, the parish church is extraordinary for a village of its size, reflecting the wealth and influence of the powerful families associated with the place.
At St Dogmaels, the White Hart stands almost opposite the remains of the great abbey. The monks who lived there were supposed to embody a life of religious discipline. The surviving stories of their drinking and womanising remind us that the people inside these institutions were, inconveniently, human.
And on the Clarendon Way, the journey between Winchester and Salisbury connects two of England's great medieval cathedrals — buildings that began their lives within the Catholic Church but are now part of the Anglican tradition.
Suddenly they aren't isolated curiosities. They're chapters in the same story.
The pub and the church
Perhaps this is why the relationship between the pub and the church has become such a recurring theme in my walks.
The pub is often one of the oldest buildings in the village too.
It may have provided accommodation, food and drink for travellers, tradesmen and the people working on local building projects. It might have been an inn, a coaching stop, a meeting place or simply the place where the community gathered when the day's work was done.
And the church next door could have been under construction for generations.
Stone had to be quarried. Timber felled. Materials transported. Masons employed. Carpenters hired. Food and drink provided. Money raised. Land managed. People buried.
The two buildings are different, but they belong to the same community. And between them, they can tell an extraordinary amount of its history.
Seeing differently
I started Pubs Worth the Walk because I wanted to find and promote good pubs at the end of good walks.
But somewhere along the way, the walks became something else.
A pub led to a village.
The village led to a church.
The church led to a manor.
The manor led to a family.
The family led to a tomb.
The tomb led to a chantry.
The chantry led to the Reformation.
The Reformation led to Henry VIII.
Henry VIII led to the Dissolution.
The Dissolution led to land, money and power changing hands.
And eventually those changes led to the chapels, denominations and communities that we still encounter today.
It is a remarkably long chain of cause and effect. And it means that the next time I walk into an ancient church, I hope I'll look at it differently.
I won't just wonder what did these people believe?
I'll wonder:
- Who had the authority?
- Who held the power?
- Who owned the land?
- Who paid for this?
- And perhaps most importantly: What happened here that explains why this building, this village and this community look the way they do today?
I don't know whether I'll ever become a Christian.
But I am beginning to understand that I don't have to be religious to find these places meaningful. They are part of the landscape I've chosen to walk through. And they are extraordinary historical documents.
Perhaps the church and the pub really are the history lesson for adults that we missed at school.
All we have to do is stop walking past them.
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