Some Kent Churches: Scraps of Stone at Bridge

Approximately three miles south-east of Canterbury, lying right on the straight line of the old Roman road from Canterbury to Dover, is a village with the plain and unpromising name of Bridge.  As the name suggests, the place owes its existence to a thoroughfare; it's a crossing-place over the Nailbourne river, and the village basically consists of one road:

Despite its name, it's an attractive place - the road is populated by nice solid Kentish houses and pubs (I counted three within a short distance of each other, presumably left over from their service to all those Canterbury pilgrims).  The church is right on the road, and from that perspective looks like this:

But from a better perspective round the other side, it looks like this:

As you can see, from the outside it's all Victorian flint, not promising of much in the way of medieval delights.  It was heavily restored in 1859 - 'disastrously over-restored', says this authority.  But Arthur Mee promised me it contained 'medieval sculpture', and that's what I came to see.  In any case, any church which keeps an open door (and even a friendly sign saying 'come inside') is worth a visit, if only out of gratitude for such a welcoming spirit. This particular open door is a twelfth-century one:

With this friendly face, who survived the flinting:

Unexpected fragments of medieval stonework pretty much characterise Bridge.  This is what it looks like inside:

But this is where Arthur Mee led me, up to the chancel:

You see that semi-circular thing stranded in the middle of a wall on the left?  That's what we've come to see.

It's a tympanum, or the remains of one.  Its origin is a mystery; what door it topped, and where it stood and what happened to it, seem to be unknown.  But whatever strange history led it to its current abandoned position, it's remarkably well-preserved.  I'm more used to seeing things like this weathered by the elements, but this - the lower part, at least - is as clear as if it had been carved yesterday.  There are even traces of paint, always a vivid reminder that these objects looked very different in their original state.

It's probably fifteenth or early sixteenth century, to judge from the style and lettering (which is mostly indecipherable).  The top part depicts Christ in glory, with five scenes from the Book of Genesis below.  As you can see, the top is badly damaged - I assume deliberately - though you can make out the essentials of the scene: Christ in the centre, apparently on a cloud, between two figures, probably Mary and John, with angels around carrying scrolls. If you get close you can see the angels' wing quite distinctly:

But this is only a hint at what it might once have been, and it's the little scenes below which are really interesting.  They show the story of Adam and Eve and of Cain and Abel.  First on the left we see the expulsion from Eden, as they are driven out by an angel with a sword:

The text above them reads 'justicia dei', the justice of God.

Then Adam and Eve with the serpent (rather oddly placed after the expulsion):

Note the traces of bright blue paint by Eve's right shoulder and behind the serpent - there are also smudges of green on the leaves of the tree.  I like the delicate waves of Eve's hair.

The next three scenes depict the story of Cain and Abel.  First we see them offering their different sacrifices to God - Cain offers sheaves, and Abel a ram. In the central scene Abel is on the left and Cain on the right (they're labelled, 'Caym' and 'Abel').  The idea of the contrasting sacrifices is reinforced by the similar composition of the two scenes, and perhaps Abel's kneeling posture indicates his greater humility, intended to explain why his sacrifice was more pleasing to God.

For comparison, you might want to look at some manuscript illustrations of the scene in Harley 4381, Royal 17 E VII, and Royal 19 D II.

I particularly like the tongues of fire consuming the sacrifice on the altar - is it my imagination, or can you see a tinge of red paint remaining at the top of the flames?  There was certainly a blue sky, and I think you can tell that Cain was in red and Abel in green.

Finally, of course, Cain kills Abel:

Note how the curve of the frame follows the bending body of the murderer; it's always worth paying attention to how an object like this fits into its physical context.

I was surprised by both the quality of this tympanum and its location at Bridge. There's some very impressive carving just down the road at Patrixbourne, which was the subject of one of my earliest posts here, four years ago - that's Norman, but perhaps it inspired some anonymous artist or patron to this work 300 years later.

There are various other fascinating bits of carving nearby, such as this effigy of a vicar of Patrixbourne who died in 1512:

For some reason, it's cut in half, and his legs are separated from his head by some odd magic trick.  I don't know how it got this way (no, really, don't ask me, I have no idea), but the split is tastefully covered by a chair:

Above him is this, spattered by light from the east window:

The inscription which the pointing hand wants you to read is 'levavi oculos meos in montes', 'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills...'

On the other wall of the chancel, two more memorials:

Yes, that's a skull with worms crawling into it.  Lovely.  And a finger pointing at it, just so you don't miss it!

These are some of the surprises of Bridge.  It also has unusual double columns in the nave:

And interesting bits of stone wherever you look:

The stained glass was particularly bright, and cast colours all through the church:

Surprises everywhere.

'Mirror without spot, red rose of Jericho'

Blessed Mary, moder virginall,
Integrate mayden, sterre of the see,
Have remembraunce at the day fynall
On thy poore servaunt now prayng to thee.

Myrroure without spot, rede rose of Jerico,
Close garden of grace, hope in disparage,
Whan my soule the body parte fro
Socoure it frome myn enmyes rage.

The birth of the Virgin (BL Arundel 109, f.203)

This is a fifteenth-century two-verse prayer to the Virgin, fairly straightforward but appealing in its simplicity. The poem is from Oxford, Bodleian Library, Douce 1 (SC21575), a manuscript of Latin and English prayers intended for private devotional use. Here's a modernised version of the poem:

Blessed Mary, mother virginal,
Integrate maiden, star of the sea,
Have remembrance at the day final
Of thy poor servant now praying to thee.

Mirror without spot, red rose of Jericho,
Close garden of grace, hope in disparage, [disgrace, trouble]
When my soul the body parts fro [from]
Protect it from mine enemies' rage.


Integrate means 'perfect, spotless', and close 'enclosed', as in the hortus conclusus of the Song of Songs. Most of the phrases in this poem similarly are English translations of established titles for the Virgin, such as 'maris stella', 'star of the sea', and 'mirror without spot', which comes from Wisdom 7:26. They conjure up beautiful imagery - I particularly like 'close garden of grace', and 'red rose of Jericho'. The latter title comes from a mixture of scriptural (cf. Ecclesiasticus 24:18) and pious tradition: the rose mentioned in the Biblical verse was identified with a plant found (to quote the OED) 'in arid deserts of south-west Asia and north-east Africa, the dried fronds of which unfold under the influence of moisture'. A plant which, seeming to be dead, can yet be restored to life was quite naturally called a 'resurrection plant', and one popular association with the Virgin was described in the seventeenth century by Sir Thomas Browne in his Pseudodoxia Epidemica:

The Rose of Jericho, that flourishes every year just about Christmas Eve, is famous in Christian reports; which notwithstanding we have some reason to doubt, and are plainly informed by Bellonius, it is but a Monastical imposture, as he hath delivered in his observations, concerning the Plants in Jericho. That which promoted the conceit, or perhaps begot its continuance, was a propriety in this Plant. For though it be dry, yet will it upon imbibition of moisture dilate its leaves, and explicate its flowers contracted, and seemingly dried up. And this is to be effected not only in the Plant yet growing, but in some manner also in that which is brought exuccous and dry unto us. Which quality being observed, the subtilty of contrivers did commonly play this shew upon the Eve of our Saviours Nativity, when by drying the Plant again, it closed the next day, and so pretended a double mystery: referring unto the opening and closing of the womb of Mary.

A Middle English text roughly contemporary with the poem above explains an alternative legend:

Ioseph arose and toke þe childe and his modir and ȝede in to Egipt in þe nyȝt; and þere he was til herodes was dede. and ȝe schul vndirstonde þat oure lady seynt Marie and her soone dwellid in Egipt .vij. ȝere. and Egipt is fro Bethleem .xij. dayes iourney. And in þis wey þat oure lady seynt Marie ȝede in to Egipt, and in þe weye þat sche come aȝene, growe drye roses þe wich be cleped þe roses of Ierico, and þes roses growe in no place of aƚƚ þe contrey but onlich in þe same weye. and þes rosys scheperdis of þe contrey þat go aboute with her schepe, þei gadir hem in tyme of ȝere and selle hem for brede to pilgrimes and to oþir men of þe contrey aboute; and so þei be bore in to diuers londis aboute.

[Joseph arose and took the child and his mother and travelled into Egypt by night, and there he stayed until Herod was dead. And you shall understand that Our Lady St Mary and her son dwelt in Egypt seven years, and Egypt is from Bethlehem twelve days' journey. And along the way that Our Lady St Mary went into Egypt, and the way that she came back again, grow dry roses which are called the roses of Jericho, and these roses grow in no place in all that country except by that road. And these roses shepherds of that land, who go about with their sheep, gather at the right time of year and sell for bread to pilgrims and to other men of the country round about, and so they are carried abroad into many lands.]

'Dry roses which are called the roses of Jericho...'  They sound much prettier than they look.

In the church dedicated to St Mary in Chalgrove, near Oxford, the elaborate scheme of wall-paintings in the chancel depicts scenes from the life of the Virgin, on a background of red flowers. Such flowers are associated with the Virgin in Middle English verse, as in the poem 'A full fair flower is the lily', where each of the petals represents a virtue (charity, chastity, etc.). I don't think these ones are supposed to be 'red roses of Jericho', but they almost could be.

Some Kent Churches: The Stained Glass of Stowting

I spent the second half of August in Kent, and in that two-week period I managed to visit a grand total of twenty-three village churches - pretty good going, I think. Despite the fact that I've been enthusiastically church-visiting in Kent for the past ten years or so, almost all of these churches were new to me. This is a direct result of the fact that I recently acquired the Kent volume of Arthur Mee's series 'The King's England', which finds something nice to say about literally every village in the county and therefore introduced me to all kinds of interesting places off the beaten track. (It was Arthur Mee who led me to beautiful Nackington in April - I never would have found it without him, and that's why my post on Nackington has such an Arthur Mee-ish title!). I took lots of photographs of these churches, and so I must warn you that the next few weeks on this blog are going to be little more than 'what I did on my holidays', except it's 'amazing medieval things I saw on my holidays'. You have fair warning.

Each one of these churches is unique, and I could write a detailed post about each of them.  But let's start with a place where the pictures speak for themselves: Stowting, a little village in south Kent, between Ashford and Dover.  It's no tourist attraction; it doesn't have a particularly distinguished history, and the eighteenth-century Kentish antiquarian Edward Hasted described the area in no very appealing terms thus:

Stowting is situated in a wild and forlorn country, for the most part on the great ridge of chalk, or down hills which cross this parish. The church stands in the vale, at some small distance southward from the foot of them... In this part the hills are very sharp and frequent, the soil barren and very flinty, consisting either of chalk, or a poor reddish earth, mixed with quantities of flint stones; and here there is much rough ground and poor coppice wood, and a very comfortless dreary country, which continues for several miles northward, on each side the Stone-street way, towards Canterbury, throughout which, if the country cannot boast of wealth, yet it can of being exceeding healthy, as all the hills and unfertile parts of this county in general are.

It didn't feel like a 'comfortless dreary country' on the sunny day I went, but it's certainly not somewhere you would go unless you were looking for something.  Which I was - led by Arthur Mee.  The village church, dedicated to St Mary, is hidden away behind the village school, and you feel a little like a trespasser as you scuttle past the school gates to get to the church.  The church too is not particularly distinguished, and a victim of Victorian restoration. Essentially, it's an ordinary English village church.

Except that there's really no such thing as an ordinary English village church. At first sight Stowting looks uninteresting enough inside, rather dark and plain:

But what Arthur Mee had promised me, and what Stowting provides, are two extraordinary examples of medieval stained glass. Here's the first:

This is a fourteenth-century Virgin and Child, in green and gold.

The odd proportions of the baby notwithstanding, he's beautiful - those fingers, and eyelashes!  And the colours are gorgeous.

The church guide called this window the 'Green Madonna', in a rather affectionate tone - and how could you not love her, if you lived with her in your church?

The other window is not quite as immediately endearing, but it's special all the same.  This is fifteenth-century, and what's remarkable about it is its completeness. Did it survive intact precisely because Stowting is such an out-of-the-way kind of place? The three saints are, from left to right, St James, attired as usual like a medieval pilgrim, with cockleshells on his hat and staff and scrip in his hand:

To the right of the shell on his hat is a pilgrim's badge which looks an awful lot like those produced in great numbers at nearby Canterbury for travellers to the shrine of Thomas Becket (compare this and this).

In the centre is John the Baptist, with lamb and book:

And the third is identified as St Augustine, though I'm not quite sure why:

Below the saints are the people this window memorialises. The central couple, who are surrounded on each side by their children:

These are Richard Stotyne and Juliane his wife, for whose souls this scroll in the adjoining panel enjoins us to pray:

The text around the children reads 'Jesu, Fili Dei, miserere nobis'. On the other side:

More pictures of the church:

I wish I could tell you something more about these windows, or about this church, but my attempts at further research have been unprofitable.  I did try; it's pretty much a maxim of mine that knowing more about something helps you to appreciate it more, and I always feel readers will judge me if all I have to say is 'look at this - I don't know anything about it, but isn't it beautiful?'  As a result, I have lots of half-written posts like this one sitting in my drafts folder, full of pictures of wonderful things I have seen and want to post about but don't feel I have enough information on.  It's kind of disheartening.  For the next few weeks I'm just going to brave your judgement and post photos without much in the way of context except 'I found this thing here'; so don't ask any follow-up questions, OK...

'Some coloured accident / Of beauty revives and makes all young again'

This is a poem by Aldous Huxley called 'September'. I found it in a fascinating anthology of modern poetry (as of 1922) called Poems of To-Day, which is full of interesting things by poets well-known and long-forgotten.  You can read the whole thing online at that link.  'Many of the selections are from the writings of younger men', says the preface; Huxley in 1922 was not yet thirty.


Spring is past and over these many days,
Spring and summer. The leaves of September droop,
Yellowing and all but dead on the patient trees.
Nor is there any hope in me. I walk
Slowly homeward. Night is as empty and dark
Behind my eyes as it is dark without
And empty round about me and over me.
Spring is past and over these many days;
But, looking up, suddenly I see
Leaves in the upthrown light of a street lamp shine
Clear and luminous, young and so transparent,
They seem but the coloured foam of air, green fire,
No more than the scarce embodied thoughts of leaves;
And it is spring within that circle of light.
Oh, magical brightness! the old leaves are made new.
In the mind, too, some coloured accident
Of beauty revives and makes all young again.
A chance light meaninglessly shines and it is spring.

The Miracles of St Birinus

Today is one of the feasts of St Birinus, Oxfordshire's own apostle. Our best source for Birinus' life is, unsurprisingly, Bede, who gives us only this much information in Book III of his Ecclesiastical History:

At that time, during the reign of Cynegils, the West Saxons, anciently known as the Gewisse, accepted the faith of Christ through the preaching of Bishop Birinus.  He had come into Britain at the direction of Pope Honorius, having promised in his presence that he would sow the seeds of the holy faith in the most inland and remote regions of the English, where no other teacher had been before him. He was accordingly consecrated bishop by Asterius, Bishop of Genoa, at the pope's command; but when he had reached Britain and entered the territory of the Gewisse, he found them completely heathen, and decided that it would be better to begin to preach the word of God among them rather than to seek more distant converts.

He therefore evangelized that province, and when he had instructed its king, he baptized him and his people. It happened at the time that the most holy and victorious Oswald was present, and greeted King Cynegils as he came from the font, and offered him an alliance most acceptable to God, taking him as his godson and his daughter as wife. The two kings gave Bishop Birinus the city of Dorcic [Dorchester-on-Thames] for his episcopal see, and there he built and dedicated several churches and brought many people to God by his holy labours. He also died and was buried there; and many years later, when Hædda was bishop, his body was translated to Venta [Winchester] and laid in the church of the blessed apostles Peter and Paul.

Bede, A History of the English Church and People, trans. Leo Sherley-Price (London: Penguin, 1974), III.7, p. 151.

The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle adds some dates, telling us that Birinus came to England in 634 and died around 650. For Bede, the interest of Birinus' mission lay in the part played by Oswald, king of Northumbria; this passage appears in Bede's narrative of Oswald's life, just after his famous story of how Aidan of Lindisfarne prophesied that Oswald's alms-giving arm would never wither or decay.  When the baptism of Cynegils took place in 635 Oswald had only recently regained his kingdom at the battle of Heavenfield, and his star was in the ascendancy: his role in Cynegils' baptism suggests that at this point he had some degree of power (even overlordship) over Wessex, as he did over some other southern kingdoms.

This doesn't tell us much about Birinus. Nonetheless, as the power of Wessex grew over the course of the Anglo-Saxon period Birinus came to be venerated as a saint, mostly by his episcopal successors at Dorchester and Winchester. His principal feast was celebrated on the date of his death, 3 December, and a secondary feast commemorates the translation of his relics to a new tomb at Winchester on 4 September 980, under the direction of Bishop Æthelwold.

 An 11th-century calendar from Winchester, with Birinus on 3 December (Arundel 60, f. 7v)

The Winchester-educated Ælfric mentions Birinus in his Life of Oswald:

On þam ylcan timan com eac sum bisceop
fram rome byrig birinus gehaten
to westsexena kyninge cynegyls gehaten
se wæs ða git hæðen and eall westsexena land.
Birinus witodlice gewende fram rome
be ðæs papan ræde þe ða on rome wæs
and behet þæt he wolde godes willan gefremman
and bodian þam hæþenum þæs hælendes naman
and þone soðan geleafan on fyrlenum landum.
þa becom he to westseaxan þe wæs ða gyt hæþen
and gebigde þone cynincg kynegyls to gode
and ealle his leode to geleafan mid him.
Hit gelamp þa swa þæt se geleaffulla oswold
norðhymbra cyning wæs cumen to cynegylse
and hine to fulluhte nam fægen his gecyrrednysse.
þa geafon þa cynegas cynegyls and oswold
þam halgan birine him to bisceop-stole
þa burh dorcanceaster and he þær-binnan wunode
godes lof arærende and geriht-læcende
þæt folc mid lare to geleafan to langum fyrste
oð þæt he gesælig siþode to criste
and his lic wearþ bebyrged on ðære ylcan byrig
oð þæt hædde bisceop eft his ban ferode
to wintanceastre and mid wurðmynte gelogode
binnan ealdan mynstre þær man hine wurðað gyt.

[At the same time also a certain bishop named Birinus came from the city of Rome to the King of the West Saxons, named Cynegils, who was still a heathen, as was all the land of the West Saxons. Birinus indeed travelled from Rome by the direction of the Pope who was then in Rome, and promised that he would fulfill the will of God and preach the Saviour's name to the heathen and the true faith in distant lands. Then he came to Wessex, which was then still heathen, and converted the king Cynegils to God, and all his people to the faith with him. It happened then that the faithful Oswald, King of Northumbria, came to Cynegils and accepted him in baptism, rejoicing in his conversion. Then the kings Cynegils and Oswald gave holy Birinus the town of Dorchester, and he lived there, exalting the praise of God and truly guiding that people in the faith for a long time by his teaching, until he in blessedness journeyed to Christ. And his body was buried in the same town, until Bishop Hædde later took his bones to Winchester, and placed them with honour in the Old Minster, where they are still venerated.]

11th-century list of saints' resting-places, noting that Birinus and Swithun rest in the Old Minster, Winchester (BL Stowe 944, f.38)

There are some signs of the veneration of Birinus in the eleventh century - Cnut, for instance, presented a reliquary to Winchester for Birinus' relics, among other gifts to the cathedral where he was to be buried - but he seems never to have been as popular as Winchester's other chief saint, Swithun. Swithun has a great number of miracles attached to his name and brought many pilgrims to Winchester, and thus people who don't know anything about Saxon saints have heard of him today. By contrast, you can see that Bede doesn’t mention any miracles associated with Birinus (though it's true Bede’s knowledge of affairs in Wessex was fairly patchy), and nor does Ælfric (which is more surprising, when compared to the many stories he tells about Swithun). By the late medieval period Birinus still only had two miracle stories associated with him – a remarkably limited showing. Neither of those stories appears before the mid-eleventh century, approximately four hundred years after his death. One tells how he healed a woman who was blind and deaf, while the other describes an incident on his journey to England from Rome. This is how William of Malmesbury tells the latter tale:

[Birinus] made his way to the sea in order to cross to Britain. While he was packing his bits and pieces, the sailors were urging him to hurry as the wind was favourable, and so he forgot those cloths which are called ‘corporal cloths’. He was already out to sea, with the ship happily ploughing its furrow through the calm waters, when he remembered he had left them behind. He was at a loss what to do. If he asked the sailors to go back, they would certainly laugh at him as the voyage was going so well. But if he kept quiet, he would have to put up with his apostolic worship being imperfect. And so, brandishing the weapons of his faith, he summoned all his courage, climbed down the side into the sea and with all speed made for the shore he had just left. There he found the corporal cloths, picked them up, and for the second time his daring had a blessed and happy outcome, for he returned to his companions, brushing aside by the power of his faith the crests of the waves and the thousand ways to death he encountered. They for their part had been won over by this great miracle, had cast anchor and were holding the ship stationary. They took him back on board, all competing to do him honour, and he soon reached the coast in the region of the West Saxons.

William of Malmesbury, The Deeds of the Bishops of England (Gesta Pontificum Anglorum), trans. David Preest (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2002), p. 103.

Despite its Biblical parallels, this is not the most heroic of miracles - the author of the eleventh-century Vita of Birinus, where the story first appears, is at pains to point out that this forgetfulness didn’t happen because of “negligence or foolishness” on Birinus’ part (perish the thought!) but to aid God’s plan to reveal the saint’s holiness. William of Malmesbury makes no comment, but we may detect a slightly dry tone in a fourteenth-century English reference to the tale:

Seint Birinus [þe confessour] was i-sent of Honorius þe pope for to preche to Englisshe men; and while Birinus seilede in þe see of Britayne he byþouȝte hym of his restelles þat he hadde forȝete in þe haven, and ȝede uppon þe see and fette [his] restelles. Birinus convertede Kyngilsus kyng of West Saxons, and cristened hym at þe citee Dortik, þat is Dorchestre; þere was [kyng] Oswald present, and was Kyngilsus his godfader, and wedded his douȝter afterward. And boþe kynges ȝaf Birinus þat citee for to ordeyne þere a bisshoppes see; and þere Birinus deide after þe fourtene ȝere of his bisshopriche, and was i-buried þere. Bote atte þe laste, by Hedda bisshop of Wynchestre, Birinus was translated to Wynchestre, into þe chirche of [Seynt] Peter and Poul. But þe chanouns of Dorchestre seiþ nay, and seiþ þat it was anoþer body þan seint Birinus his body þat was so translated; þerfore a beere of a wonder werk is ȝit i-seie at Dorchestre, above þe place of his firste grave: þat citee Dortic oþer Dorkynga, þat now hatte Dorchestre, is sevene myle besouthe þe citee Oxenford, i-sette bytwene þe tweie riveres of Tame and of Temse. Also it is i-founde in cronykes þat Kyngilsus assignede al þe lond seven myle aboute for to make a bisshoppes see in Wynchestre, and for þe sustenaunce of [þe] mynystres; and for þe kyng was i-lette by his deþ yvel þat he miȝte nouȝt it fulfille, he swoor þat his sone Kenwalkus schulde it fulfille afterward. Þis citee Dorchestre longede to þe bisshoppis of Mercia from þat tyme anon to þe comynge of þe Normans. But in William Conquerours tyme þe bisshoppes see was i-chaunged to Lyncoln.

[Saint Birinus the confessor was sent by Honorius the pope to preach to the English people. When Birinus was sailing on the sea of Britain he remembered some things that he had forgotten back in the harbour, and he walked upon the sea and fetched his things. Birinus converted Kyngilsus, king of the West Saxons, and christened him at the city Dortik, that is, Dorchester; [King] Oswald was present there, and was Kyngilsus' godfather, and afterwards married his daughter. And both kings gave Birinus that city to establish a bishop's see, and there Birinus died after fourteen years as a bishop, and was buried there. But in the end Birinus was translated to Winchester by Hedda, bishop of Winchester, into the church of St Peter and Paul. But the canons of Dorchester say no, and say that it was another body, not St Birinus', which was translated; so there is a tomb of wonderful workmanship to be seen at Dorchester, above the site of his first grave. That city Dortic or Dorkynga, which is now called Dorchester, is seven miles south of the city of Oxford, set between the two rivers of Thame and Thames. It is also found in the chronicles that Kyngilsus gave all the land seven miles around to make a bishop's see in Winchester, and for the maintenance of the minsters; and because the king was prevented by mortal sickness from fulfilling this, he promised that his son Kenwalkus should fulfill it afterwards. This city Dorchester belonged to the bishops of Mercia from that time to the coming of the Normans, but in William the Conqueror's time the bishop's see was moved to Lincoln.]

"The canons of Dorchester seith nay!" In the Anglo-Saxon period and through the twelfth century it was accepted that Birinus’ remains lay at Winchester, where they had been taken in the time of Bishop Hædde (676-705). However, in 1224 began the controversy alluded to here, when the canons of Dorchester Abbey suddenly decided to claim that Birinus’ body was still in their possession. The Pope ordered the Archbishop of Canterbury, Stephen Langton, to investigate their claim, and he decided (on what evidence is not clear) that the canons of Dorchester were correct; so they built a splendid marble shrine, the ‘wonder work’ referenced above, to house the relics. The shrine was of course destroyed at the Dissolution of the Monasteries, but fragments were incorporated into a restored shrine made in the 1960s, which stands in the abbey today.

Dorchester Abbey is an exquisitely beautiful church, and I'm inclined to think that the real miracle worked by Birinus was to cause this wonderful thing to come into existence. I wrote about Dorchester’s early history recently here; a former Roman settlement, now one of the prettiest villages in Oxfordshire, it lies where the River Thame meets the Thames. Although Bede doesn't say that Birinus came to Dorchester before he was granted it as his see, local tradition locates all his story in the area, saying that Birinus preached to Cynegils on the nearby round barrow Churn Knob, and that the king was baptised in the River Thame, which runs past the site of the present abbey. And why not?

The Abbey the canons built on the foundations laid by Birinus is mostly a fourteenth-century building, large and light and elegant. It contains a famous 'Jesse tree' window which combines stained glass and sculpture, a treasure of medieval art.

There's also an unusual sedilia which mixes stone with glass like this:

This bishop is the only one of the windows I have a picture of and I'm not sure who he's meant to be, so he can stand in for Birinus today.

It's evidence of Birinus' relative lack of popularity in the medieval period that there are no ancient church dedications to him, but the nineteenth century saw a revival of interest in this Oxfordshire saint. The Catholic church in Dorchester, founded in 1849, is dedicated to him, and bears this statue:

There are some other nineteenth-century churches dedicated to him, and a few schools. In the 1950s, when a new village was built near Dorchester to ease the post-war housing crisis, it was given the name Berinsfield - from the unlatinized form of Birinus' name, Berin. (An extraordinary stroke of genius for a 1950s planning decision! According to this site, other suggestions included 'Wimblestraw', 'Lynchwell' and 'Williamsville', so thank goodness someone remembered St Berin.) It does seem little short of miraculous that so much can grow from one man's work. Two miracles and two paragraphs from Bede are all we know about Birinus himself - but fourteen hundred years of devotion can produce many wonderful things.

Modern images of Birinus in this post come from (starting at the top) Dorchester Abbey, Worcester Cathedral, St Birinus Catholic Church in Dorchester, Christchurch Priory, and Winchester Cathedral. The best source of information for Birinus' cult is Three Eleventh-Century Anglo-Latin Saints’ Lives: Vita S. Birini, Vita et miracula S. Kenelmi and Vita S. Rumwoldi, ed. and trans. Rosalind C. Love (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996).