For example, about St. Mary the Virgin in West Walton, Norfolk, a church “in possession of one of the best examples of English early Gothic architecture in the country,” Sherlock writes, “There is stillness and dignity here, something ineffably sacred stirred in the cool morning light.” Or, after diving into the history of so-called “wool churches” whose construction was paid for by the wealth of the medieval wool trade, he writes of the Priory Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Steeple Ashton, Wiltshire, “To walk towards it through the dawn mist is an unforgettable experience.” Of waiting for the rain to pass under the porch of St. James in Stanstead Abbotts, Herefordshire (yes, not all of the churches are named after the Virgin Mary), he writes, “There is an acute satisfaction to be found in sharing these simple and repeated patterns of behavior. The melody of the rain, the shiver of the wind, the raindrops mindlessly caught by the stroke of a forefinger on hewn wood. They, too would have known such things.”

Also pleasing is Sherlock’s ability to look sideways at his own enthusiasms, entertaining the possibility that his obsession is a bit outside the usual. He begins his description of St. Mary the Virgin (yes, another one) of Woolpit, Suffolk, by admitting, “I once had a fever for double-decker porches. It’s a strange thing to say. But it is so.” This and other such “maladies,” he says, direct his wandering about the countryside, finding these almost-forgotten places and offering up his admiration for their architectural treasures. “If pushed,” he says mock-judiciously of the back doorway of St. Mary the Virgin in Berkeley, Gloucestershire, “I would go so far as to say, I think it might be my favourite portal in England.”

Sherlock celebrates the placed-ness of these churches and their treasures in the small communities which they have served throughout the centuries. “Sutterby is an out-of-the-way place,” he remarks. “Yet a calmness accompanies it, as if a test asking you to be still and with yourself for a time.” Or, describing the “colossal” twelfth-century font of St. Michael, in Castle Frome, Herefordshire, he muses, “What will never cease to amaze me is where these great pieces can be found. If this font were placed in one of the big London museums, it would punch admirably for attention by virtue of its beauty and national importance. I’m glad it’s not. I’m glad it’s here.” He clearly feels himself benefitted not only by his knowledge of the churches he visits, but by his experience of the different parts of England to which his mission to explore churches has drawn him.

In the end, though, Sherlock declines to make a definite thesis out of his observations and accumulated knowledge of these little-considered, mostly forgotten churches that dot the English countryside. He calls them “a spiritual inheritance, whether we come to them with faith or not,” and he urges that “their role as spiritual and community spaces should somehow be respected” (my italics). To me, it seemed a bit of a cop-out to assign all of the sacredness of sight and feeling that Sherlock has clearly encountered in his wanderings to mere personal experience. Even the notorious atheist Philip Larkin had to admit that a church is “a serious house on serious earth” and “proper to grow wise in.” But like many enthusiasts for old English churches, having come this far, Sherlock is clearly stymied in his spiritual claims and lamely admits that England has changed, profoundly, and that he feels unable to do more than speculate about the future of his country’s spiritual past. He urges the concept of pilgrimage (though it comes across sounding more like tourism: “I firmly believe the UK has a tremendous opportunity to build on its reputation as a pilgrimage destination.”), and additional funding for preservation. He concludes his spare four-page conclusion by hoping that someone (else) will figure it out before all of this beauty decays beyond recognition or the possibility of repair.  

Despite its scattered organization and inconclusive ending, and perhaps because I share a bit of Sherlock’s own “maladies,” I enjoyed this book—though I’m not sure it really shines brightest when being read cover to cover, as I did. Still, I may pick it up again on a rainy day, flip through its pages, and allow Sherlock and Pioaru to transport me to medieval, or Norman, or modern-day England, to enter through the shadowy portal of a little country church, and to discover the secret treasures of stonework, woodwork, and dusty stillness that lie within. It has this also to recommend it: to date, it is the only Internet book to have earned its place on my shelf.