St Mary Magdalene and St Andrew, Ridlington, Rutland
I headed from Oakham and Brooke, down the long swoop of the Chater Valley where I had come off my bike three weeks previously, passing the spot with relief and some small triumph. And then it was a climb up to the next ridge to the village of Ridlington, a pretty place, although it must be rather bleak in winter. This is a remote, lonely village riding the ridge between the two valleys. It may well have been the most important place in Rutland in Saxon days, Ridl- and Rutl- perhaps being different forms of the same chief's name. A massive earthwork outlies the village to the west, but in the centre is the church.
The south door was locked, but it clearly should have been open as there was a 'church openers rota' on the noticeboard. It had the co-ordinator's number on, and although it wasn't yet nine o'clock I am afraid that I rang her and asked if it was possible to have the church opened. It was unlikely, after all, that I would be coming back this way very soon. She was very apologetic, and rang off to call someone who lived nearby to come and open up. He was a very nice man, and we chatted for a while before he left me to it, though not before giving me directions across the fields to Belton ("it's a bridleway, but cycleable').
It must be said that this is by no means the most exciting church in the county. 'Severely restored in 1860', as Pevsner notes. The best features are a Norman tympanum similar to that at Egleton, reset over the tower arch, and a 1613 memorial to James Harington and his wife, facing each other across a prayer desk, though it might be the breakfast table. I had of course met one of their descendants at Teigh ('tee, dear') the previous summer, and another, younger descendant is apparently a star of the television series Game of Thrones, which I have never seen.
The dedication of the church, to St Mary Magdalene and St Andrew, is an odd one, and clearly not a possible medieval dedication. Perhaps it was the invention of an Anglo Catholic-minded 19th Century priest, but if so there is no surviving evidence of such a tradition.
The ridge climbed gently to the west, stunning views as the land dropped away steeply on both sides. Behind me I could see the gleam of Rutland Water five miles off, and in front of me all Leicestershire was spread out, or so it seemed. The lonely lane led to the bridleway, which turned out to be more of a farm track laid with chalk, and was indeed cycleable. It took me steeply down southwards alongside a field for a mile or so, before bringing me out into the stunningly lovely village of Belton-in-Rutland ('delightful' - Pevsner), the ironstone houses scattered as if by a giants hand down the slope of the hill, at the top of which was the church.
St Peter was already open, for which I was grateful, as the notice said that it was always open from 10 am, and I was still twenty minutes short of that. Again, not the most exciting of Rutland churches, but with more gravitas than Ridlington, and nice details, like a very unusual Early English font - it took me a moment to realise why it was odd, but it was because it has lost its colonnade of legs. A couple of reasonably good early 20th Century windows, and some evidence that this must have been a very High Church spot in its day. As I left, a car skidded to a halt below the churchyard, and a rather breathless woman got out. "Is the church still locked?" she called out. "No, it's open!" I replied. "Good!" she said, "I didn't want to think we weren't doing our duty!" which made me wonder if the man from Ridlington had phoned her up, and then she went on her way and I went on mine.
My way took me down through the village - it seemed incredible that there was still any down left, given how far I had already descended from the ridge. I wouldn't have wanted to do the journey in the other direction. As I descended, the noise got louder, and eventually I reached my old adversary the A47, which was thundering on its way from Leicester to Great Yarmouth. Bing Maps tells me that I was 16 miles from Leicester and 136 miles from Great Yarmouth. Fortunately, the old road runs alongside it as a bridleway for a mile or so, which was enough to get me eastwards to the lost and lonely church at Wardley.