A cycle ride on the day the clocks go back

The day the clocks go back is a strange kind of day. It starts in a disorientating way. What time is it? Have all the clocks changed or are some of them still showing yesterday’s time? And then, as the day ends, where has it gone? Why has it gone so dark outside when it is barely past teatime?

I woke up planning to go for a cycle ride but I was struggling to get out of bed. The day didn’t help but I had also been suffering from a cold which meant I did not feel like doing anything even though I felt I ought to; getting no exercise seems to add to the sense of weariness a cold brings, but then the weariness can make it hard to motivate myself. It would have been so easy to stay where I was all day. But then I would have regretted it. So I got out of the house and onto the bike.

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I took the train out to Hitchin in Hertfordshire and my plan was to visit the ruins of a church. There is something I like about old buildings; the way they sink into their surroundings. It is a subject I have returned to time and time again. And it is more than just the building; it’s purpose and the people who lived, worked or worshipped there have become a part of the landscape as well. Not in the sense of ghosts – anything of the people are long gone – but in a way they do still haunt the place. Each time I visit somewhere and raise my camera to my eye I am feeling I am reaching back through all the centuries. taking with them their storied past.

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This particular church stands on a hill at the edge of a village called Clophill. Before that I visited another church, St Mary’s at Church End, Haynes. Haynes is a village made up of smaller villages: West End, Church End, Silver End, Northwood End and Deadman’s Cross; scattered over four miles. In the churchyard there stood a spectacular many limbed yew tree sprawling across some of the graves. It looked like some work had been done recently to clear the undergrowth and some old gravestones had been left propped against the tree. I was also drawn to a waterbutt and watering can around the side of the church, as a part of my ongoing and occasional series of photographs of the quiet corners of English parish churches.

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The old church at Clophill had been built around the middle of the 14th century and grew with the community around it. However it’s isolated spot away from the village meant that its days were numbered. Not the first time a church has found itself in this situation. In the middle of the nineteenth century it was replaced by a new church in the centre of Clophill. And so began the sad decline of the old church. Parts of it were used for the new church and the remains were left to fall into ruins. The place was afflicted by grave robbers and later, and more bizarrely, satan worshippers. It also suffered from plain old vandalism and flytipping. Work has been done to restore what remains – it’s now possible to go up the tower to view the surrounding landscape.

However, as a result of its sad past one of the key features now are an array of cameras around the tower. I can appreciate their purpose but they made my visit slightly unnerving and I did not stay long.

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In any case, the short day already felt over. It had been sunny to start with but the clouds had rolled over as the day passed and the sun, perhaps as a result of the shorter days ahead, had taken to sulking behind their veil.

For the last part I was blessed, however, with a tailwind – one of the joys of a cycle ride (although usually accompanied by its opposite state – a head wind). There had been a strange mood about the day – my lingering cold, the change of the clocks and the thought of shortening days ahead had created a certain lethargy but at end of the ride my mood was lightened as I found myself propelled along all the way back to Hitchin and the train home.

Getting out on the bicycle into the countryside had been the right thing to do on the day that the clocks go back.