The Holy Well of St. John the Baptist

at St.John's in the Vale church.

It is another one of those where 'which came first .. the church or the well?'  The existing church was built in 1845 but there has been a church on the site for much longer. Interestingly the well source appears to have moved a little further from the original site to just along the path (now covered by stones - see extra). But I did have little sip from the well - it was looking very clear and invitingly fresh.

Another addition to freespiral's wonderful quest for holy wells (it's reminding me a lot of Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail ... particularly when I got the oxen pee revelation).

This has to be one of the loveliest spots ....
I'd had a morning facing more sorting of stuff so wanted some air and didn't want to go too far, what with the heavy showers and completely saturated ground. I like to visit this church occasionally too because an old work colleague's husband is buried here - we were working together when my husband became ill and then, sometime later, so did hers. Her husband's illness was very aggressive and he died 18 months before mine, leaving her on her own with 3 children under 10. I didn't know her husband but when our paths have very occasionally crossed since, we have talked about the grave and the beautiful piece of carved slate that became his memorial. I had said I liked to visit occasionally because I have no tangible place to go like this, and this is such a wonderfully peaceful and timeless setting. I don't mind not having somewhere but I do like to visit here.

I'm reminded of Edna St Vincent Millay again ....

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,-so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.