I often pass the Church of St. Andrew the Less. Its built on the site of Barnwell Priory, the scant remains of which pepper the surrounding residential streets. The building might be of some historic interest, but is not in use and faces an uncertain future. In winter the pollarded trees stand like sentinels of sadness against its drab facade of rubble walls blackened by coal dust.
The church’s location by a busy road means it’s most likely glimpsed from a passing car; and for anyone on foot it’s equally difficult to appreciate from the pavement as four lanes of traffic belch past. Still, as I am never much drawn to the picturesque for inspiration, it has a certain formal wholeness and an emotional evenness of tone I could not let pass.