The Painter

St Illtyds church; founded in early 13th century, and being the visiting place of the likes of Charles 1st and John Wesley, the church now stands almost modestly in its place after being restored in the 20th century. Once a vision of desolation, an empty and window bricked shell of a place that looked, for all the scaffolding that adorned it for support, like it might fall at any moment. Now a monument, still as magnificent as the day it was built.

*****

Broad daylight boasted its part in highlighting the intricate patterns on the stained glass windows as its rays bounced playfully off every corner, outshining the plain concrete structures around it. The triumphant songs and praises that were once as crisp as the autumn leaves had long faded and left behind only a story for history books.


The sound of a horse's footsteps and the gentle crunch of the leaves beneath the wheels of a cart echoed into the distance. Children played in front of the rusting church gates and climbed boisterously over the once beautiful stone walls. Still the church remained, unmoved and untouched. The history of its jubilant past was running away and waiting to be captured.


Many had admired the place from afar but not dared to interfere with its past or indeed its present. One of these people was a young boy, far from childhood but still only a boy, he didn’t exactly see showing emotion as a good thing. Years of boarding school had told him that there was a sharp and strict structure if one wanted to be a ‘real man’ and emotion was not on the agenda. He felt more interested in rugby than in religion, but there was something quite beautiful that had always struck him about this place. Even the rolling hills and magnificent oaks seemed to take a backseat to the beauty of this historic monument.
He gave a sharp kick to the side of his horse which bolted erratically in the wrong direction. The church and its surroundings blurred past him as he desperately tried to regain control. As the horse sharply swung round, he found himself launched out of his saddle and quickly downwards. Falling to the less than welcoming grass below and looking up, slightly dazed, he saw only the superficial shell of the church’s former glory and, scrambling back onto his horse, he rode on, and soon forgot.

*****

Years later, a man drove up the dry gravel path alongside St Illtyds Church. Armed with a brush and a canvas, he stepped out onto the sun-soaked driveway, his smile outshining the shadow cast on his face by the rim of his hat. The sun fell slowly, shooting up brilliant shades of yellow, orange and grey. Then he began. Harsh sweeps stole the drama of the sky and tactful strokes captured the shadows of the dark gravestones. A tower shot up from the canvas as he began creating buildings with simple motions and gestures and stabbing leaves, branches and trees into existence. The fragile gates, the solid walls, the height and magnificence of the bell tower and the modest silhouette of a passing bird. A golden carpet swept across the landscape, breathing life into the once dead surroundings.

As his painting came so vividly to life, so did memories. As he looked past the church to the fields beyond, he remembered the boy who had thought once or twice about this place and where it would stand in the eyes of following generations. So this same boy stood there, with eight-hundred years of history on a simple canvas, making violent streaks across the sky as his paintbrush danced elegantly across the canvas. But as rain began to fall progressively harder, and the sun stole away behind the trees, he took his prize under his arm and went on his way.
Now framed within the stone walls themselves the picture rests; a memory to anyone who cares to enter past the elegantly carved stone corridor leading into the building. A monument of a church unchanged by time.