The fabric of religion

I've just been watching the excellent BBC TV series Restoration in which viewers are asked to vote for which old, dilapidated building they think deserves funds for its restoration.

One of this week's buildings was a Methodist Chapel in Newlyn in Cornwall which had a wonderful wooden interior with beautiful pews and galleries. It brought back my youth sitting in my mother's presbyterian church in my home town of Strathaven in Scotland which had a very similar interior design. I can so clearly remember as an eight year old sitting on those highly polished wooden pews in my itchy, tweed, short trousered Sunday suit. The smell, the feel, the boredom all came rushing back.

I then flitted forward in time to my four years at St. Andrews University during which I sang in the chapel choir and indeed was one of the bell ringers there. The choir sat in a gallery next to the organ but again the feel of the pews, the surrounding stone of the chapel walls and the discomfort of wearing our red, hot academic gowns came flooding back.

I miss it.

I miss the smells, the sense of touch, the music, the boredom, the discomfort, and the routine.