My mum was from a family of fairly strict Catholics, so the fact that she married my dad, a non church goer, was always a surprise to me.
Throughout my childhood we would go to church every Sunday without fail. I hated it. We attended a small church in a Devonshire village which was built as a temporary place of worship during the war, the size of a hall. We knew everyone in the small congregation. My nan was in charge of the upkeep, the priest’s vestments, getting the communion hosts ready and choosing the hymns.
It was a short drive every Sunday – about 15 minutes across the Devon/Somerset border. The village was in a valley, and every week I would start to ‘feel ill’ as soon as we started to descend the hill. Mum rarely fell for it.
My dad would never come to church. His place…
View original post 2,012 more words