AT Never more mellifluous at much maligned Marsh Town

 

Below is an article from the Oxford Times - from 1960s exact date unknown

 

At Church by Layman

CHURCH by LAYMAN

THIS morning of Palm Sunday which ushers in Holy Week, dawns bright and clear with a brilliant sun radiating joy and glory over the Oxfordshire countryside — a most perfect day on which to commemorate Our Lord's triumphant entry into Jerusalem to the hosannas of the multitude.

It is indeed a prospect to gladden the heart as well as the senses. Forgotten are the fretting difficul­ties, the relentless pressure of the everyday world, maybe only for an all too brief moment, but put aside they are by the overwhelming expectancy of great things to come.

And, the eyes are delighted, no less than the spirit is uplifted, by the scene displayed on every hand — everywhere is the abundant promise of new life.

Never, or so it seems, have the meadows been so vividly green, never the birds more mellifluous, even the cavalcade of cars encountered along the roads seems less obtrusive than usual; this is the Lord's doing and it is "marvellous in our eyes as the Psalmist sang.

 

On clay

The ancient parish of Old Marston has been much maligned. A school­master, noted also as something of a poet, once wrote a quatrain of dog­gerel which began:

"0! who would live at Marston, at Marston in the mud . . ." and it is true that, built on Oxford clay and only a few feet above the River Cherwell and the brooks which flow into it, its fields are liable to flood on the slightest pro­vocation.

So it is not surprising that the Anglo-Saxons named it "Marsh Town" in their barbaric language . . . "very appropriate" comments one historian, but its well-watered situa­tion was responsible for achieving its reputation as an ideal situation for milk­men and market gar­deners.

Its best approach has always been on foot, and the most popular route that which crossed the ferry at the end of a nar­row lane, which is now no more, but the pedestrian-pilgrim can still find an attractive walk across the University Parks, with a tunnel to circumvent the traffic on the new link-road.

However the new thoroughfare is not to be disdained, for it has the merit of enabling the traveller on wheels to avoid the eyesore of the main road from the city and the intimidation of the bypass.

 

Every age

But no matter, whichever way Marston is reached, it is still worth the effort, still one of the most attractive places on the outskirts of Oxford, analogous to Iffley, though its people have been stubborn enough to resist all attempts to bring it within the city bound­aries.

It still retains all the characteristics of a vil­lage, with a meandering street which winds bet­ween footpaths with grassy borders, and houses of every age, size and description — thatched, tiled and slated — each having in common a well-tended garden, gay with flowering trees and spring blooms.

But all this is an intro­duction to the heart of this most pleasant community; past the house where Oliver Cromwell once stayed and where were negotiated the terms for the surrender of Royalist Oxford, and so to St Nicholas', which has been the religious centre of the parish for more than 700 years.

 

Bells peal

What a lovely place this is, lying back from the road in an immaculate lit­tle graveyard— there is an extension further on down the road for the last repose of the faithful — gay with clusters of daffodils, not dancing in the breeze, for there is none to sway their delicate trumpets, but standing stiff, sentinels of golden beauty.

The bells are pealing forth, the line of motor cars along the verge is growing every second, the path to the venerable building overflows with bicycles and a queue of worshippers waits at the porch.

Even before the calling-bell has ceased its final summons, there is some difficulty in fitting everyone into a seat, how those who arrive later are accommodated is known only to the sidesmen.

The Vicar, the Rev Paul Rimmer, devoted pastor of the people of this place for almost 20 years, stands just inside, the doorway, hemmed in by crucifer and choir — a most cramped assembly.

He gives an all but unseen signal, the organ crashes out in the "Gloria Laus," traditional day above all others procession somehow formed.

Then there spill the church a stream of children, bearing branches of greenery which bear proudly our aisles, time and before retiring to seats.

 

For young

Such is the intro to a most inspiring Communion considering the fact that it is not the drab Series in first part of which specially tailored for younger ones — will constitute a goodly proportion of those present range in age from babes in arms to teenagers.

Altogether it is pie and homely gathering; the sacraments carried to it are asimple bread and flagon of wine the Vicar is all but breathless by the time he has round to clasp hands of as many of his flock as possible in the peace.