17 MARCH 2001, Page 39

Cleeve Abbey

The walls of hand-hewn stone where plaster fell gave up the secrets of their masons' care some centuries ago. The office bell that measured out the daily round of prayer has fallen too, and now the camera's whir enunciates this relic's modern rite the vision of its saints a myth-like blur of something half-perceived in fading light.

It was not always so. The country wife who worked the farmhouse range believed in God and, in familiar faith, did not view life as His poor finite gift, nor thought it odd to see the cattle cross the cloister garth from mullioned arcade windows by the hearth.

Jeff Vinter