St Michael de Rupe, Brentor, Dartmoor, Devon

 

A hauntingly beautiful church that sits atop a rocky crag - St Michael de Rupe, Brentor, Dartmoor, Devon.

 

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It has taken me a long time to put together my thoughts about St Michael de Rupe; an inspiring visit for me mentally and visually which brought out some very strong and unexpected emotions. The weather that morning was extremely foggy and misty which somehow suited this extraordinary place. Thought provoking scenery about which I wondered what would make someone build a church on the top of such an inhospitable place.  It must surely be the result of someone's dedication to a singular vision. 

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The place name Brentor is probably derived from the Saxon word 'brant' for steep or high and over time has morphed into 'brent'.   Dedicated for the Archangel St Michael, the church sits high enough so that it can be seen from Plymouth Sound which made a perfect lookout against invaders. There are many stories as to St Michaels' origins which range from the fantastic -involving the Archangel and the Devil, to the believable - a man praying for rescue from the sea and promising to build a church for his safe passage. For me it doesn’t matter how it came to be, what is amazing is that it exists at all where it does - at the top of a volcanic cone. 

 

A large sign marks where you pick up the footpath which winds uphill. It is reached through a 'kissing gate' just after crossing the road from the large free car park. We followed the steep ‘path’ and started making our way to the top. The church was not visible when we first started up due to the thick fog that morning and I would look up occasionally trying to catch a glimpse of the church, and keeping an eye out for rocks and the usual things one finds in a pasture. All the while in the distance we could hear the distant sound of sheep calling to one another. 

 

 

After good 10 minute walk the church finally appeared, an eerie silhouette at first; slowly revealing it’s treasure at the top.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 An old paint-chipped and rusting iron gate separated the field from the church yard which holds just a few graves and a stone path leads to the south entrance guarded by another iron gate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I took a silent moment to stare out in to the misty morning air and to be amongst those who stood here centuries before me.  

A stiff breeze made it very chilly for June so I quickly joined Maggie into the shelter of the church for a warm cup of tea. 

The interior of the porch was very plain with an old wooden bench along one wall.  At the far end of the bench stood a vase of fresh flowers and a bedraggled old cap covered in grass which looked as if it’s owner had casually dropped it there as if he were late for his morning prayers. We stood quietly and listened for a sign that someone was within the church and on hearing nothing, opened the heavy door to find that no one was inside. Knowing we were not going to disturb someone's prayers, we enjoyed our welcome cups of tea and warmed our hands with the mugs. With the tea and breakfast bars finished, feeling refreshed, the real exploration began.

  

 

I turned left out of the door and headed toward the cliffside which is directly in front of the tower – (the west end of the church).  It was quite windy there and a one panel metal fence stands in front of the tower presumably to prevent folks from slipping and doing themselves a mischief over the cliff's edge. The church’s exterior is a rough rock much like the Tor it occupies (the Tor is some 325 meters above sea level), bell tower is 32 feet in height and has been used as watchtower against invasions over it's many centuries. It was also included as a beacon for Queen Victoria’s Jubilee (which must have been quite something to see blazing from this lofty position). 

 

I continued past the bell tower and down the incline on the north side.  I wanted to photograph St Michaels from the rocky edge looking up to the church, an angle that blended well with the terrain and exterior of the church.  The wind was howling and I laid flat on the ground carefully balancing myself between the edge of an unforgiving granite cliff and soft grasses that tickled my face.  I looked through the lens and then paused resting my chin on my camera and gazed at the view before me in awe. I remember at that moment thinking about all the people who carried the stones, worked, lived, died and worshipped within these walls.  What amazing stories would it tell if it could speak? 

A brief video from that day.

After a long while I walked back toward the church and followed the path under a twisted oak whose branches seemed to reach out to those who passed beneath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More graves hugged the edge of the walls on the north side and I continued past them, this time heading downhill to the northwest. 

 

This is an area of open grass with clumps of thistle covered in heavy dew. 

 

I walked down quite a way loosing myself in thought about how hard it must have been to live in such a place and to worship every Sunday here.  I turned to look back at the church.  It sat in quiet resolution against the skyline.  The greyness adding a sense of mystery.  There did seem to be a  presence in the air. It was very peaceful. Beyond the quiet solitude and beyond the idea of this being a place of God.  It was pleasant and reassuring.  Nothing more. 

 

In fact I sat for a long time and enjoyed the moment, photographing the thistles, listening and getting a feel for my surroundings.  After all, I was there to experience the place not to just photograph it and leave.  Sometimes we forget why we make the journeys we do; not taking the time to savor
the moment. When I take a photo it not just a permanent reminder of what I saw, but when I look at it days, months or even years later it returns me to the moment when I tripped the shutter.  To the sight, the scent, and sometimes literally, a feeling or an emotion.   So I stayed out in the mist and fog, got damp to the bone and loved every minute of it. 

Eventually I made my way back up the hill.

 

The east wall of the church has a crypt and below it a stone wall holds the earth back from the footpath.  Along this stonewall someone had carefully tucked roses among the rocks and water droplets sat on the petals like tears.  Who had taken the time to place them? and Does this have  special significance? Whatever the reason- it was beautiful. 

 

 

 

 

 

Saying a quiet prayer, I left the roses to their silent vigil. 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 
 
 
 
 
Following the path to where I had begun, I re-entered the church.

 

 

 

 

 

 

St Michaels is not a large church and according to a source listed on the website ‘Legendary Dartmoor’ (an excellent resource by the way for all things Dartmoor) it is the fourth smallest parish church in England, 37’ x 40’ and the ceilings are 10’ high and 3’ thick, built in the 13^th century.  The interior has been updated as would be expected but still has an old and well-loved feel to it.  Plain white walls and stained wood throughout but it doesn't really need much more.

 

 

The East window is a modern [1971, James Paterson of Bideford] depiction of the Archangel

St Michael, protector of high places, which is why most churches with this dedication are found       on hilltops. I am not going to go into the history of this church other than what I have mentioned here but I have listed on another page some excellent sources which cover St Michaels and other area histories very well, much more than some of the brochures provided by the councils and parishes.


The plain altar was covered with a white lace edged cloth, two gold vases which contained fresh flowers and a single cross at it's center.  The interior walls are sparsely decorated with memorials to families down the ages, a large oak pulpit and lectern face six rows of  pews.

 

Against the wall under the window is a lovely carved oak chair with a red cushion.

There is a very large baptismal font as you near the entrance made of stone. The bell tower is gated off, a few glass globe lanterns hang from a heavy wood rafter ceiling. It is a cozy and welcoming place to rest, contemplate and worship. 

 

 

 

As we were preparing to leave other visitors were arriving and the fog was lifting to reveal scenery we would not have imagined was out there when we arrived 2 hours earlier. As we made our way back down the slope we could now see the remains of Iron Age fort which lie at the base of the hill. 

St Michael de Rupe on Brentor, like St Peter the Poor Fisherman, will remain in my memory as truly remarkable and atmospheric.  Perhaps it is because of where they are situated or maybe something more.  They both touched my heart and something inside me.  St Michael seemed to prepare me for my future, I can not explain it but my visit there changed how I looked at my life.  Right place. Right moment.

 

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This ends my 2013 journey and I went back to the States with many amazing memories and inspiration to keep this project going.  Maggie Strutt is an incredible friend (and logistics manager!). If it weren’t for her planning and sorting out all the details on the wish list of sites we made, some of which we visited others have been set aside for another expedition in the future, these photos and blog would not have been possible.  I thank her and her family from the bottom of my heart. 

 

When we finished 2013 we selected the photos you have seen from hundreds taken.  We also decided after a short break to start planning another for 2014 which we finished this past June.  The results will be published here over the next 12 months.  I hope you enjoyed my first offerings and that you will continue to follow us over time. 

Thank you for reading.

Debb