“Ah, yeah. There’s people sleeping in there all the time,” says the landlord at the adjacent Fordwich Arms, midway through pulling us a couple of refreshing-looking beers, “Very popular it is, very popular indeed,” he adds, before trailing off in that way every single pub landlord you’ve ever met seems to do.

Located just three miles from Canterbury, the church itself sits on the Way of St Augustine – a 19 mile walk that follows in the footsteps of the man widely considered to be a founder of the Catholic Church in England. The pilgrimage gives anyone who walks along it the chance to lap up the gorgeously green landscapes of the Stour Valley, and explore all of the significant old churches dotted along its route. It’s meant to be extremely nice and, presumably, slightly more peaceful than Margate’s Dreamland – the theme park where I’ve spent my morning queuing for rides behind kids high on a cocktail of summer holiday optimism and sugar.

On the topic of old St Augustine, St Mary’s Church (which dates back to the Norman times) is actually home to a large block of limestone from around the year 1100, which is believed to have once been part of a shrine dedicated to none other than St Augustine himself. History nerds, take note.

“…you’re walking to the toilet in the dead of night and step on the exact spot where someone is buried…”

After drinking four more beers in The Fordwich Arms, playing an epic best-of-three chess match that locals will be talking about for years to come, and engaging in some confusing verbal tennis with the Hot Fuzz landlord, we make the decision to head out for an evening stroll along the River Stour. The sun is just beginning to dip over the horizon, turning the sky a pinky shade of orange that brings to mind the watercolour masterpieces of JMW Turner.

Fordwich, and its surrounding countryside, is a lovely place to simply be in and let time pass. On an end of summer evening like the one I’m experiencing tonight, the River Stour and Westbere Marshes deliver postcard levels of prettiness. This corner of Kent, I imagine, is the kind of uber English place that resides in the mind of a very particular type of American; the one you only ever meet at all-inclusive resorts in Mexico, the one who’s never been to “Ing-er-land” and who thinks our entire country consists of London, a village with some bunting, and three fields.

Swinging a leg out, I put my foot down on words that say: “Here lyeth the body of…” I stop reading there, as if continuing to do so would somehow raise the corpse beneath my feet from the dead. It’s a stupid thought, completely irrational, and yet I have it anyway. I don’t want to paint champing as some sort of scary, ghoulish, experience because it really isn’t. For the most past, it’s extremely pleasant.

Every so often though, like when you’re walking to the toilet in the dead of night and step on the exact spot where someone is buried, you can’t help but be reminded of those frightening old stories you heard when you were a kid; of those 18 certificate horror films you watched at sleepovers when you were 11. A church after dark, it turns out, makes a lot of unexplained noises. Noises you put down to the wind, or wandering mice, or the creaking of old wooden beams because to think of them differently is to take your imagination down a bad footpath. 

You’ll no doubt be relieved to discover, at this point, that I successfully make it to the toilet without being brutally murdered by any monster living or dead. A moth does fly at my face and make me jump a bit but that’s as dramatic as it gets. The rest of the night passes by in a cascading blur of weird dreams; dreams borne out of the meditative quietness that comes with sleeping in a church.

“…we come across graves from as far back as the 1640s.”

I awake to the sight of sunlight pouring in through old, stained-glass, windows. The soothing sense of calm I feel is the same one I experienced when wild camping amongst the mountains of Snowdonia. No noise, no stress, no reminders of real-life responsibility; it’s perfect.

“Why are you whispering?” my girlfriend asks me, while we’re drinking coffee.

“Because it’s…” I pause, .”…you know… a church.”

After exploring the place a bit more, and then packing up our things, we soak up the silence one final time and leave through St Mary’s big wooden door; remembering, as we do so, to put the ancient-looking church key we’ve briefly been responsible for back in its designated hiding spot.

Walking through the graveyard, we come across graves from as far back as the 1640s. There’s some other, even older looking, stones with inscriptions that have been weathered over the centuries to the point of illegibility. The history of the place is palpable and you can’t help but wonder what 17th century locals would have made of this whole champing phenomenon.  

On the drive back to London, we discuss last night’s experience.

“You were scared,” my girlfriend says, “You were definitely scared.”

“I was not,” I reply; deciding, there and then, not to mention my spooky late night run-in with a moth.

Do It Yourself:

We spent the night at the Church of St Mary the Virgin in Fordwich, Kent. There are 12 churches across the UK, including this one, where you can go champing. For more information on the activity, and the Churches Conservation Trust, visit the official Champing website.

Check out the rest of the Mpora ‘Dark’ issue here

You May Also Like:

Wild Camping in Wales | A Journey Between Fear and Peace on the Mountains of Snowdonia

Mountain Biking in Scotland | Whisky & Wheels