HIGHLIGHT: St Helena’s Oratory and Holy Well
There is a well-hidden holy site beside the River Little Ouse and, if I’m not very careful, we’ll miss it.
Somewhere along the straight forest track we are following from Thetford to Brandon is St Helen’s Oratory, and her Holy Well.
Without the weathered and faded interpretation board half-buried in the long grass beside the path, I would have had no idea that I was looking at the site of an early-Christian oratory, rather than just a rough mound.
I walk over the mound to look down on the river, and see how a railway line has cut into this holy hill.
The oratory’s dedication is to the same Helen – or Helena – who I encountered in Thetford. On a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Helena is said to have found the True Cross. Her son Constantine the Great, the 4th century Roman emperor, built the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at the spot.
St Helen’s Oratory was abandoned in medieval times, and excavation has been undertaken on only a small part of the site, but it uncovered substantial remains of walls and foundations of what was likely a pre-Conquest church.
Roman brick had been reused in it, meaning this could be a very early Christian – and possibly pre-Christian – site.
To the left of the grassy mound, beneath which the church is buried, is woodland, and just within the trees is hidden the edge of a deep, flat-bottomed bowl cut into the hill.
This was a chalk and flint quarry, dug in the 19th century. We wind our way down the steep side in search of the holy well.
Often such expeditions end in disappointment: a well turns out to be no more than a damp patch in the leaves.
Not here.
We find a wide expanse of water, like a river springing fully formed from the earth, bubbling into a pool bright with marsh marigolds; the yellow flag irises just waiting to replace them in spring’s flower-filled cycle.
Although the oratory is long gone, the association with St Helen has persisted down the centuries. This is one of at least 25 holy wells dedicated to the saint in eastern England.
We press on through the woods, before crossing the river to reach All Saints, one of England’s smallest, most charming churches.
In a connection with the places we have just visited, it is known by some as St Helen’s.
It’s the sweetest little thing, and reminds me of a gingerbread house. If it weren’t for its little crenellated octagonal tower peeking above the roofline, I would feel like I was walking up the garden path to a cottage.
The church has a diminutive rood screen before a dolls-house chancel, and a miniature reredos tiled like a Victorian fireplace. The nave roof bears a galaxy of gold stars on blue.
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