Right now, stood where I am on the worn stone steps looking down into the darkness of the crypt at St. Mary, Lastingham in Yorkshire, you could say that this is the loneliest place on earth. Each breath I take creates an upward coiling helix towards the arcading, lit by a cold light that pierces the gloom from the east. It’s as if something or somebody is trying to direct my gaze upwards towards the loftiness of the vaulting in the nave of the church, instead of the dimly lit void beneath me.

But the sense of mystery overwhelms me and I descend carefully into the vault, taking the stairs slowly and deliberately. I can feel the texture of the stone beneath the soles of my shoes. When I see the space for the first time, as if by some kind of enchantment, the worn curvature of the step is converted into a wondrous and wider sense of the curvature of time.

In that moment, stood next to an ancient dragon door, perched on the edge of a pocket of air that has been held within these walls for almost a thousand years, I am overwhelmed by a powerful feeling of connection.

Door dragon

It has taken a particularly complex set of actions to make this space: create a defining purpose; tug up some stones from the earth beneath and carve and shape them; place them so that light is muted and mystery is created; cover it over and conjure a descent. Stir in a millennium of continuous presence and, along the way, add in the relics and remnants that you cherish. Maintain its purpose beyond the ideologies of the day. Ensure the presence of the present’s absence.

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