what is it to be british
we're a nation of the faithless. in a majority.
the tv is bombarding us with horrific examples of barbarity in the name of religion. This turn it's in Allahs name. but defending christian values seems to need an equally pious but unforgiving military defense. in our name. in our interests.


bristol feels like a city of churches at times. if you're down low, the spires in an otherwise relatively low level rise city, stick out. 
many have been turned into flats, or offices or places bought by those with money. the irony. the pews are empty but the walls remain.
I was thinking of the idea of keeping your head up/spirits up and how if you literally do that there's the physical reminder of britains faith in faith.
when being an atheist is as common and accepted as being a bearded hipster, i feel it's a shame these buildings are sold to the highest bidder, a shame of our past, or necessity given no-one goes in there in significant numbers.
st michaels church on st michaels hill is on the buildings at risk register.
i've walked past in many times, wheezing up from christmas steps or passing at a pace heading to the waterfront. i've always thought, what a waste of a space, of a refuge. 
mindfulness is a buzz word. making the equivalent of a morning constitutional to settle the mind, big business in self-help books and apps. as a gp at one stage I was referring over 100 people a month to CBT and cousenlling services. some people recognised they were stressed and anxious, others needed more gentle persuasion after a raft of tests eventually confirmed that they were burnt out, not dying of a mysterious illness that google stated otherwise.
bristol is a city of cycling. but i walk. i don't trust drivers (like myself) to overtake fully concentrating. i don't want to breathe in fumes and get to work looking like i've just come out of a sweat lodge. i walk. when i can. and i'm lucky, i've chosen and am able to live where the buildings shape my security and love of this city. arches, stonecarvings, warm bath stone, missing railways stolen for armory, old style lamposts that still glow a nostalgic orange that i remember keeping my awake through my curtains as a child. carrots. that's what i called the wedges of light that would appear after dark on the ceiling by the curtain track. they made me anxious. i was a poor sleeper. did i mention i was anxious. but it was never fed back to me like that. if i could just shut the light out i would be able to go to sleep. but i couldn't. now i can sleep with chinks of white but i need ear plugs instead. still anxious. but less so now. because i walk. because there's something mindful and calming about putting one foot in front of another. i don't want to run to relax. why would getting out of breath make me feel calmer? i've never got that. walking, co-ordination, breathing, avoiding people on their mobiles, not getting run over, 'oh look i never noticed how fucking beautiful those old telegraph wires look against a cobalt sky, oh yes, life's good' these are the actions and thoughts that calm me down.
so, back to the church, on one of my wanders that was needing to happen every day at a time, when frankly, no amount of blue skies and beautiful buildings, kind friends, money in the bank, health or humour could buoy me up i came across a sign. the all saints church at about 7 in the evening was open for prayer. i don't pray. i beg i whinge i don't pray. this weird building, with it's weird phallic spire and it's blackened windows like the filthy depressing outside of the BRI. It intrigued me in.
A bit like a cop car behind you, i've always had an irrational guilt going into a church. but i went in anyway. pushed against some heavy glass doors, more like going into a Gap than a church and it hit me. heavy dusty fragrance in the lungs. you can't rush through that. it's such a weirdly odd but familiar smell it stopped me in my tracks.
in front of you a square glass quadrant with dull concrete paving slabs in the middle. you can see across to a garden beyond.
left into the main body of the church.
no-one there.
i sneak in.
i take a seat.
polished modern seats. pews of any age are never comfy.
it was so much darker than outside. i looked up right and suddenly felt like i'd been dunked under water in the med. bright blue windows. i say bright, they weren't letting light in, but underneath them on the ground floor level more light let in through translucent white windows giving a celestial additional otherworldly feel to the place.
Then I heard it. Gin and tonic on ice. Water under a frozen lake. Crackling a plastic bag. There are lots of things it's sounds like. But it's got it's own rhythm, it's not disconcerting like some unpredictable sounds can be. It took me a while to realise the building makes noises. Like water running down the outside, but it was a dry night.
Later on after many visits, i realised it's the windows. not obviously glass, but they don't appear to move in time with the sounds either.
They're fibreglass and they contract and expand with different temperatures. I now know on a warm day it'll be more of a frenzied crackling when i sit down.
smell, sound colour and calm.
behind the altar a huge join of two unadorned intimidating walls join to form a corner. it looks like a huge upended blank book. Bathstone, warm pale beige yellow depending on the time of day.
the ceiling grey functional concrete with round cornered square hollows in it. repeating across a diagonal. these are designed to optimise the acoustics in a building i value for it's silence but one that is known for it's music.
one of the last times i wondered in, there was an extra noise above the crackling. snoring. likely to be James, a ruddy cheeked, warly volatile scot homeless veteran that will often come in to kip on a pew.


all saints
not the shop
but the building,
 is a church that was bombed in WW2 on pembroke road clifton