St Andrew's Church, Little Snoring

Little Snoring is a large, working village joined to its neighbour Kettlestone across the busy Fakenham to Cromer road. Of all Norfolk place names, it is the one that outsiders find the most amusing - in fact, it simply means the place of a people who followed a man called Snear.
As with the neighbouring Walsinghams, Little Snoring is bigger than Great Snoring, and has a decent pub, shops and a village school.The church sits out to the north of the village, on the edge of the WWII airbase. This has now all gone, ploughed under decades ago, but it still provides romantic associations. Unusually in Norfolk, it wasn't a base used by American bombers, but by British fighter aircraft, Spitfires and Hurricanes. During the war years, St Andrew was used as the base chapel.
 St Andrew is remarkable for having a tower that is detached from the rest of the church. The two sit together on a mound above the road. The south side of the graveyard has been largely cleared of headstones, but there are some fine 18th and 18th century ones that line the path, The round tower is doubly attractive; not only is it free standing, but it is topped by a little 18th century conical cap with tiny gables and a spike. On the eastern face, there is a filled-in tower arch, into which a door and grotesque have been fitted in more recent years.
Inside, the church is earthy and rustic; the roof could as easily be that of a barn. The wide nave and chancel are separated by a fairly narrow chancel arch, creating a feeling of uncluttered rooms; the sturdy font sits in an expanse of tiles.
It is still a place of pilgrimage for those who flew from the wartime base, and for those who remember them. Large boards up at the back record 'hits' on German aircraft and awards received it also has a copy of the poem,

 'An Airfield remembered';    

We were hungry, tired and dirty,
From our shoulders rifles hung,
Our clothes were torn, our faces bronzed
By long hours in the sun. 
Here was to be our station,
For the war was not yet won,
When we came to Little Snoring
That fateful June had just begun.

Living here among you.
We would join you at your play,
And, in the quiet of your church
We knelt with you to pray.
We filled your lanes and byways
With laughter and with song.
We shared each others sorrows
As through life we journeyed on.

Here both men and maidens tended
To the harsh and warlike needs
Of men, who through the dark hours
Flew their man-made steeds.
The sky at night their hunting ground
In which they sought their prey,
Returning only when the night
Gave way to breaking day.

At time when hope was fading
They would patient vigil keep,
Rejoicing if their crew returned,
But often they would weep.
They wept for those who ‘ere the sun
Had warmed the fresh-turned clod,
Had fought their last battle
And were at peace with God.

I returned to Snoring airfield,
The way was hard to find,
For over paths and taxiways
Nature had thrown a blind
Of grass and twisted bramble,
Willow herb and clinging vine,
No longer there the Nissen huts
In which men slept and dined.

Forsaken, then the hangars stood,
Empty, broken, gaunt and grey,
Only wheeling birds were there
To welcome me that day.
And when some silent mystic hand
Rolled back the fleeting years,
I saw this dead place filled with life,
And my eyes were wet with tears.

For one vibrant moment
This vast airfield was reborn,
Through musty eyes, I saw it rise
From amid the standing corn.
Men and buildings filled the skyline,
At dispersal stood the planes,
Then  like a wraith all sank to rest
Beneath a quilt of grain.

I trod the winding path,
Unlatched the old oak door,
And found there in the house of God
That men had kept the score
Of all the kills the Squadron made,
The honours men had won,
A humbled man I closed the door,
My visit almost done.

I tried to find the work of him
Who, when released from duties,
Took pain and brush and from his hand
There grew a thing of beauty.
His gallery was the airmen’s mess,
His canvas bare brick wall,
All we who served at Snoring
His pictures can recall.

The ploughshares men shall beat their swords,
To pruning hooks their spears,
For us the artist there portrayed
Our hopes for future years.
I knew him well the artist
Who did those colours blend,
I knew what had inspired him
For you see he was my friend.

From my full well of memories
I drew long and deep that day,
Recalled the bitterness of war
And the price we had to pay
That we might live in freedom,
To worship without fear,
Is that not what we fought for
And why were we stationed here?