Take the lane that leads south-west out of Pooley Bridge, on the northern tip of Ullswater, and you find yourself driving down a narrow, stone-wall lined road, that winds its way towards Martindale.

The road passes some campsites, the occasional bed and breakfast, an Outward-Bound centre, and a hotel – all enjoying the glorious view across the lake. It enters, and leaves shortly after, the tiny hamlet of Howtown, before a series of hairpin bends lead you sharply up.

Down the other side and the road goes in three directions.

One into Sandwick. Where it stops.

One, on into Boredale. Where it stops.

And one into Martindale. Where it stops.

Whichever way you go, it is the end of the road.

Rising up around you are the hills of Steel Knotts, Beda Fell, and Hallin Fell. Each one gloriously contoured, covered in greens and browns, and broken up by ancient stone walls. Everywhere, sheep roamed.

We stopped the car and looked.

That way – a river meandered through the valley.

That way - in the distance, some snow-topped hills.

That way – Ullswater.

All around, dotted throughout the hills and valleys were houses…homes…farms. Isolated. Remote. Singular.

Here was solitude…quiet. Here was a different way of living.

We continued on a little ways to St. Martin’s Church, in Martindale.

A 500 year old or so, low, stone building. A squat bell-tower at one end of the slate roof. Before this building, there had been others on the same site. A wall surrounds the church, enclosing a small grave-yard. In one corner, a Yew - a massive trunk; heavy, moss-covered branches bending towards the ground. A 1,300 year-old Yew they reckon - magnificent. The building is never locked – it welcomes walkers seeking shelter, and all who happen to make the journey.

We stood outside and took it all in.

Sensing the remoteness.

There was drizzle, and the wind was blowing, so we went inside.

And I found myself wondering…pondering.

Why build a church here?

This was remote. Distant. There were more sheep than people. This was never going to have been a church that grew. So why put it here?

I closed my eyes and imagined. Imagined how each Sunday farmers and farm-hands from the hills and dales around, making the journey to this building to worship. Each coming from their home…their farm…and converging here…in this place.

Pausing from their arduous toil. Pausing from their rural rhythms. Probably wearing their one change of clothes. And walking, rain or sun, to gather with others, to worship the Maker of these very hills.

I sensed the sacredness.

There was something about how generations of people who had farmed these hills and valleys had prioritised gathering together to worship. I mean, why else build it? If it wasn’t for these people to gather. I don’t know how many came. 20, 30, 50? Perhaps more? But they came. This church building stood testimony to that. It was built there so people could gather and worship.

People only gather there once a month now.

I think only a few.

Its spiritual heart beats weaker, but it stands testimony to what once was.

….

One of the things I love about belonging to a church family is the Sunday gathering. The coming together of followers of Jesus. People leaving their homes, all heading for the same place, and gathering. To see. To talk. To sing. To hear. To pray. To learn. I love the rhythm of gathering.

Gathering and then scattering. Gathering and then scattering. Gathering and then scattering.

It keeps me grounded. It gives my life shape. It allows me to order and arrange the rest of my life around it. In a strange way, it simplifies my life.

I pray that we would always be a people that gathers.

We pause our weeks. And we gather.

May we never give up meeting together as some are in the habit of doing, but may we encourage one another, and all the more as we see the Day approaching. (Hebrews 10:25)