August is traditionally the time when we pack up and head off on holiday to sunnier climes, or in my childhood to Anglesey or Aberdeenshire, and distinctly less clement weather. This month I’ve decided to take my blog off on holiday and visit some of the extraordinary churches in North Wales.
As we are all aware, Norfolk has a richness in medieval churches unsurpassed in Britain. In North Wales something quite different is going on. This is a land of setting and atmosphere as opposed to the impact of architecture. The influence of rich benefactors and patronage is mostly missing, and the typical Welsh church is often isolated, simple, little more than walls and a roof. Yet they are dripping in spirituality, their sites often reaching back to pre-Christian days and the early Celtic saints who sought out places of solitude and meaning to praise God.
The churches evolved over time, but much less so than in England and the concept of ‘the parish church’ was very different. The parishioners were flung far and wide and their rural life moved between the highlands and lowlands depending on the season. Many of these remote churches still survive, staring down at the sea or wedged into tight mountain valleys. I have selected just a few but each one, in its own way, reflects this majestic landscape and the people who inhabit it.
St Celynnin, Llangelynnin Old Church (main image)
This stunning 13th century church sits below the coast road, hidden from view. The building itself seems to be organically growing out of the rocks. The views over Cardigan Bay are exquisite and the sea was opal blue and calm on the day of my visit. The small 17th century bellcote tells another tale as it has been built on the south-facing porch rather than the usual west end of the church, no doubt to prevent it ringing all day in the predominant westerly wind.
The interior is a delight with a mixture of fixtures and fittings. A Welsh Commandment board from 1796, an old pulpit and base of a rood screen and a damp-addled font in the Celtic position at the centre of the church. There are remnants of wall paintings, one post-reformation with biblical text, the other a memento mori with a skeletal figure. The pews still display the names of the people who sat there in the early nineteenth century, the ones at the back for the servants and farmhands just displaying the name of the farm.
St Cadfan, Tywyn
At first sight, Tywyn seems to be one of those Welsh resort towns that has seen better days. Simon Jenkins describes it as a sad place, ‘surrounded by the ugliest bungalow and caravan sprawl in Cardigan Bay. An unplanned architectural disaster area’. As usual, it’s difficult to disagree with him, but the centre of the old village is more appealing and here lies the church. Evidence suggests that the site has been used for worship from the 6th century. This was when St Cadfan founded a clas, a uniquely Welsh pre-Norman Conquest institution that was a mixture of a shrine, school and mission base all in one. There are several of these clasau all over Wales, the most famous being St David’s in Pembrokeshire.
Much of the church was restored by the Victorians but the old Romanesque arcades survive. The church contains two real treasures. The first is two recumbent effigies from the 14th century. The ‘crying knight’ in his hauberk, surcoat and pointed helmet. His right eye is often weeping, the result of a small fault in the stone that gathers moisture and seeps across his face. The other effigy is an unnamed priest in full dress, his hood drawn over his head in an atmosphere of mystery.
In the north aisle stands a tall slim stone incised with a cross at the top. Probably from the 8th century it is said to carry the first known writing in the Welsh language. Though very faint after centuries of weathering, it records the names of departed families on four sides and the words, ‘loss and grief remain’.
St Mark, Brithdir
A couple of miles outside the market town of Dolgellau in the Eryri (Snowdonia) National Park, hidden in the woods, is the remarkable church of St Mark’s. This is unlike any other church I visited but is one of the most remarkable Arts and Crafts churches in Britain. The slightly gloomy building looks almost industrial from the outside but inside is a stunning revelation. The legacy of Reverend Charles Tooth, one time chaplain of the English community in Florence, it was completed after his death in 1898 by the Arts and Crafts architect J.D. Sedding.
The interior is breathtaking, Italian Romanesque in style the bright cream of the nave is offset by the deep ochre and blue of the chancel and apse. The nave has a very modern feel, the only ornament being the slender inlay of ebony and abalone in the doors and a lead font shaped with shells, fronds and roses. The chancel is dark with a Byzantine feel. Out of this gloom sparkles the beaten copper work of the pulpit, altar and reredos. The choir stalls are classic Arts and Crafts depicting squirrels, rabbits, mice and other animals carved out of mellow chestnut.
St Tanwg, Llandanwg
Known as the lost church of the dunes, on occasions St Tanwg has to be dug out of the sand after a big storm. Located right next to the beach it would be hard to find a more atmospheric place. Very old in its origins, possibly 5th century, there is a large stone of Irish rock by the altar with the Latin name, Ingenuus inscribed.
A low stooping entrance, so small it’s hardly a door, beckons you in. The interior is so dark it takes a while for your eyes to adjust. There before you is a simple, beautifully uneven, flagstone floor and bare, whitewashed walls. An impossibly weathered beam runs across the nave, seemingly struggling to hold up the structure. The simple pews sit invitingly against the wall. The church was unroofed in the early nineteenth century but thankfully reroofed in 1884. This is the quintessential North Walian church – ancient, remote and steeped in saintly Celtic culture.
I visited over twenty churches in the few days I was travelling around North Wales, including the shrine at Holywell, the ‘Lourdes of Britain’. Each one deserves an entry but space, as with time, is short. The overwhelming feeling of my travels is one of an ancient Celtic culture, superimposed with the influences of invaders down the centuries. The names of the saints and churches are unfamiliar to my English sensibility, having more in common with the Christianity of Ireland or Brittany. Yet the remoteness of so many of these churches has something strangely familiar about it, recalling Norfolk’s medieval masterpieces.
Rob Gladstone August 2026
