Holy Smoke

On Sunday afternoon I was working in one my habitual cafés, a pot of green tea at my elbow, when I became aware of the smell of burning. So did several other people. Indeed, some us stuck our noses outside and looked up and down the Gloucester Rd., but saw no blaze.

It turns out that it was the smell of St Michael the Archangel on the Mount Without, the gloriously named (but much neglected) church at the bottom of St Michael's Hill, a mile and half to the south, going up in flames. It looks as if the fifteenth-century tower has survived, but not much else.

In happier days....

Holy Smoke

On Sunday afternoon I was working in one my habitual cafés, a pot of green tea at my elbow, when I became aware of the smell of burning. So did several other people. Indeed, some us stuck our noses outside and looked up and down the Gloucester Rd., but saw no blaze.

It turns out that it was the smell of St Michael the Archangel on the Mount Without, the gloriously named (but much neglected) church at the bottom of St Michael's Hill, a mile and half to the south, going up in flames. It looks as if the fifteenth-century tower has survived, but not much else.

In happier days....