Knowlton Church

The Knowlton Erection

Luke Hall

The tower of Knowlton Church bears a striking resemblance to my penis; shrivelled and gargantuan in size, but of course I must admit that I’ve massaged the truth, my penis doesn’t tower. It instead flops like a sad wrinkly whale to the fierce demands that are to challenge me in the day ahead.  The very thought of scaling a cliff more rubble than rock is a horrifying prospect, like being sarcastic in North Korea, it is a tale of certain death.


Knowlton Church really is a ruin, it has no roof, the floor is nothing more than decomposed gravel, and the upper floors have been erased from existence altogether. If you want a peek out of the top window of the tower, its going to take bigger balls than my glacé cherries to clamber onto the prehistoric apple crumble walls and begin to climb. Like most desolate buildings that have been left to be chewed up by mumsy nature, Knowlton Church is in one those areas that’s so remote even 3G doesn’t know about it.

The grounds of the church provide a sanctuary for the abject coward, it sits in the centre of what once appeared to be a moat, similar to those found in old Tudor castles. The entire area is shrouded in grass, with steep hills that any discerning juvenile can spend the day rolling down, should they grow tired of the hyper immersive and sophisticated world of Pokémon Go. I myself opted for the much more intense option of sitting atop the moat, staring up into the sky for several hours wondering why on earth anyone would think that Anjam Choudary is a good idea.

If you spend any significant time here, you’ll notice the place gradually become more eerie as clouds fill the sky and winds slice across the open fields. As I sat gazing at the church trying to work out what #megalolz meant on that social site with the bird on it, I could feel the wind scraping what remained of my hairline into the bushes. I took this as a passive aggressive attempt by the ghosts of Knowlton to get me to sod off, as not to upset the planned visit of the Druids who were popping in for tea at six. I could scarcely fight the purging wind as I took my lighter photo on the church grounds, which I’m sure were taken from the same blueprints God had of my beef whistle.

Editor: Joel Emmons


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