Having been schooled here, I take more or less any chance to visit the Chapel where we held assembly each morning - except the Catholic pupils who were shut away in a distant cubicle.
Key to a satisfactory reminiscence of the Chapel is having sat in the choir. Plebs in the common stalls were the lower orders, the supplicants. For a chorister there was a slight whiff of cordite when volunteers were sought for gospel readings and intercessions, but head boys and other show-offs were usually pleased to oblige.
The Chapel, thanks to our teacher Mr 'Am I Boring You?' Puddephat, was transformed by uncovering a mediaeval mural into a graphic and gory visual lesson in what would happen to us when we were admitted to an eternity in Hell. Inattentive plebs with wandering eyes were confronted by pitchforks, boiling oil and furnaces.
The choir, by contrast, turned our eyes upward merely to praise the Lord and check for rain through the fine old windows.
Own or manage this property? Claim your listing for free to respond to reviews, update your profile and much more.