I was looking through my photos the other day from our trip back to England in July. We spent most of the time where my father-in-law lives, a sleepy little Devon village. It maybe small but it is replete with history on every corner. The Anglican Parish church, in common with many other English villages dominates the centre. It is old and it is beautiful, speaking to a bygone age when Sundays were a day set apart from the rest and church bells rang out to usher in the religious. The elderly, the young, the rich and the poor, all entering through a common door at the front entrance. This door was around the back, facing the quietness of the well kept church grounds. Cemetery grounds. A door. Silent and old and so very present.