2 Chapel Sundays...

The building on the right of the photograph is the Methodist chapel, where the Rev Atkinson Grimshaw presided over his flock. Of course, religion was a more compelling proposition at the turn of the 20th century, when the picture was taken, than it is today. It was a time when the devil walked among us, and wasn't just your dad dressed up. Sunday may have been a day of rest, but that didn’t mean locals were free to visit a garden centre or car boot sale, or nurse a pint through a lazy afternoon in the beer garden of the Farrier’s Arms. Attendance at chapel was compulsory. If anyone failed to to occupy his cusomary pew on Sunday, the minister would be round on Monday morning demanding to know why.

There was no escape from the minister’s gimlet gaze, as he cast his eyes over his parishioners and itemised, one by one, their moral frailties. For those who’d transgressed, the future looked bleak. Even if they escaped censure in this life, Grimshaw warned them, unambiguously, that the fires of hell were waiting. With his stern demeanour and mutton-chop whiskers, he looked like he’d be happy to stoke the flames himself. One thing was certain: sinners wouldn’t be needing an extra sweater in the next life.

There was no escape from Grimshaw’s foghorn voice either, as he banged his fist on the edge of the pulpit and reminded his forgetful flock about the ten commandments. His sermons were of such length and ferocity that parishioners with nervous dispositions - or weak bladders - tended to sit near the back. For those who had given in to temptation, Grimshaw’s sermons hit home. When he mentioned theft, the landlord of the Farrier’s Arms sat bolt upright, wondering how the minister could possibly know he was watering down the workers’ beer. When the minister mentioned adultery, the blacksmith’s wife could feel his eyes boring into her, even though her head was bowed and she was staring at her shoes.

Relief finally came when they were able to file out of the chapel - men ashen-faced, women weeping, children traumatised and damp. After an hour of fire and brimstone, spring sunlight never felt so good.