Whilst having little to show for it today, Cumnor's church has its origins in the late Saxon period; the village was in the possession of Abingdon Abbey by 968, and soon afterwards a minster church was built on this hill-top site. All that remains of this building today is a single blocked doorway with a heavy square lintel in the southern wall of the nave, as well as a few reset mass dials in various places around the exterior of the building. Aside from these scant Saxon survivals, the earliest substantial work in the building dates from the Norman rebuilding of the church in the late 12th century. The most complete feature of this date is the 3-stage west tower, being a Transitional work with lancet belfry louvres and a round-headed west door combining Romanesque work with the emerging Gothic. The Norman church must too have consisted of a nave and chancel (I mean, obviously!), as is attested by the tower and chancel arches, a Transitional window in the north wall of the chancel, and a host of 12th century corbels present throughout the church, some in their original corbel table position on the exterior nave south wall, and some reused in later rebuildings (see the Treasures segment on them below).

The first set of major alterations to this original building seems to have come around the 1300 mark, with the north aisle and south transept both believed to date from this time. Whilst both seem roughly contemporary, I suspect that they must have been completed in different waves of building work, as surely if you were intent on expanding the church both to the north and the south, you would add either aisles or transepts, not one of each. The door in the north aisle is actually contemporary with the aisle, still resting on its original 700 year old hinges. The altar in this aisle appears to have originally been dedicated to St. Thomas Becket, with the dedication changing to St. Catherine of Alexandria at some point and the dedication to Thomas Becket passing to the south transept chapel. This transept chapel contains two Decorated tomb recesses containing grave slabs said to belong to two abbots of Abingdon Abbey, the religious house who established Cumnor Place nearby as a manorial place of refuge in the early 14th century. Also of the early 14th century are the two windows in the south wall of the chancel. Later, in order to move with the fashions of the time, the nave roof of the church experienced an overhaul in the 15th century in order to lower its pitch, adding a clerestory and supporting the new tie-beam roof on reused corbels of the 12th century. The chancel and north aisle roofs were both also replaced at this time and remain to this day.

The intervening centuries which link this stage of the building to how we find it today have on the whole been kind, relative to the misfortunes of many other parish churches. The Reformation of course must have been an enormous blow to the church's decorative grandeur, and in 1644 Parliamentary Soldiers raided the village and stole the church's weathercock, but apart from this, little else has been done to deprive the church of its most fascinating features. The Victorian restoration is not particularly remarked upon in any guide I have read, with the addition of the north porch in 1859 being the largest change other than the customary replacement of pews, but the flooring and roofs have been left alone which is a fantastic relief. This porch appears to have been converted very recently for the addition of toilet facilities, which has been done in a sympathetic manner.

The information here has been taken variously from the church's information boards and the Historic England listing.

Whilst suburban Oxford and its ring road lurk on the village's doorstep, Cumnor remains a delightful slice of historic Berkshire countryside, with the church at its heart. The church is approached from the north, which means it is inevitably quite poorly lit and the building fades into a flat, grey mass in front of the glaring sun on a bright summer's day as when I visited, but it is nevertheless a pleasant enough aspect - there are certainly far worse to be seen elsewhere.

For a building of such antiquity, it is odd to enter through the most modern part of it: the recently converted porch. Whilst it is very smart and well-executed, it doesn't quite act as the liminal moderator between the outside world and the sanctified interior as well as one would like, being a third realm in its own right with the feeling of a village hall or something of the sort. Regardless, entering the actual church is to enter an extremely pleasant and calm world; whilst not overtly ancient in feel, it certainly feels homely and comfortable. It is well-kept and tidy - aspects which go a long way! - and well signposted; this is clearly a space that is cared about and appreciated by those who have inherited it from the generations past who conceived it, and that is wonderful to see and experience as a visitor.

The most magnificent memorial in the church by far, the tomb of Anthony (c.1510-1572) and Anne (d.1599) Forster in the chancel is one of Cumnor's principal treasures, rich not only in artistic merit, but in storied local legend too. Anthony Forster came from a Shropshire noble family, while Anne (née Williams) was of the Berkshire gentry. From 1558, they leased Cumnor Place from the Owen family, who had acquired it at the Reformation after it was confiscated from the Abbots of Abingdon, before eventually buying it in 1561. It is through their connection to Cumnor Place that one of the most infamous episodes in Cumnor's history came to pass: the death of Amy Robsart. Having attempted to relay the story in this section in a concise form, I eventually relented to including a more lengthy retelling as a footnote to the article, so see below.

Affixed to the north wall of the chancel, the Forster tomb can be said to be the single greatest piece of artwork within the church. It is not offensively domineering, as some chancel tombs are, but fits into the space most welcomely. Dating from around 1575 (so between Anthony and Anne's deaths), the tomb is hewn from Purbeck marble, consisting of a chest surmounted by a heavy canopy, with brass inlays (heraldic, figural, and inscriptional) set towards the back. Whilst ornamented largely with Gothic tracery, quatrefoils and the like, the columns supporting the canopy are distinctly classical Ionic, giving it an exotically fashionable flavour. The brass figures of Anthony, Anne, and their children are typical of their time, but the entire ensemble is made considerably more attractive through the presence of red and black pigmented accentuations surviving (or perhaps more likely, having been restored) on the heraldic plates. The tomb is a fine piece of work, with the classical highlights among the Gothic detailing dragging England's funerary monuments kicking and screaming into the Renaissance.

When you really think about it, it is an absolute miracle that almost any of our most precious medieval church furniture has made it to the present day in any sort of recognisable form. Stone weathers and cracks, metal rusts and tarnishes, and, potentially most fragile of all, wood rots and burns. So imagine my delight when, upon entering the chancel in order to examine the Forster tomb, I was greeted with a most fine set of medieval poppyheads! It is always a pleasure to have been attracted to a church by a specific artifact but to come away having discovered something totally unexpected, yet just as fascinating.

Cumnor's set of poppyheads date to the 15th century and display a charming breadth of design. Whilst the bench ends themselves remain plain, the uppermost parts of them take on a life of their own, taking the forms of emblems of the Passion of Christ, seraphim stamping down dragons, bearded figures, lush foliage, and even a pair of chameleons. Considering their advanced age, they are in a commendable state of preservation, with much detail still able to be picked out. These are precisely the sort of church treasures which I started this website to document; unless possessing a collection of national significance, one is extremely unlikely to find any kind of photographic documentation of carvings like these on the internet. My motto remains that the most provincial and unknown of church artwork can be the most fascinating and the most imbued with humanity, and Cumnor's poppyheads aptly demonstrate this principle.

Cumnor is, as is the case with so many of this country's fine array of churches, a delightful treasure trove of unexpected things, with fascinating features around each corner, and when turning one of said corners, you could do worse than to bump into Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I, which is precisely what I ended up doing. This is one of the church's most bizarre features; whilst the remainder of its treasures are notable indeed, they are of categories which one may come to expect, whilst a large statue of a monarch lies very much outside of those parameters.

Constructed from delicately carved Burford stone, this representation of the Virgin Queen, posing stoically with her gilded orb and sceptre, can be found poised on a plinth just inside the south transept, in front of the opening which formerly would have allowed access to the rood loft. Before coming to be displayed here, it has had a turbulent and ignominous past, being first recorded in 1821 as being in a private garden in North Hinksey. Another record from 1846 confirms that it was still there, but by the 1880s it was to be found in pieces in an outhouse of Wytham Abbey (or, as Historic England suggests, Dean Court). It was in this sorry state that it was found by Samuel Griffith, Vicar of Cumnor from 1877 to 1903, who repatriated the statue to what he believed was its home in Cumnor. A Latin inscription beneath indicates that he restored it '...[accurately], with care and at great cost' in 1888, before it was placed in its present position in 2017.

The statue is lavish in its detail, with the engraved floral pattern of the Queen's dress being exquisitely conceived, if a little heavy-handed in its execution. The ruff is another point to admire, being at once both delicate and hearty. The majority of the statue is original, with the Historic England listing recording that the head, right hand, and sceptre are all that was outright replaced during its restoration, though I suspect the cross surmounting the orb belongs on that list as well. 

Regarding the statue's date, Griffith believed it to be contemporary with Queen Elizabeth's reign (1558-1603), having been commissioned by that most favoured of all statesmen, Robert Dudley, to stand in the grounds of Cumnor Place; a sculptural delicacy for him to admire when visiting his friends the Forsters, no doubt. In fact, this cannot reasonably have been the case, as the designs on which the statue's dress pattern seem to have been based are featured in royal portraits, engravings of which were not made public until after Elizabeth's death. Stylistically, it most likely belongs to the late 17th or 18th centuries, despite Historic England asserting a late 16th century date which is ruled out by the point regarding costume.

So, if not linked to Dudley, not a possession of the Forsters, and not an artifact of Cumnor Place, what is its provenance? The truth is that the circumstances surrounding the statue's commission and subsequent fall from grace may never be known. It is possible that it was intended to be displayed at an Oxford college (in the manner of the statues displayed in the main quads of colleges such as Wadham and Oriel), but if this is the case then it certainly never made it into position. Why not? Oxford colleges aren't exactly short of historical records, and one would think the commissioning of a royal statue for display (or indeed the cancellation/interruption of such a commission) would be relatively easily traceable. If it was indeed carved in the 17th or 18th centuries, then the question of why it seemingly sprang into existence in 1821, having never previously been recorded, is a confounding one too. For how long had this private North Hinksey garden had it? Is North Hinksey its true home? Without the contemporary Dudley connection, it seems unlikely that Cumnor takes that title. No matter; it is the statue's home now, and hopefully it can remain on display to be admired for many generations to come. Perhaps a few of the lingering questions surrounding it can be answered in that time as well.

A closer look at the detail of the statue's dress, with a seam between formerly broken parts of the statue visible. | Taken 07/05/25

Dating from the 12th to 14th centuries, Cumnor preserves a wonderful collection of characterfully-carved corbels. They are spread out all over the building, with some still supporting the church's roof as they have for centuries, with others being reset elsewhere, and others still being external and purely decorative. Carved with a breadth of designs, from human heads to animalistic beasts, these remarkable and grotesque carvings transmit a legacy of horseplay across the centuries; whilst they may have served the purpose of frightening away evil spirits with their perverse features, their principal value in my eyes is simply recording the ever-present human urge to be a bit silly.

The majority of them are to be found supporting the nave and north aisle roofs, those of the north aisle being much more amenable to examination as the roof is much lower. These are among the oldest of the corbels, dating from the church's original construction in the late 12th century, although they have obviously been reset in their present positions as the nave ceiling was raised to its present height in the 15th century, and the north aisle has only existed since the 14th century. Also of the 12th century are the four remaining corbels to be found on the exterior of the church, forming the only surviving part of the church's original corbel table on the south side of the building where the south transept meets the nave. This corbel table would presumably have once continued all the way around the building at the original roof line of the nave.

A few later examples exist elsewhere in the church, though they do not share quite the level of creatively drolatic charm as the older ones. The arcade between the north aisle and the nave preserves a couple of early 14th century facial and foliated designs (though I suppose these would be classed as hood moulds rather than corbels), and a further pair of the same age survive in the south transept.

The survival of grotesques like these is a welcome and vivid reminder that the human imagination has been a thing of wonder since time began. Whilst their original medieval carvers may have had their own superstitious intentions in creating them, it is fairly safe to say that everyone since has been able to crane their neck up at them in childlike wonder, nudge a friend, point, and share a laugh. How comforting it is, to know that when we do this today, we are sharing this laughter with the people who passed through here hundreds of years ago.

And finally, the external corbel table on the south side of the building. These are obviously more severely weathered than their counterparts indoors, but they retain a marvellous level of detail regardless. The westernmost (far left) shows a creature with bat ears and huge lips in some distress I imagine, with the corbel to the right being almost unintelligible - perhaps it is some kind of contortionist? Moving further right still we reach a nasty looking beast with its teeth bared, and finally a pair of animal heads peering out into the churchyard. | Taken 07/05/25

Whilst most churchyard chest tombs are easily dismissed as part of the scenery, this one to the northeast of the church deserves some further attention. It marks the resting place of Lieutenant William Godfrey, a staunch Royalist who fought in the Civil War, but happily survived it by some 50 years, eventually dying in 1694. The slate lozenges set into the sides bear an inscription which records his service to King Charles I 'from Edgehill Fight to ye end of ye unhappy wars.' Weathering is taking its toll on the monument, especially on the top face where the stone is beginning to detach from the surface in flakes, but if all Cromwell's men couldn't make an end of William Godfrey, then sure as hell the wind and rain won't either. | Taken 07/05/25

Having alluded to the tragic tale of Amy Robsart at many points throughout this entry, it is with great relish that I finally expand upon these references below. I did try and condense the story to fit into several of the more formulaic sections of the article, but I felt more space was needed to both do the story justice and to prevent any one section of the page becoming too cumbersome. There is much more information available elsewhere on the internet, told in what I am sure is a much more detailed manner, but nevertheless, an overview is included below.

The Robsart family, whilst having a name unfortunate for anybody implicated in a museum heist, were wealthy Norfolk land owners, a status which enabled young Amy to be married off to the nobleman Robert Dudley in 1550. Anthony Forster (buried in the Forster tomb detailed above) had previously served Dudley as a steward, and the two men had become good friends, with Dudley later sponsoring Forster to become MP for Abingdon. Dudley, who would later be highly favoured by Queen Elizabeth I and be made Earl of Leicester, didn't remain present for long in his marriage to Amy before running off on various overseas expeditions and becoming employed in the Royal Court, necessitating his absence for extended periods of time. Gossip and hearsay about Dudley's relationship with the Queen flooded the upper echelons of society - it was said that the Queen was in love with Dudley, and that he wished to marry her to satisfy his ambition. Of course, Amy was left desperately unhappy as these vicious rumours followed her around, almost constantly devoid of any contact with or clarification from her husband. In 1560, Dudley made arrangements for her to live separately from him; he called on his old friend Anthony Forster, and Amy came to stay here at Cumnor Place.

However, this new living arrangement didn't last long. On the fateful day of September the 8th that same year, she insisted that her servants go to Abingdon Fair, either as benevolence to her employees, or as a simple desire to be left alone - and left alone she was, with not another soul in the house. Upon her servants' return, however, they found the unthinkable - Amy was dead, at the bottom of the stairs, her neck broken. An inquest soon followed, which decided her death was accidental, and Dudley paid for an expensive funeral at the University Church in Oxford, but again, the rumours began to spread. Dudley's opponents wasted no time in suggesting that he had had Amy murdered; he was known to be a ruthless man, and one cannot marry the Queen with a living wife, of course. Whilst the inquest had ruled her death as accidental, it did not go unnoticed that, as well as a broken neck, she had sustained two wounds to her head. Could these have been inflicted just by falling down a staircase? And could the Forsters themselves claim plausible deniability? Without wishing to make light of the situation, perhaps somebody had 'Forster' down the stairs? After all, this happened on their property, with Amy's presence having been arranged by them and Dudley, and Anthony certainly had motive to maintain Dudley's favour. It must be said, though, that Dudley very much did not benefit from the ensuing scandal, and contemporary letters attest to his bewilderment and lack of preparation to face such an event. It has also been suggested that Amy might have committed suicide, driven to intense desperation by her husband's open secret and careless treatment.

Regardless, nothing has ever been concretely proven either way, and the circumstances surrounding Amy's death remain a mystery. Less than a year after the incident, in 1561 the Forsters bought Cumnor Place, and began to make improvements to the house, including laying out an ambitious terraced garden, which was never completed. Upon Anthony's death, he bequeathed the house and grounds to Dudley, who had it sold. However, the morbid history of the house was inescapable, and it soon gained a reputation for supernatural activity. The restless ghost of Amy Robsart was enough to unnerve the new owners to the point of never living there themselves, letting it out instead. It is said that nine parsons from Oxford came to extract the spirit into a nearby pond, which then never froze over again. This precaution didn't seem to work, however, with the stigmatic haunting continuing to drive tenants away one by one. Soon, Cumnor Place had become a ruin, home only to roosting birds, colonies of bats, and one desperate soul, and in 1810 the unhappy house was demolished, leaving Amy's spirit stranded, the very flight of stairs that had taken her life being destroyed around her. Amy's woeful tale was later retold (in a heavily fictionalised manner) in Walter Scott's romantic novel, Kenilworth.

However, it is the Forsters, not Amy Robsart, who are buried here at Cumnor, and it is their tomb which can still be seen to this day. Dudley never quite got to the point of marriage with the famously virginal Queen Elizabeth, and in fact married somebody else, but he enjoyed nearly 30 more years of eminence, success, and riches by her side. He is buried in a fantastically resplendent tomb in the Beauchamp chantry at Warwick, while the location of Amy's own tomb has been lost. No contemporary portraits of Amy survive. The house where she died has left no trace. Still, the substance of memory and legacy is far more than can be contrived with ornate tombs and vain images - it is Amy's tragic story that pervades and reminds us today of her existence and her struggles. May she never be forgotten, and may she finally rest peacefully; may the pond in Cumnor freeze over once more.