The site which St. Michael's occupies has been in use for centuries; originally, the Roman Basilica of the town of Verulamium stood here, possibly the site of the trial of St. Alban himself, the first Briton to be martyred for his Christian faith. After the withdrawal of the Romans from Verulamium in the 5th century, the site fell into disuse and the Basilica was quarried for its building materials. This state of affairs persisted until the mid-10th century, when Abbot Wulsin (also Ulsinus or Wulfsin) founded St. Michael's here as one of three churches on the roads leading into the city to accommodate the large number of pilgrims drawn to the abbey by the shrines of St. Alban and St. Amphibalus. This site was possibly chosen for its association with St. Alban, and reuses many Roman bricks in its construction. This original building would have been a simple two-celled structure, consisting only of a nave and a chancel, and may have been partially rebuilt in the 11th century, as is attested by the thickness of the walls. Nevertheless, the building remains the most intact Saxon structure in the county.

The church has clearly undergone considerable expansion since these early days, starting with the addition of north and south aisles in the late 12th century, and soon followed by the addition of the nave clerestory followed by the southern Lady Chapel in the early 13th century. In this same century, the southern nave arcade was underbuilt for structural aid, but was later entirely demolished. The 13th century also saw the construction of a now vanished west tower, which would have been completed with the addition of battlements and a southeast stair turret in the 15th century. The original chancel arch was rebuilt and widened in the 14th century, before the whole church was refurnished in the 15th century, gaining some new windows, a new font, a new rood screen and loft, and a new nave roof complete with corbels.

Post-Reformation, less work was done to the church until the Victorian restoration; the Lady Chapel's east wall may have been rebuilt early in the 17th century, and a customary west gallery was added at the end of that same century. This gallery was removed in the first Victorian restoration, undertaken by Sir George Gilbert Scott. Scott was generally an excellent restorer, and seems to have treated St. Michael's well, reordering the church, repairing the tower, rebuilding the buttresses of the Lady Chapel, and replacing the roof, east wall, and east window of the chancel. The most significant addition from Scott's restoration is the south porch, which incorporates one of the remaining arches from the former south aisle arcade.

However, this is not where the Victorian interference in the church's history comes to an end. Unfortunately, Scott died in 1878, while undertaking restoration works at the cathedral nearby. His son, John Oldrid Scott, attempted to follow through with his father's plans as far as his efforts could get him, but ultimately the job fell into the hands of the notorious Edmund Beckett, 1st Baron Grimthorpe, who had financed much of the restoration work, and, as an amateur architect himself (or professional dilettante), was itching to get his hands on the historic building. Grimthorpe is described by contemporaries as 'a pompous, righteous bully' and 'a man of arrogance and bile,' and can essentially be said to have utterly ruined the cathedral, obliterating untold amounts of its historical fabric and treating it as his personal sandbox with which he could do as he pleased. If only Scott had been considerate enough not to die! At any rate, Grimthorpe's 'restoration' of St. Albans Cathedral is widely known and reviled as one of the most disgraceful episodes in the long and arduous tradition of Victorian hands playing with history that was not theirs to destroy.

Unfortunately, St. Michael's church also lay within Grimthorpe's domain and received much the same treatment in the 1890s, with the medieval west tower being totally demolished and a new tower of Grimthorpe's design being added onto the northwest of the building. Whilst the tower itself is not obtrusive in design, its placement, as anyone who has ever seen an image of the church can confirm, simply looks bad. He also totally remodelled the western portion of the nave, extending it slightly westwards, and, in doing so, permanently blasted a 15th century window from the world. Additionally, a measly and ill-proportioned vestry was tacked onto the southwest (the south side for goodness sake! Any self-respecting Victorian restorer had the decency to tuck a modern vestry out of sight on the north side), and, to add insult to injury, Grimthorpe destroyed all remaining traces of the 15th century Doom painting above the chancel arch, save the surviving wooden tympanum. I am content to call Grimthorpe a supercilious, entitled, and gross pretender to the arts, grim by name and grim by nature, and when there exists no dearth of evidence that I share this view with many who knew him personally, I can lean back in my chair comfortably and feel not an ounce of remorse.

The 20th century saw a few further changes, with the westernmost portion of the nave arcade undergoing reconstruction in 1935 and a second, boxy vestry being added to the north side (take note, Grimthorpe!) by J. C. Rogers in 1938. Despite these more recent chops and changes, St. Michael's still preserves a large portion of fabric hearkening back to its ancient roots, and its long history can easily be traced in brick and stone.

The information here has been taken variously from the church guide (leaflet available from the church, though they had run out of English versions and I instead have had to translate a German one!), the church website, and the Historic England listing.

Despite its location within the city of St. Albans, the church of St. Michael stands away from the bustling centre to the west, surrounded by a churchyard which would be becoming of the most rural of places. The setting is especially verdant and surprisingly peaceful for its ultimately urban location. The aspect of the church is unusual however, owing to the dimensions of the building itself, and it is impossible to know which angle is best, as each one presents a bizarre new facet of the building's geometry.

The church's interior is airy and light, thanks to the whitewashed walls and clerestory just as much as the modern artificial lighting. One can immediately tell the extent of Victorian interference, as despite being among the oldest buildings in the county, the church does not preserve that palpable ancient atmosphere. On the other hand, the modernity lends it a well kept and active feel. The treasures of the church are generally very accessible and well signposted, with the exception of the brasses, which require an arduous treasure hunt beneath carpets, mats, and screens. However, this hunt is where much of the fun of exploring a medieval church is to be found. Leave no stone (or carpet) unturned!

While the above brasses are treasures indeed, the church's rarest and most precious artefact is made not of brass, but of wood. This oddly shaped panel made from painted wooden boards is affixed to the south wall of the nave and is the only surviving fragment of the church's rood loft and screen. The screen was originally installed here during the 15th century spate of refurnishing, but was only to last until the next century before its ultimate destruction. The Reformation rendered rood screens/lofts liturgically useless, and the rood itself (i.e. Crucifixion scene) was deemed idolatrous and popish, and as such fit for destrucion and looting, and as a result, to my knowledge not a single medieval rood survives in this country, save the most paltry of fragments. The screens and lofts themselves were sometimes luckier, but are still a precious rarity, so this fragment in St. Michael's is a special sight indeed.

The section which survives here is the tympanum, which would have fit into the crest of the chancel arch amidst the rest of the set up. Having previously called this a surviving part of the rood loft/screen, I must admit that it is actually something of a hybrid, essentially serving as an extension of the east wall above the chancel arch to fit in a larger rectangular scene which covered the whole wall. The subject of this scene was the Doom, a painting of the Last Judgement, which commonly adorned the space above the chancel arch in pride of place, allowing the parishoners to marvel at it and let their imaginations run wild, and hopefully inspiring them to live virtuous lives. This whole scene was limewashed and erased after the Reformation, but uncovered again during 1808 building work, surprisingly with the complete scene more or less intact. However, Lord Grimthorpe ultimately spelled the real end for this incredible survival, totally obliterating it with his meddling, charlatan fingers, a totally unforgivable destruction of an invaluable piece of British heritage. All that survives is a drawing made at the time of its rediscovery, showing the dead rising from their coffins, with the Virgin Mary and St. Peter welcoming the virtuous into heaven, while St. Michael the Archangel swoops downwards with his sword towards the demonic figures rising from the mouth of hell. Trumpeting angels and an enthroned Christ watch over the whole scene.

Of course, almost none of this is visible to us today, and while it is frustrating to know that the full scene nearly survived to the present day, we can count ourselves lucky to have anything at all. The tympanum shows six of the figures rising from their coffins, among them all classes and walks of life. A king and queen rise among an abbot and a pope (both now lost) among ordinary civilians, all ranks united in death. It is a powerful and humbling scene, even just this small part, and acts as the smallest of glimpses back into the world of medieval faith.

The tympanum in full. The figures rise from their graves, begging for mercy, royal and pauper alike. The central unpainted segment would have had the lower shaft of the rood affixed. | Taken 21/09/24