I REMEMBER at school, always on the first day of term while the form teacher was trying to sort out the timetable, we were asked to write about what we did in the long summer holidays. I thought I might do the same this morning, and let you into the secret of the exciting days my wife and I spent in the country. Except it wasn't quite like that.

We stayed at a friend's house in Bishopstone, a small village near Hereford. It was a good exchange: our friend and his family came and stayed here in the rectory in the City of London, so it was something different for all of us - they got the big city and all the shows and art galleries; we got to escape to peace and quiet. In fact, the nights were so quiet the silence kept me awake! Our friends' son is assistant organist at Hereford cathedral, so there we went for our busman's holiday on the Sunday morning, and I was once again left bewildered as to why the clergy can't leave the words of the Prayer Book to speak for themselves. Instead, they can't resist telling the congregation in advance what's coming next. "We confess our sins...We say the words of the Creed...Now it's our intercessions..." And so on, all through the service. There's no need for such a running commentary. It slows the service down, breaks up the natural rhythm of the prayers and the constant jabber utterly spoils the sense of the holy mystery we came to experience.

And why can't they preach without talking to us as if we were all about five years old? The sermon was so patronising I wanted to crawl under the pew and hide. Actually, later in the service I did crawl under the pew. This was at the bit where the parson announces: "Let us greet one another with a sign of peace" - and folk wander all over the place, backslapping, hugging and kissing. At least the music was excellent.

On the Sunday we thought we'd take a bus trip to Marlborough. There were the fine buildings of the College and, in the picturesque ancient town, two beautiful medieval churches. Well, I suppose parsons are like alcoholics when it comes to churches, and I couldn't help suggesting that we took a look. Shockingly, the church at the bottom of the hill had been declared "redundant" in 1974 and is now used as a sort of civic amenity. As it was Sunday, it was closed.

So, we walked up the main street to the church at the top of the hill. Here, morning service had just finished and, at the font, the vicar was conducting a christening. I couldn't help overhearing a fragment of what he was saying. "We resume at the second part of paragraph four...Turn to paragraph seven...Now here's something for dad to do..." It was all a long way from the magnificent words of the Book of Common Prayer which says: "Sanctify this water to the mystical washing away of sin". Whom do they think they are talking to, these dumbed-down vicars?

One night in the Red Lion we sat at the far end of the dining room from a lovely Golden Wedding party and enjoyed their background music. Glen Miller, played at a level of decibels that didn't offend the earhole.

But then this other party came in. They had all been on a computer course and they couldn't stop talking about it in that awful management jargon. "I've got seven point five ram..." I couldn't tell whether he was a shepherd or just boasting about his sexual prowess. Ah well, home again to the whirling mania of the City.

Published: Tuesday, September 4, 2001