FOR the country folk of St John's Chapel, it was the weekend that the Show had to go on; for Granville Gibson, the admirable Archdeacon of Auckland, it was a final curtain.

Weardale Agricultural Society's annual show had run at Chapel (as locals know it) for 132 years. Now foot-and-mouth disease had forced the surviving classes up from the show field to the little town hall, a silver cup inscribed "Best in show" propped proudly against Mr Hepple's cauliflowers.

"Isn't it typical," someone said, "all them wet weekends down on't show field and when we're under cover, the weather's bloomin' lovely."

Still there were chrysanthemums, curved, and carrots, long, still white potatoes and shallots, any variety, but though the sun was high, a shadow had been cast all the way from Northumberland.

The disease, unimaginably, had returned.

"It's awful, quite awful, what's happening to this dale," said local county councillor John Shuttleworth, his mood only slightly cheered by the King's Head's 10-2 win that morning. One runaway train of a lad had scored six. "If you'd seen him at the show dance last night, you wouldn't have thought he could even have got out of bed," said John.

Others were concerned over the loss of beaters' jobs at the shooting. "The bairns depend on it - £25, a bottle of pop and as much as they can eat."

The show service would normally have been held on the field, too, but now was back in the church of St John the Baptist, around which the village grew up.

The first church had been built in the 15th Century, replaced 300 years later by a building funded by Sir Walter Calverley Blackett, Weardale lead mines owner and MP for Newcastle. Tradition has it that the good Sir Walter was displeased with his investment, nonetheless. "Like a dog kennel," he said, and clearly must have had some pretty spiritually-minded dogs.

In the porch, probably there since the beginning, hangs a "Table of Kindred and Affinity", the vast list of who may not be married to whom and not a mention of Elizabeth Taylor anywhere.

For Archdeacon Gibson, now 65, it was his last Sunday before retirement from one of the top diocesan posts, an office senior enough to have demanded the wearing of ceremonial gaiters until the 1960s, still senior enough to be styled "The Venerable". Vulnerable may occasionally have seemed more appropriate.

Granville Gibson had come late to the ministry and made a big impression, not least for the eloquence of his preaching, the richness of his voice and the stentorian merriment of his laughter. "A booming laugh," the diocesan newspaper had said, in announcing his departure.

Still of course, he was working - double time on Sundays and only the rewards the same. After St John's Chapel at 6pm, they were due at Tow Law by half past seven for the rehearsal of the institution of its new parish priest.

"If we dash out immediately at the end, it's not because we're going over to the King's Head," Philip Greenhalgh, Upper Weardale's Vicar, tells Sunday's congregation.

He is long-haired, bearded, weaves baskets, wears open-toed sandals - Jesus sandals? - over bare feet, plays guitar, climbs mountains, cherishes real ale. Good bloke, then.

Mr Greenhalgh prays that they might be inspired to be people of hospitality, warmth and hope; Les Hann, the dale's Methodist minister, prays for those whose livelihoods have become ever more fragile and insecure, for the folk whose businesses are close to bankruptcy and for those who want to retire, but can't.

Stanhope Silver Band is splendidly in attendance, Elizabeth Ferguson sings two soaring solos, all join in good old hymns like Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer and All People That on Earth Do Dwell.

Only Alec Peart, the organist, is missing, forced to stay at home by the new outbreak. "He's afraid," says the Archdeacon, "afraid of what's just over the hill." He also tells them that he's used to being the youngest at St John's Chapel, recalls marching with the miners whilst at Newton Aycliffe and to Save Our Shipyards in Sunderland.

"Margaret Thatcher took not one bit of notice of the miners' marches and my guess is that Tony Blair isn't going to take that much notice of our protests at the changes in agriculture," he says.

He preaches without notes but by no means without humour or passion, gesticulates as if saying "Photograph me" to the attendant camera man, exudes what might perhaps best be termed Christian charity.

Mutual love and concern got them through the miners' strikes, he says. It'll get them through foot-and-mouth as well.

Afterwards, as forecast, he's literally dashing off to Tow Law to wrap up his last Sunday in office. "It'll just be the same as before only now they won't pay me for it," he says.

He retired yesterday. The boom years may be over, but we've not heard the last of the Ven Granville Gibson.

Published: 01/09/2001