THE sun shone upon the righteous, and upon the rest of us perchance. The village was verdant, its gardens thrown open to the public and to persuasion, though their excellence was beyond argument.

"It's good country muck in't soil that does it," someone observed, confirming all that's supposed about the other man's grass, though the slugs seemed mercifully absent, an' all.

Riches' abundance, the afternoon was to end not only with evensong at the splendid church of St Michael but with a sermon from the Very Rev Brandon Jackson, never hitherto encountered.

Dr Jackson became Dean of Lincoln in 1989, apparently appointed by Margaret Thatcher to brake some loose canons. There'd be blood on the carpet, she famously forecast, and a bloody business it became.

Before he left in 1997, the Bishop had refused to enter his own cathedral, the Dean was acquitted by a consistory court on charges of sexual impropriety with an assistant verger - he admitted only to blowing down her neck - and the Archbishop of Canterbury had called in vain for the resignation of both Dr Jackson and of Canon Rex Davis, the abrasive Australian sub-dean who became his implacable foe.

"Brandon Jackson and Rex Davis have become the Punch and Judy of the ecclesiastical funfair," the Daily Telegraph once observed. Dr Jackson called for the cathedral to be closed for six months, whilst exorcised.

Now 65, he lives more peacefully in West Witton with his wife and his four chickens - "my gals" he calls them - named after neighbours in the Wensleydale village.

"I have found my true vocation, it's called retirement," he says, his recreations listed in Who's Who as cricket, running marathons, fell walking and fishing though this year he has also preached everywhere from St Paul's Cathedral to the humblest Dales chapel.

"At last I can proclaim the kingdom of God without all the hassle," he says.

This was Kirklington, built around a green near Bedale in North Yorkshire and not (by and large) short of a bob or two. Open gardens included the Hall and the Dower House, the Laurels, the Rosary, the handsome Old Rectory and, a little more humbly, the new rectory as well.

"My sons keep asking me if, when I'm an old Rector, we can move to the Old Rectory," said Clive Mansell, the energetic present incumbent.

There was also a competition, to match the snatch from scripture with the scarecrows and other effigies scattered with fertile imagination through the village, and in nearby Sutton Howgrave.

Thus the Holy Family in the porch of the Bay Horse (there being, of course, no room at the inn); thus the lost sheep, OS map forlornly round its neck, among the bean poles at The Bungalow; thus the man sick of the palsy (or some such) being let down through the flat roof of the Mansells' garage.

(Whether this was strictly a scarecrow is debatable. The Rectory house martins, at any rate, seemed not to give a titter.) Other tableaux proved more troublesome. An elderly lady was perplexed by the inflatable globe beneath someone's porch lamp - the light of the world, and the darkness comprehendeth it not - a straw hatted gentleman discovered the healing of Blind Pew, perhaps the first recorded confusion between the Holy Bible and Treasure Island, between St Mark and Robert Louis Stevenson.

The village hall served refreshments, the brass band played outside - tea and symphony? - by mid-afternoon over 500 quiz sheets had been sold. By 6pm the ringers essayed a quarter peal, and urged us all to evensong.

Many of the gardeners, perhaps, felt that they had earned their rest elsewhere. Maybe 30 or so were present, church floribundant from the previous week's wedding, 16th Century parish registers displayed in the vestry.

Dr Jackson, grey of cassock and of curly head, acknowledged their expertise - how come there were no weeds in Kirklington? - then turned to the parable of the sower, as portrayed in Mrs Potter's garden.

He had been Provost of Bradford before Dean of Lincoln, Church Commissioner and member of the General Synod, travelled on the breakfast train to London, perused his ecclesiastical esoterica over the full English, been acknowledged by the lift operator at Church House, fussed over from the ground floor upwards.

Ah, said the turbulent Dean, but success is dangerous.

The birds of the air were ambition, power, that short word sex (he said it, he said it) and it was they which devoured the seed if you let them.

Clive Mansell, Church Commissioner and member of the General Synod, listened, no doubt, attentively. We sang appropriate hymns like All Things Bright and Beautiful then listened to a fine soaring solo.

"It's not often you see journalists who sit through sermons," said Dr Jackson afterwards. Our paths, we suggested, would doubtless cross again.

Outside the sun was still high, the village cricketers just decamping, the last of the visitors heading homewards. No blood on the carpet here, no bad chapters. In Kirklington, at last, everything in the garden seemed rosy.

The Rt Rev John Packer, enthroned last Sunday as Bishop of Ripon and Leeds, preaches at evensong in St Michael's, Kirklington tomorrow, 6.30pm. All are welcome to hear and meet him.