The Monks of Lilleshall

The beautiful ruins of Lilleshall Abbey sit lonely and unheralded at the end of a farm track, tucked away in an unexpected, sleepy corner of the Shropshire countryside. The decaying walls of the Abbey are shielded from the nearby road by a line of trees and feel distinctly isolated and sheltered from the outside world.

Stand at the centre of this imposing structure and breathe in the atmosphere; touch the cold, lichen-covered walls and journey through time to a darker, less enlightened age.

It was a miserable day to arrive at Lilleshall: the sky was a thick mass of angry cloud; the wind had whipped up and driven channels through the grassway; and the rain was beating heavily, spreading fierce torrents across the ancient grey stone. I had parked the car in a neighbouring lay-by, just in case the approach proved too small and busy; why I don’t know – anyone else would have turned back in this weather. But rain or shine I had made the commitment to visit Lilleshall several days earlier; and as anyone who knows me will testify, once entered into my notebook only death or disaster would see me change my plans.


I walked up and stopped central to one of the walls; my eyes were immediately drawn to the beautiful arches that soared across the distinctive red sandstone wall, rising and falling above huge glassless windows. But it wasn’t enough for me to only see; the desire to run my hands across the centuries was too strong. I clasped the sodden stone, letting the rivulets form rippling pools around my fingers; my breathing quickened and all at once I was overcome by an intense emotion; an indescribable connection; a peculiar and uneasy sense of oneness with the ancient edifice. Continue reading