2: St Denys' Church
A Living Chronicle in Stone and Glass
Rev. Hubert Hardy Collyer, born in 1903, served as Rector of Goadby Marwood from 1935 for over 30 years. He and his wife, Phyllis, raised two daughters at the Rectory and hosted evacuated children during World War II. Later, he became an Honorary Canon of Leicester Cathedral and eventually retired to West Bridgford, where he died in 1974.
This story, told from the reverend’s perspective, is narrated by local resident, Paul.
The interior of St Denys' Church
Our beautiful church is always open so if you have the time, why not pop in and take a look around.
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Audio Transcript
From the moment I first crossed the threshold of St Denys’ Church as its newly installed Rector, I felt the weight of centuries resting upon its ancient stones. I was born in Buckden, Huntingdonshire, the son of a miller’s agent. In the summer of 1935, my beloved Phyllis and I were recently married and eager to make our own small mark on this timeless place of worship. Over the next thirty‐three years, I would come to know every worn flagstone and every carved pew, the play of sunlight through traceried glass, and the faithful rhythm of village life centred around this Grade I listed gem.
As I walked the aisles on my first Sunday, I could almost hear the voices of the ancient Lords of the Manor—the Quatremars, the Maurewards, the Beaumonts—stirring in the cool shadows. I stood before the stained‐glass containing the arms of the Maurewards, those lords who, in the 14th century, raised the tower that, even now, watches over the village; they rebuilt the nave and south aisle, and endowed us with the chancel chapel where generations have knelt in quiet prayer.
Above the arched nave, I traced the lines of the clerestory windows—an elegant, lofty addition bestowed by the Beaumont family in the 15th century, bringing fresh light to worship that must once have been dim and shadowed. I have often pondered on how each generation bent its will and its faith to this building: in the 1700s, when the tower and porch were shored up against the ravages of time; in the 1880s, when parishioners raised every penny for an extensive Victorian restoration, adding a vestry, organ chamber and rows of new pews at the rather unfortunate cost of some of our oldest memorials.
By the outbreak of war in September 1939, I had settled fully into village life. Phyllis and I were blessed with our own two beloved daughters, and yet it was not our children alone who filled the Rectory’s hallways. On that fateful day when Operation Pied Piper sent 20 special trains from Sheffield to Melton Mowbray, I welcomed into our home a troop of children—faces anxious, arms clutching suitcases. Never had I known such a lively household, yet never did I feel more certain of my calling. Each evening, prayers rose in our parlour for loved ones far away, and by candlelight I told stories of St Denys—the patron saint of France who, legend tells, carried his own head to Montmartre.
Those early years—of ration books and blackouts, of evacuees’ laughter and tears—deepened the bond between myself, our church, and the people of Goadby Marwood. Mothers found in the ancient building a steadying presence, whilst children took comfort playing among the yew trees and quiet stones of the churchyard.
As the gathering storms on the continent pressed ever more heavily upon us, though my calling had always been to guide souls in peace, I felt compelled to offer what service I could in the nation’s hour of need. So, in May 1941, I joined the Army in my capacity as a chaplain, determined to bring prayer, comfort, and a steadying presence to the troops who faced such peril. The months I spent among the servicemen—sharing their hardships, offering blessings, and holding quiet moments of prayer in makeshift chapels—deepened my understanding of courage and sacrifice. When I returned to Goadby Marwood, it was with a renewed sense of duty to both God and community.
Following the war, when I was appointed Honorary Canon of Leicester Cathedral, I viewed it not as promotion, but rather as an opportunity to bring wider blessings back to our village. When sitting in quiet contemplation, writing my sermons, I often pondered on the long sweep of St Denys’ history: from the faint traces of ancient Norman masonry, to the miraculous endurance of the church through Reformation strife, Civil War tremors, and Victorian zeal. Yet I never lost sight of the living community: weddings beneath the ancient roof, funerals bathed in autumn colours or touched by winter frost, children forming processions on Palm Sunday.
Upon my retirement in 1968, Phyllis and I left Goadby for West Bridgford, where I quietly laid down my pastoral staff, but I continued to carry the church and people of Goadby Marwood in my heart.
