In my tender years I had a delightful time as a church choirboy. Evensong was my favourite service, especially in the summer months when the dust would sparkle, slowly spiralling in the warm shafts of sunlight flooding the nave. Sitting in the choir, the congregation were all but invisible, hidden behind that magical curtain of light.
Evensong’s audience appeared more friendly than the those of the morning services; they seemed at ease. The choirboys were drawn from the town, a pretty rough and ready lot but we had a fine choirmaster who teased out some glorious performances.
The service had a liquid structure that flowed effortlessly; the calls and responses a wonderful rhythm that felt utterly timeless, embedded in the gothic architecture of the church stonework.
Looking back on it forty five years later, we never considered for one moment whether or not those turning up every Sunday evening enjoyed the choir’s efforts. It was just what we did.