THE Methodist chapel in my village closed last Sunday. A notice outside might well have had the chapel’s founders turning in their graves. “Parking – All Three Pubs”. Yes, the trio of alcohol purveyors, probably the unholiest of Trinities to the chapel’s first worshippers, was providing a helping hand in the last rites.

In terms of places of worship, mine’s a peculiar village. Though the population certainly exceeds 1,000, it has no church. A mere scattering of cottages and farms until Victorian days, it took off as a jet mining village. It was the ‘Middlesbrough’ of that noted enterprise, by no means confined to Whitby as is generally supposed.

But, just half a mile away, the church of the neighbouring parish, which had always served my village, was equal to the expansion. A reason was that most newcomers were inclined to Methodism, then at its height. So three Methodist chapels sprang up. Last Sunday’s closure was of the last and best, opened in 1907.

Largely red brick, it’s nothing special at first glance. But it has very pleasing Art Nouveau windows, featuring a leaf motif repeated on ironwork inside. By 1907 Methodists weren’t opposed to a gentle flourish. The woodwork is not too dark, so the interior is light and cheerful. Companionable perhaps best describes it. Facing the congregation is a fine organ.

Though dwindling membership has put maintenance beyond reach, right to the end the chapel has been lovingly cared for – and fully active. Over Christmas, there was a Christmas tree festival, a Fair Trade sale and a lantern workshop – making lanterns that were paraded around the two villages. A brightly-painted fretwork Christmas crib, made at a local farm, stood outside.

A non-worshipper, I nevertheless attended the final service with my wife. It mixed joy with sadness – the emphasis on the first. From the packed pews, the hymn singing was of the uplifting Methodist kind. The rafters truly rang. There was positive talk of the building’s mission being “complete” but individual “Christian witness” going on. The occasion concluded with another Methodist classic – a “picnic.” We all shared shortbread biscuits in the form of a dove, washed down with some sparkling (presumably non-alcoholic) beverage.

The vicar attended and there was praise for the co-operation of the parish church in the closure. Some fittings will go to the church. Top of the list, no doubt, will be a war memorial window, and the church must surely also welcome a hymn book rack made by a much-admired local craftsman. The future of the building itself is uncertain.

As a lapsed Christian is it hypocrisy to say I shall miss the chapel? With its closure I feel the village has lost something important, something that gives depth to community life. Since the vicar lives in the village (without the church; I told you it was peculiar) you can’t say we’re Godless. Nevertheless, I sense a vacuum, a void.

Perhaps it’s a residual Christian belief. In the parish magazine, the chapel’s list of services was always headed with the message: “In the heart of Broughton, Chapel is a place of prayer, of worship, of Jesus’ love shown to friend and stranger.” Admirable words. No-one can say their disappearance, with the chapel, isn’t a landmark loss.