All bets off

THE problem with Stewart Irwin was that his career paths always reached dead ends. Nothing – the catering, the bank, the hospital – lasted longer than three years.

It was perhaps inevitable, therefore, that when he went into the Anglican ministry, a friend should want to bet him that that wouldn’t endure for more than three years, either.

Still a friend, the same chap was in church last sun-blessed Saturday morning when Fr Stewart celebrated the 25th anniversary of his ordination as a priest.

The Dean of Durham called it a milestone on a hard road; Fr Stewart admitted that there’d been very difficult times, but insisted that he’d never for a moment regretted it.

He never did say if the loser had paid his dues.

His mum and dad were there, too, both 84 and still a bit surprised that their second son had entered the church at all and notwithstanding an earlier spell in a monastery.

“Unfortunately we weren’t church people at all,” said Joan Irwin. “We did encourage him to go to Sunday School but even when he went to church, we didn’t really think he was taken by it.

“We’d also been a bit concerned about him going to the monastery, but when we visited one days the monks were lovely. The place seemed to be run on drink. They absolutely adored it.”

Their second son lives in Thailand – “different in every way,” said Raymond Irwin. “One has a bit of money and one hasn’t.”

He never did say which was which.

Fr Stewart, 56 and single, reflected on a relatively late ordination. “I suppose by the time I’d reached 30, I’d run out of excuses.”

BORN in Walton-on-Thames, he was a curate in Brighouse, became vicar for eight years of St John’s in Stockton and since 1995 has been vicar of Hunwick, between Bishop Auckland and Willington, and of neighbouring Howden-le- Wear. St Mary’s church, in Howdenle- Wear, closed in January last year.

St Paul’s, Hunwick, remains a vibrant place, a church where (as previous columns have observed) they do everything well.

On the notice board outside, a poster advertises this evening’s Boogie in the Barn – Barking Billy and the Scrapyard Dogs – in aid of church funds. Inside, the temperature’s rising.

Even 25 years ago, it may not have appeared seemly to be without a tie in church. Now shirts are opennecked, only Fr Stewart’s fellow priests, of whom there are many, growing a little hot under the dog collar.

The church is so full that some have to break the Anglican habit of a lifetime and sit at the front. The service is billed as a Mass, the altar censed, the trappings Anglo- Catholic.

The Very Rev Michael Sadgrove, the Dean, had been one of Fr Stewart’s tutors at theological college.

“You now know who to blame,” he says, to which Fr Stewart subsequently ripostes that Michael Sadgrove taught him all he’s forgotten The Dean also talks of the “relentless fall in church attendance” and of the “difficult environment” in which priests must work. Someone whispers that the Dean’s son bowls a mean Chinaman. Cricket fans will understand; Sinophiles need have no fear.

The liturgy’s carefully considered, the hymns splendid. Glyn Holland, a fellow curate at Brighouse who’s now vicar of All Saints in Middlesbrough, talks of their youthful shopping expeditions to Sainsbury’s in Halifax.

Glyn held the communal purse; Stewart was the impulsive shopper.

“I used to think ‘My God, how are we going to pay for all this’?” says Glyn.

“By the freezers there’d be stand-up fights in front of an appreciate audience.”

The retiring collection’s not for Fr Stewart or the church but for the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in London where for the past four years he has received treatment for a serious neurological disorder.

As their vicar has done, folk give generously.

ST Paul’s holds great social events, too, not least in the fragrant vicarage garden. There’s a wonderful buffet, abundant wine, exhortations to eat more, chance to chat.

“He’s just a very sincere priest, in his preaching and visiting and in what he does in the community,” says Maurice Pearson, one of the churchwardens.

“Though he’s often unwell himself, he really puts himself about, a real people’s priest. He’s also fiercely proud of the church building. Most of the ideas have been his, and the place these days looks lovely.”

Wendy Peacock, the other warden, puts it more simply. “You can knock on his door and he’s always there for you. We just love him to bits,” she says.

Wendy and Jean Peacock, Maurice’s wife, are also said gently to heckle the vicar during sermons.

“Keeps him on his toes,” they argue.

Fr Stewart, by now in lengthy shorts, recalls joining the church choir at 11 – “It was good money for weddings and things,” he says, adding not particularly sotto voce that it’s better than the Church pays today.

He’s anxious to praise others, those who attend church and those who don’t, but one thing’s as clear as the Hunwick heavens on a summer Saturday: whatever the doubts of the gamblers, the guy’s been an awfully good bet.