Binsey Church has always fascinated me. I have often told people the tale of Oxford's founder, Saint Frideswide. Of her search for a suitable spot for her priory, the pursuit by King Algar, the lighting strike and the miraculous cure - effected by dripping water from a well into Algar's ruined eyes. "The well," I said confidently, "is still there, in the grounds of Binsey Church." And yet I had never been there. It was one of the places that I would visit sometime, I thought. A trip to anticipate and then to treasure - saved for some summer's day in the future when a Thames-side walk beckons one towards a pint at the Perch and onwards to the church and its treacle well.

Then, on Saturday night as I was about to leave my local pub, someone tripped me into action. "The last service in Binsey Church takes place tomorrow," he announced, "come along, three-thirty in the afternoon." This was a shocking announcement - I can assure you that it is not usual for drinkers at my local to invite anyone to a church service. Especially at throwing out time on a Saturday night!

I set out the next afternoon. It was dull, grey and overcast. As I turned my bicycle into Binsey Lane it began to rain. Cold droplets spattered onto by face and began to dampen my clothing. Binsey Lane is quite long - especially on a dreary Sunday afternoon. At last I passed the little cluster of buildings that surround the Perch pub, and cycled on to the narrower lane that leads to the church. Narrow as it is, I stopped to let a car go by, then found that, faced with a group of approaching walkers, the car slowed to such an extent that I overtook it again. Bicycle power rules in Binsey Lane.

The church is small, quaint and set amongst trees with a large farmhouse, very clearly marked as private, alongside it. To the left the by-pass can be seen - directing a constant and intrusive drone and swish-swish towards the churchyard as the cars rush by on the wet roads. Where are all these drivers going on a miserable Sunday afternoon?

The doors of the church are open and the service has already started - hymn singing leaks out of the darkened interior. I stand undecided on the threshold, staring into the candle lit gloom, trying to find somewhere to sit - wondering if this might be enough to satisfy my curiosity. I could easily turn around, leave, return to the warmth of my centrally heated, electrically lit home. The church is small, basic and surprisingly crowded. It is intriguing that the final occurrence of something that is ending through lack of interest attracts such a crowd. I slipped silently, hopefully unnoticed into an empty pew and stood listening to the singing, observing the vicar and surreptitiously trying to see just who would attend a Sunday service in this remote little church. Suddenly, someone appeared beside me. At first I thought he, like me, was a late comer, and that he wanted to stand in my pew. But he gave me a serious, knowing look, then thrust two books into my hand - both opened. I looked at the books and realised why this particular pew was empty. The sparse candlelight which provided the only illumination, was especially poor in this pew. The words of the hymnbook were distinguishable but unreadable. In a way I was relieved.

What was I doing here - a convinced unbeliever, damp, freezing, with a book of psalms and book of hymns in my hand and a burgeoning cold in my body? Besides I had been here before, well, not here exactly, but in my childhood I had been made to go to church regularly on Sundays. The service seemed to be unchanged - hymns sung to tunes that I did not know, psalms that bristled with meaning but held no relevance for me, entreaties to fear a lord that I did fear as a small child, but soon ceased to believe in. "Why did I have to go to church and my parents did not," I had often wondered, longing for adulthood. The prayers were familiar - burned into my brain by constant repetition at school assemblies. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," popped up, I remembered that bit, I always liked it, and try to live by it - but that doesn't make me a Christian. Though boring as ever, there was still something magical about the last service conducted at this meagre, pretty little church, dimly lit by candles.

Then it was over. Relieved but invigorated I overheard someone say to the vicar, "See you on Christmas Day." I had been misinformed. This was not the last service in Binsey Church - it was the last Sunday service. No matter. To one side of the church I found the fabled well of St Frideswide and Lewis Carroll. It is rather lovely. The well itself is at the bottom of a short flight of steps. It is round and about two feet deep, lying beneath a fine stone arch which has an inscription to Frideswide upon it. I didn't take any of the curative water - I couldn't reach and was wet enough anyway.

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