Lud’s mud is deep and sticky and brown.
It lines the floor of the aisles and the knave of Lud’s Church.
The stone walls are green and dripping.
The sky is a thin strip above my head.
It takes concentration to negotiate the logs, stepping stones and sunken walkways through the mud.
I think of the reaction in other churches I’ve visited to mud like this.
A tell-tale dampness suggests my boots are not as waterproof as I would like.
The next day, in the bath, I see the brown mud line, a meridian round my heel.
I have bought some of Lud’s mud home with me with the memories of the green ferns and mosses dripping a benediction on my head.