Farming Breeds: Reverend Nice – the country vicar
Join us for a funny, irreverent look at some of the characters that make the British countryside what it is. Our tongue-in-cheek guide puts characters such as the retired Major, the “perfect” next-door farmer and the young tearaway under the microscope. Here we meet Reverend Nice – the country vicar
Reverend Nice is a very nice man. He drinks 32 cups of tea in one sitting, hums a lot and wears the sort of permanent grin native only to those confident of salvation.
And, of course, he listens. He listens for hours on end, day after day, sitting with his hands joined at his chin. He could listen for England. And that, come to think of it, is exactly what he does: he listens for the Church of England.
His church is a beautiful flint building with ivy on the walls and flowers round the door. Go inside, however, and it’s a different story. The place, it’s immediately apparent, is in dire need of repair. “It brings tears to my eye just looking at the roof,” he says.
Unfortunate, really as looking upwards is something he does a lot during his sermons. Donations, needless to say, are gratefully received.
The Reverend came to this parish after a spell in the inner city. He’s well over 40, now but the locals still think him one of these “modern” vicars, especially after that sermon with the guitar. The older ones remain a little suspicious. “Good people,” is how he describes them.
He loves it in the village – the way of life, the people, the challenge. And it’s not just spiritual matters he’s involved with, either – he knows all about parish council politics, the postman’s prostrate problems and pig prices in the local mart. “The countryside has as many problems as the towns,” he says, in his quiet but deeply authoritative voice.
It’s a voice that has been known to spark sinful thoughts among one or two of the village girls. They think he’s a bit of a dish. “I’d like to see him out of that cassock,” they say.
The local boys, meanwhile, laugh as he cycles past and yell “More tea, vicar?”
The younger lads, when he sits them down for a “man-to-man chat”, always ask the same question. Not something challenging or deeply philosophical but, simply: Can vicars have sex? They didn’t really need to ask: the reverend’s got six children, ranging in age from one to 24.
He smiles as he thinks about his flock, pedalling like mad, the wind in his beard, his bald patch heavenward on his way to open something. A fete, usually.
Still, it makes a change from the usual round of christenings, marriages and burials. “The hatches, matches and dispatches,” as he refers to them at the Christmas party over a glass of sherry. Or two.
The sherry certainly tastes better than his usual tipple – tea.