"The Land of the Twelve Churches"


The monthly magazine for our ten parishes, uniting the twelve churches in the fifteen villages of Alvescot, Black Bourton, Bradwell Village, Broadwell, Broughton Poggs, Filkins, Grafton, Holwell, Kelmscott, Kencot, Langford, Little Faringdon, Radcot, Shilton, and Westwell...

All in the West Oxfordshire Cotswolds

PARISH PUMP is usually distributed through every letterbox in our fifteen villages. (If you do not get one, please email editor@parishpump.net)

Parish Pump is also available to view on this page, and is best read on a PC or laptop (the rest of the site is fine on mobiles.)

We welcome all and any ideas and comment on any subject

If you would like to be kept in touch with PARISH PUMP activity, please send us your name and email address

If you wish to send a message to PARISH PUMP, please see the 'Contact' page from the menu

Please explore the PARISH PUMP website using the menu at the top, but here are some quick suggestions:

To 'read PARISH PUMP' (both latest and back issues), and to see all the other News, Views, Poetry and more...

... Please use the menu at the top of the page.

Everything works on all devices, except reading the magazine is best on a PC or tablet

Filkins and Broughton Poggs churches are open every day.

How did they do it? Visitor information and guidelines


Is God Real? If so, how real? If not, so what?

A debate from recent issues of PARISH PUMP


Must Rhodes Fall? Should Rhodes Fall?

Our very own Donal Lowry takes a cogent view


There is more poetry on the 'Poetry Page' (see menu at top of page)


Dan Denby lives a double life...

By day a jobbing builder,                      

But home at five, and scrubbed till pink,
He sashays forth as Hilda.


In Sunley Cross we know the score:
When buildings face disaster,
Our Dan's the man to hammer nails,
and no one lays bricks faster.


But equally, when evening sees
The back-bar at The Compass,
Our comely Hilda whoops it up:
The 'Mistress of the Rumpus'.


We love our Dan throughout the day
In dusty, half-mast trousers,
And then again, when Hilda’s out,
Her scarlet satin wows us.


We seek our solace where we may,
Some bowl, and others garden.
But who’s to say, of all of us,
The Gods of Life blow hard on?