IN THE shadow of Great Gable, Scafell Pike, Pillar, Kirkfell and Lingmell, we knelt to pray. We were at the foot of England’s highest mountain, beside its deepest lake and inside its smallest church, next to the inn in which a sign boasts that it was once home to the “World’s biggest liar — our very own Will Ritson”. In other words, a journalist’s heaven.

This was St Olaf’s at Wasdale Head in Wasdale in the Lake District, a tiny structure appropriately resembling an upturned boat, with roof trusses believed by local people to have come from Viking ships. The age of the church is unknown but in his guide Bill Bailey, the churchwarden, writes: “The Parochial Church Council believes beyond reasonable doubt that the present building was built in or around 1000.”

Bailey has sold 8,000 copies of his guide in aid of church funds. Reading it leaves the visitor almost convinced that Wasdale Head, a tiny, barely accessible hamlet with a population of a few dozen, is indeed at the centre of the known universe.

Services are held at St Olaf’s once a month, at 3pm. The church’s patronal saint was a reformed pirate, son of King Harald of Norway, who became that country’s champion of independence.

St Olaf, who died in 1030, is often depicted carrying a basket of food and in keeping with this our Gospel was the feeding of the 5,000, its images of plenitude is in stark contrast to the unvarnished simplicity of the building, with its rude cross of two yew branches nailed together and its old oil lanterns only recently converted to electricity. The church is impressive in its architectural modesty, surrounded as it is by soaring mountains in their pantheistic glory, Wordsworthian cathedrals in mountain form.

And in this place of stark contrasts, where light does daily battle with the dark and climbers struggle for height from the depths, the church itself presented another. In the age of the emptying church, this one was absolutely packed with people of all ages, shouts and laughter of children competing with the dismal singing of obscure and little-known ancient hymns and the muttering of strange responses from Common Worship. Apart from us, they were nearly all local, there for the joint baptism of Joseph, aged three, and Emily, his baby sister. The church’s anthem is Marriott’s wonderful hymn against the darkness, Thou whose almighty Word. This was adopted in 1977 because of its refrain “Let there be light!” after the electricity board finally got around to supplying Wasdale Head with power by laying cables on the bed of Wastwater.

As with all Christian churches, symbols of death are everywhere. Before 1900 there was no churchyard and the dead would be carried over the track known as Corpse Road to be buried at St Catherine’s at Eskdale. Bailey writes: “There are many horrific tales of coffins lost in the mist whilst being carried over the fell on horseback.”

In the graveyard now are recent generations of families as well as climbers killed in accidents. The church is surrounded by yew trees. The south window is dedicated to the members of the Fell and Rock Climbing Club who lost their lives in the First World War. Yet the impression we left with was one of life. Even on previous visits, when the church was open but no service was taking place, there has been this obscure romantic sense of light and life.

Maybe Bill Bailey is right after all, and this place which seems so close to the edge is in fact at the centre of some world with spiritual parameters of which we can have little clue.

A five-star guide

VENUE: St Olaf’s Wasdale Head

RECTOR: The Rev Bertram Galloway

ARCHITECTURE: Bare, unvarnished. Of indeterminate age, although probably predating 12th century. Restored in 1892. Before that no glass in windows which have sloping sills to channel the endless rain outside

SERMON: Rector carried baptismal baby around church while talking on the symbolism of feasts and special meals

MUSIC: Pipe organ accompanied hymns few knew

LITURGY: Eucharist with new baptism service from Common Worship

SPIRITUAL HIGH: Help and strength coming from the hills, to which our eyes were drawn

AFTER-SERVICE CARE: Purchased a jumper knitted by a farmer’s wife from the wool of Herdwick sheep, believed to be descended from the survivors of a wrecked Viking longboat