The Regilding

2 October 2026

Every forty years or so, the parish lowers its weathercock from the spire for regilding. Ambrose has made a point of attending. He does not explain his interest, and no one in the village has ever thought to ask.

Featuring Ambrose, The Weathercock

The rooster and the half-regilded weathercock face each other beak to beak on a gilder's workbench, gold leaf booklets and a brush beside them

Up close he is smaller than one imagines, and more dented. Two hundred and thirty years of weather will do that to anyone who insists on facing into it.

Several people in the workshop notice the resemblance.

None of them mention it.

The gilded weathercock rising in a hoist cradle above a scaffolded church tower while the rooster stands on the churchyard path below

He watched the first forty feet. The rest of the ascent he spent studying the yews, as one does when a relative is being hoisted in public.

At dusk the weathercock stands atop the spire against a deep blue sky while the rooster stands on the churchyard wall below, both facing the same way

At six the wind came round to the west, and both of them turned to face it. Only one of them went home for supper.