The Church of Saint Giles at Imber is a venerable landmark. The handsome, lichen-flecked, flint-and-stone structure has crowned its hilltop for almost 750 years: a beacon of civilisation on the otherwise lonely Salisbury Plain. Inside, beneath ancient beams, its walls bear traces of decorative paintwork that 16th-century Puritans strove to obscure behind layers of whitewash. Outside, its graveyard looks down upon deeply worn tracks that wind off into the landscape. It’s certainly charming, but it’s the village below – or what’s left of it – that makes a visit extraordinary.  

Imber, which the church once served, is empty, desolate and forlorn, having been abandoned exactly 80 years ago. Formerly a thriving, almost self-sufficient agricultural community, its isolation saw it billed as the loneliest village in England (“Little Imber on the down, seven miles from any town”, went a local rhyme). That remoteness sometimes served it well, saving it from the ravages of the Black Death, for example, but isolation was also its undoing.

On November 1, 1943, the villagers were informed by the War Office that their home had been requisitioned for military manoeuvres in preparation for the D-Day invasion of occupied France. Six weeks later, Imber’s 135 residents were “evacuated”,  taking their belongings with them. Keen to do their bit for King and country, little did they know that they would never return. 

Access to Imber has essentially been prohibited ever since, except for a handful of days each year when the Church of Saint Giles throws open its doors. On these occasions (generally around Easter, the August Bank Holiday and Christmas) the barrier on the paved track up from Warminster is raised, allowing the public to drive, walk or cycle past its checkpoint to reach the elevated Imber Range. As I follow the road upwards to where it levels out atop the plain, I’m blown away by the vastness of the seemingly unspoiled landscape: no highways, fences or pylons, just acres of wildflower-rich, chalky downland. 

Imber itself sits in a valley carved by a winterbourne (seasonal stream), hidden among the plain’s folds. On the long, gentle descent to reach it from the rolling plateau, the scenery is interrupted by watchtowers and the mangled, rusted remains of tanks: reminders of the target practice that still takes place here today. Signs spaced regularly along the road reinforce the dangers of “military debris” – a euphemism for unexploded ordnance – that discourage deviation from the carriageway. 

Upon reaching Imber, it’s clear that very little remains. Its smithy, shop and post office have long since disappeared and been replaced with replica houses built for training troops in urban warfare. A few original buildings still stand – the pub, and one or two larger farmhouses – but they’re derelict and boarded up. As if by divine intervention, only the church appears intact. I join a small procession of visitors and step inside. 

It’s a moving experience. As well as displays about the history and wildlife of Salisbury Plain, there are grainy, black-and-white images of Imber in its heyday, looking prosperous and flourishing. One photograph shows the church, but the row of cottages beside it no longer exists. Another captures the village windmill; another, The Bell Inn pub; another Imber Court, the village’s fanciest manor house. 

But most captivating are the photos of those last people who lived here: the farm labourers, carpenters, shepherds, wheelwrights, cooks and maids, as well as their children, all neatly dressed in period attire. The panels describe the work that they did – sheep-shearing, lambing, threshing, mowing – and introduce some of them by name. There was Granny Staples the shopkeeper, dewpond-digger Robert White, and Albie Nash the blacksmith (whose descendant Raymond Nash, the last surviving Imber resident, was buried outside in the churchyard just this year).  

These were village folk who, even in 1943, had likely never seen a train, or a film at the picture house. Their hasty relocation to a world beyond the plain must surely have been traumatic, and their despair once the war was over, and they were told they would not be heading home after all, would have been profound. 

It wasn’t just the villagers of Imber who lost out. Among today’s visitors is Graham White, whose family have farmed hereabouts for generations. Now in his 90s, his memories of the era are still sharp. “I’ve not been to Imber for years,” he says as we read the display boards together, “but I remember the evacuation. There were thousands of sheep all over these hills back then.” The War Office’s hunger for training land touched his family too. “My uncle farmed at the Warminster end of the range,” he continued. “He had to sell a great tract of land above Westbury to the army.”

Graham points to another photograph of a farmer on a vintage tractor, cutting the grass for hay. “We had one just like that,” he says fondly. I notice that the caption dates the image from 1943. The farmer would have had no idea that his world would unravel a few months hence, or that this would be his last harvest at Imber. 

Essentials

The nearest railway station is in Warminster (nationalrail.co.uk). For details of St Giles’ open days (including a Remembrance Day service in November and Christmas carols in December), visit imberchurch.org.uk. 

Alternatively, join the annual Imberbus event, when a caravan of Routemaster buses travels to Imber from Warminster Station.