Something of a landmark, it's pyramid structure exhibits the imaginative design of churches built on the cusp of Vatican II. The church won an architectural merit award in 1965 and remains a listed building; occasioning the odd knock on the presbytery door and a group of architecture aficionados asking for a look around.
I have had the opportunity to stay on Holy Island and in one of the retreat houses there is a chapel in the basement. One of the island churches has a tiny prayer space in a boiler house. Any space, it seems, can be sacred.
A wonderful carving of the Celtic Cross, showing the intricate weaving of the eternal journey of life, death and rebirth is the focus of prayer. There are fabric prints of celtic design and an offering of Creation's own artwork in the shells, stones and seedpods around the base of the cross.
The seating arrangements are an ad hoc collection of donated and found chairs and cushions and, together with the 'end of roll' fabric bargains disguising the doors, a space is created that is warm and intimate and totally different to the main church space.
A carving of the 'Green Christ' by a local artist and parishioner guards the entrance. Within this intricate carving of a joyous Christ there are butterflies and ladybirds, oak and elm leaves - the promise of the resurrection witnessed each year in Spring and at Easter.
Here we have meditation every week for a small group which, every couple of weeks, becomes a meeting for a support group.
Here, we start the classes for Confirmation and Holy Communion as a way of making space between the busy world and God's house.
Here, people come to read, talk, to listen and to not talk at all.
Here, we have Celtic morning prayer before the weekday Masses to begin the day asking for blessings for ourselves and each other.
Sitting in the chapel silence descends as the breath stills. Then the world becomes loud as all the background sounds make their presence known, traffic, police sirens, the crack of the beams in the church, the hum of the motorway. Turning inwards these sounds are left to drift and it is the sound of the heart that fills the ears; a little longer and even this fades. The silence becomes thick and palpable. When I have been in Greece and Portugal I love to swim out a couple of hundred yards from the beach and 'hang' in the water. It used to drive my son frantic but it is the nearest to a natural silence that I have ever come - my own isolation tank surrounded by creation.
I get that same feeling in the chapel; time doesn't stand still so much as ceases to matter.