Christ Church in Castledawson is one of those places that has quietly become personal to me. At first glance it may seem like a peaceful village churchyard, but the more time I have spent here, the more it has come to feel like somewhere filled with memory, meaning, and beauty.

This small churchyard has become part of my own story

I have visited this beautiful churchyard many times over the years, most recently while planning my video on why people in Northern Ireland still call the police “Peelers.” In fact, I had been sitting on that story for a long time. That probably shows in the video itself, where the footage jumps through different seasons, different weather, and even on beautiful snowy mornings!

But sometimes a story sits in the notebook until something gives it a final push.

For me, that push was Stephen Nolan’s BBC series Peelers: The PSNI for Real. Once that title started appearing everywhere, it felt like the right time to finally tell the older story behind the word.

There is a connection here, through the Dawson family, Robert Peel, and a small thread of local history carved into stone. The wider story of “Peelers” belongs to policing reform, Ireland, London, and the name of Sir Robert Peel. But Christ Church is much more than a footnote in a policing story. The Peelers connection may have brought me here with a camera, but it is not the reason this place stayed with me.

Christ Church is a peaceful, living churchyard. A place of trees, river air, old family names, personal memories, and some of the most beautiful Celtic crosses I have come across.

Walking through the grounds, you almost feel as though you are moving through a small forest of stone. Celtic crosses rise around you in different shapes, sizes, and states of age. Some stand proud and clear against the sky. Others are softened by time, weather, moss, and memory.

There is something deeply moving about them. The Celtic cross has always felt like one of the most beautiful Christian symbols on this island — the cross of Christ standing at the centre, surrounded by the circle that reminds me of eternity, creation, and the unbroken love of God.

What makes Christ Church feel especially meaningful is that the history of Castledawson is not only found in books, bridges, estates, or old stories. It is written throughout the churchyard itself.

The headstones reflect the names of Castledawson, past and present. Families who shaped the village, lived in it, worked in it, worshipped in it, loved in it, and eventually came to rest within sight of the church. For a small village, there is a surprising weight of memory here. It is not just a place you pass through on the way to somewhere else. Castledawson has too much history, too much beauty, and too much quiet meaning to simply leave behind.

Maybe that is why I find myself so drawn to this church.

Whenever I find myself passing Christ Church, I often end up stopping. Sometimes it is only for a few minutes. Sometimes it becomes much longer. I am fortunate to be close to people who live nearby, and over time this churchyard has become more than just somewhere I visit with a camera.

I have spent many hours here on a bench, talking with someone whose presence has made this place even more special to me. Not grand conversations. Not anything that needs to be dressed up or explained too much. Just the sort of conversations that stay with you because of who they were shared with.

Those moments have happened in all seasons. In the warmth of the summer sun, when the churchyard feels bright and full of life. On cold winter mornings, when breath hangs in the air and the old stones seem to carry even more weight. At spring sunsets, when the light falls softly through the trees and the whole place feels almost too beautiful to interrupt.

There is something about this setting that makes ordinary conversations feel anything but ordinary. The Celtic crosses, the headstones, the trees, the river nearby, and the church itself all seem to gather around the moment. Words spoken here feel gentler. Silences feel easier. Even laughter seems to belong more deeply to the place.

Perhaps that is the real reason Christ Church means so much to me. Not only because of its history, or its beauty, or the stories carved into its stones, but because some places become special through the people we share them with.

And for me, this is one of those places.

One morning, close to Easter, I happened to visit the churchyard and found a small rabbit resting quietly between the gravestones. It did not run at first. It simply sat there in the stillness, tucked among the stones, as if it too belonged to the morning.

I am not one to force meaning onto every small moment, but sometimes a scene speaks for itself.

At Easter, Christians remember the empty tomb. We remember that death does not get the final word. So to see this small living creature resting among the graves felt strangely beautiful. Not dramatic. Not supernatural. Just a quiet reminder that life continues, even in places shaped by loss. Among names carved in stone, under the shadow of the cross, there was still breath, movement, softness, and life.

That moment stayed with me.

Christ Church is still very much in use, so this is not an abandoned ruin or forgotten shell. It is an active place of worship and an active graveyard, and any visit should be made with respect, care, and quietness.

There is limited parking nearby, but in my opinion the best way to visit is to walk from the village. That short walk gives the place context.

You can cross Dawson’s Bridge, once said to have been the largest single-span stone bridge in Ireland. You can stop and look down over the Moyola River, watch the brown water moving beneath you, and take in the quiet life of Castledawson before you even reach the church.

There are resident geese along the river too, acting as if they own the riverbank — which is fair enough, because they have been there for as long as I can remember.

By the time you reach Christ Church, the whole place feels less like a single location and more like a small journey. Village, river, bridge, trees, crosses, graves, and church.

The Peelers story brought me here with a camera. But it is not the only reason I have returned.

Sometimes the places that stay with you are not the loudest, the darkest, or the most ruined. Sometimes they are quiet, well-kept, and still alive. Places where history is present, but not shouting. Places where the old stones stand beneath the trees, the river moves nearby, and a small rabbit near Easter can somehow say more than a paragraph ever could.

Christ Church, Castledawson is one of those places for me.