Little attention has been given to the longer timeframe in Northern England with many content to place Brierley in the milieux feeding Seekerism and Quakerism.

Things are rarely that straightforward.

The centre of attention should perhaps shift eastwards rather than northwards.

A good place to start might be Collyer and the Guiseley area.

Not far away, in Bingley an ‘Antinomian Exercise’ came into being with familiar participants and less familiar ones who slot into place.



Grindleton 08.03.16

Ok a rough run-through of tomorro’s presentation in Grindleton is now on the site and downloadable.

If you are attending, please don’t download it!

If you are a thousand miles away, please feel free to do so. There are a few things that need changing and the recording between slides is a bit of a silent mess.

Does anyone know if I can embed this on the page?

To download click on the link, wait a few minutes and then open, click on SLIDE SHOW and run from BEGINNING. make sure you have speakers connected.

Simon J Kyte on Author Central



Born in 1967 in Windlesham, Surrey, Simon Kyte is an economist by profession. However, he has always been interested in history and archives. He attended Stowe School where he won the Gavin Maxwell Prize for English Composition. Subsequently, he attended the University of Exeter.

Whilst researching his family history in Northern England, he stumbled upon a chance reference to Roger Brierley. He then spent five years (2009 -2014) researching and writing his first novel, ‘A Certain Measure of Perfection’.

«Un certain degré de perfection» (A Certain Measure of Perfection)

la page d’ de l’auteur, Simon J Kyte



Simon Kyte est né à Windlesham dans le sud de l’Angleterre et travaille comme économiste. Toutefois, il a toujours été intéressé par l’histoire et les archives. Il a suivi des cours à la célèbre école anglaise, Stowe, où il a remporté le Prix Gavin Maxwell. Par la suite, il a étudié à l’Université d’Exeter.

Au cours de ses recherches sur l’histoire de sa famille dans le nord de l’Angleterre, il est tombé par hasard sur des textes faisant référence à Roger Brierley. Puis il a passé cinq ans (2009 -2014) à faire des recherches et à écrire son premier roman, «Un certain degré de perfection» (A Certain Measure of Perfection).

Featured extract

Source: Featured extract


Anne put her hands into the water too and grasped mine tightly. My instant reaction was to retract – both my hands and my bodily frame – but kneeling on the ground like that the latter was impossible and the former was prevented by the surprising strength of Anne’s grip, which initially seemed to push my hands down deeper still. It was the first time that I really noticed that – the first occasion on which I really had the chance to notice – but she had the grip of a farmhand and not of a temporary one either; one who had put in hour after hour. From whence had that come? Perhaps from years of work as a child on the Hardman farm in Bury, protected from the sun by extra layers of clothing so that she had kept that blanched, child-like complexion from the teasing taunts of the sun whilst in her hands she still wore like all the rest in the fields. Then she raised my hands above the surface of the fluid. Brierley now spoke something but so quietly that only his ears were near enough to his mouth to hear his words. Anne hardly seemed to notice but she was probably more accustomed to Brierley’s mumblings in such personal circumstances than I was. It might have been something from the Bible or else perhaps from some obscure, ancient, hitherto untranslated text. I could not even judge what language it was in for it could have been in another tongue. Actually, did she speak other languages too? After all, he had intended that I should help her study Latin. I looked up at him, confused – perhaps genuinely intoxicated by the familiar and yet unnamed and overly-pungent, warm herbal odour – but he now seemed openly joyous; his painful joints now quite forgotten, put to one side for another day. Meanwhile Anne’s hair, now partly damp and with patches that were frankly wet through which she had run her soaking fingers, fell forward again, this time in heavy soaked clumps, and was re-lit by the fire. She leaned further forward, took my chin in one hand with that overarching odour of hot herbs upon it and kissed me quietly and gently on my cheek.

—Dear Matthew! Thou art beloved in Christ amongst us!