"Intimate" is not a word that one often associates with church. But the miniature Church of St Nicholas at Pett Level lends a whole new meaning to small. I have seen bedrooms larger.

The modest building stands in the unlikely location of the Sussex seaside, bordered by one of the county's steepest hills and a snack kiosk that caters to hungry holidaymakers. It was originally built as a "life-saving rocket apparatus station", which means that it once stored equipment for the Coastguard. But, as their literature points out, the parishioners of St Nicholas are very proud of their humble origins. "The association with life-saving is a very beautiful one, and surely no coincidence."

In 1935, the building was purchased for the princely sum of £100 and dedicated to St Nicholas, the patron saint of both sailors and children.

I was charmed by the inside where it was simply, yet gracefully furnished with wood panelling, floors, and chairs. Light came in through a lovely little stained-glass window, and small bunches of flowers placed throughout gave the room a cheer in spite of the rainy drizzle outside.

It was a "mature" congregation of about a dozen. I was advised, "We may be old, but we ain't decrepit." Someone else added, " … yet." Everyone seemed to know one another and the atmosphere was one of relaxed amity.

At 8am, Reverend Bernard Crosby got down to business with announcements regarding a sick cat, an impending flower festival, and the archbishops' recommended suspension of the sharing of the chalice at communion due to swine flu fears. He instructed us to dunk our wafers into the wine instead. (Though one rebel would grab the chalice during communion and drink from it, swine flu be damned.)

Then Crosby led us with the magical words, "Let us be quiet." We bowed our heads for a few moments of prayer before diving into the service.

Mass at St Nicholas is remarkable on two counts; it only lasts half an hour (no hymns!), and they stubbornly cling to the 16th-century Book of Common Prayer, displaced in most other churches by the more contemporary Common Worship. The traditional text, Crosby explained, "Fits our group like a glove."

It is a small book, written in ye-olde language such as sitteth and proceedeth. The typeface was as minute as the building itself and it was difficult to follow. I kept losing my place and messing up the lines much to the quiet embarrassment of those around me. In my defence, not only were they all wearing thick spectacles to decipher the text, but they had many more years of experience with it.

With only 30 minutes to conduct the service, Crosby moved at a brisk clip. He read well, was engaging and witty, and seemed as interested himself in what he was saying as we were. And we were. Especially as the word "circumcision" was tossed around an awful lot. We avoided any real discussion about circumcision in spite of the fact that it seemed to pepper both the biblical reading and the sermon. What we took away instead was an uplifting message about letting go of the worry and fears of tomorrow.

The church was initially opened to cater to the demand for mass by holidaymakers. During the 1930's, Pett Level boasted a caravan park, a tennis court, and a handful of homes. The area has always been a mecca for fossil-hunters. But the war forced an evacuation of Pett Level in 1940 as rumours of possible invasion swirled. It became part of the Rye defence area and no one was allowed to return for the next five years.

In the church's glory days, there were often services and they had their own vicar, but now it is down to every third Sunday of the month. People on holiday just don't go to church anymore.

St Nicholas shares Rev Crosby with two other parishes; one in Pett (proper) and another in neighbouring Fairlight, where they often share a service with the Methodists. I looked at Crosby with admiration, "So you are a sort of itinerant vicar?"

He laughed but pointed out that he was in fact, a rector and not a vicar. I naively asked "And what is the difference?"

I heard someone behind me mumble disapprovingly, "The Guardian should know the difference between a vicar and rector." I hung my head. But a kind soul took pity and not only described the difference, but went on to detail the history of the Anglican church in that area since the beginning of time. When it became apparent that I was utterly lost, Crosby stepped in and gently suggested that I write, "The people that I met were steeped in history."

The parishioners were terribly proud of their little church and I don't blame them. It was lovely, the atmosphere warm, and the sense of community palpable. "Come back again", they implored me. "Sometimes after service the entire congregation will go to someone's house for breakfast. It's a lot of fun."

One of the ladies leaned in with a smile, "It's a proper breakfast too. We cook eggs, sausages, toast, tea, and everything you could imagine." Lovely church. Lovely people. And a full-English. Amen.