It's a low, slightly rumbling affair, but very much close to the surface, as though on constant alert for any just cause to erupt from within the black suit, by-passing the white collar, nodding in the direction of the unruly eyebrows, as it gurgles its way out.

The surprise arises, I suppose, in reaction to all sort of preconceived notions about the gravity of his general demeanour, the seriousness and power of his job, and the extremity of the situation the Anglican Church currently finds itself in, following the General Synod which met in York this week.

The recriminations have started, but the true reverberations have yet to be felt, following the vote to allow the ordination of women bishops. It may take at least another five years of talk and ecclesiastical legalities before a woman is actually consecrated, but by then the Anglican Communion may have been rent asunder by the momentous decision.

The Vatican condemned the move, and the traditional wing of the Church have warned that they may leave.

Dr Williams says, not too seriously, that at times of stress he does occasionally fantasise about escaping to a smallholding in his native Wales, scene of his happy childhood, where he also spent his early ministry. "But I am a deeply unpractical person. The only time I tried to do anything on a farm, I almost chopped my finger off," he says, with that little rumble.

He's stuck with the current job, then, and the task of somehow trying to keep the peace between irreconcilable factions, without the ritual banging together of heads to which more fiery characters might resort. "There are times when I've said, 'Okay, I've had enough. Grow up'." Cracking a whip is not his style, and he doesn't believe it's how things should be done.

Despite both Dr Williams and Archbishop of York John Sentamu urging the creation of safeguards to prevent a mass exodus of Anglo-Catholics and conservative evangelicals, the vote was passed with only an as-yet-unwritten code of practice to mollify those who believe all bishops should be male.

Some leading clerics say they will fight on for special provisions such as "men-only" dioceses or "super-bishops" for those who feel they can't accept the authority of females in mitres.

The disgruntlement will continue, at the Lambeth Conference later this month and way beyond it. "This is the biggest crisis since the ordination of women priests back in the early '90s," said one cleric yesterday.

As a long-time supporter of the move towards women bishops,
Dr Williams is in a tough position. And, to add to the disarray following Monday night's vote, we have the fact that, before the Synod, 300 Anglican bishops (mostly from Uganda, Nigeria and Australia), issued the Jerusalem Declaration and said they no longer accepted the leadership of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

This new group of Anglican clergy and laity proposes following fundamental principles that include no ordination for gay priests. Chief among their complaints is Rowan Williams's failure to censure the American church for ordaining gay bishop Gene Robinson in 2003 – which they say flies in the face of biblical instruction.

All this bodes rather ill for the Lambeth Conference, the 10-yearly gathering where all Anglican bishops come to pray together and renew their bonds.

It must have been with a certain feeling of relief, then, that Dr Williams left the pressure cooker of the Synod, and began a 48-hour pastoral visit to the Diocese of Bradford, which included meetings with farmers and rural clergy, talks with church and other faith leaders and a memorial service at the Cathedral for his late father-in-law and former Bishop of Bradford, Geoffrey Paul.

Scarcely had the Synod ended, but Dr Williams's number two, Dr Sentamu, came out and said what many ordinary Anglicans had probably been thinking – that the Church was wasting time on internal squabbles and ignoring the very real problems of the outside world.

"Jesus Christ is in the street weeping" over the epidemic of knife-crime while the Church's ruling body were acting like MPs and arguing over women bishops, said Dr Sentamu.

There does indeed seem to be a massive divide already between the periodic squabbling of the Anglican top brass and the daily realities and unquestionable good works of its members on the ground.

It appears to the outsider that those with the most power are at each other's throats about the world and the Church as it was or as they would like it to be, while the majority of clergy and active members of its lay community are getting on with the world as it is.

The Archbishop seems weary yet remarkably cheerful. Ensconced on a train to Skipton from Leeds, he confesses, if not to sleepless nights over recent crises, certainly to a few hours of angst. "It's been a very difficult Synod... When you're dealing with convictions that really can't be brought together, you know it's going to be costly to somebody and you're bound to feel it."

Does he think he can avoid divorce, or at least keep the two parties talking across the divide over women bishops? "I can't (keep everyone together). I'm not a magician. What I've got to do is not solve everyone's problems, but try to make space for people to be heard and ensure that there's care for those who feel they've lost."

Surely the Anglican Church was always going to reach a point where no further elasticity or comprehensiveness would be possible? "There are some positions that are incompatible," says Dr Williams. "You can't both have and not have women bishops... In this country it seems the majority want women bishops. The question then becomes 'What's the price you want to pay for that?' Is the price of a lot of people leaving too high?"

His current aim is to maintain dialogue, even if consensus is unlikely. His fear is that, if the Church splits along too many lines, it will cease to be there, as it should be, for the whole community and only
cater to smaller groups of like-minded people.

Determined to be upbeat about what's happening out here beyond the inimical clerical huddles of Synod, Dr Williams says the everyday good news stories are rarely told – such as community-building activities with young people, teaching English to migrant workers, allowing Church buildings to be used as post offices and outreach to places "where no-one else is likely to go".

One of the unreported discussions at Synod was about increasing the budget for training clergy, as the number of people entering the priesthood is on the rise – about 500 annually being ordained across the country. One of Dr Williams's ambitions is for an increase in the quality of training, as "clergy need to be flexible, pretty intelligent, on top of things, know their theology and how to connect it to people's lives".

He's obviously pleased that the government of the Church is streamlining itself in certain areas, getting rid of committees that exist "for their own sake" – a work in progress he feels needs to go much further. He has a broadish streak of moderniser about him, but on the idea of separating Church and State he says he would be "very unhappy" if an aggressive secular agenda was introduced. He says that, even with many churches struggling to find congregations, there is still a sense that the church stands for something.

"It represents a community that is not just defined by political interest or economic interest, but is about a whole community in some way." But how can the church claim to represent the whole community, when it apparently enjoys so little public support?

"What's surprising is that so many people, about 70 per cent, want to identify themselves as Christian. When we're appointing a new bishop, people will say, 'We want someone who can speak for the whole community,' and that's not just people inside the church. A bishop is not a politician; he has the interests of the whole community at heart. It's not about representing a tiny minority of enthusiasts.

"Even if people don't go (to church), they feel it's important that someone is 'holding the ring,' and research shows that 40-50 per cent of people would feel seriously disturbed if their local church was not there."

In these multi-faith times, should the leaders of other religions also take seats alongside him and his colleagues in the House of Lords, rather than look to Christian prelates to voice their concerns?

"You'd have to sort out quite a difficult question of which leaders you would have. Whereas the church community has identifiable leaders called bishops, in Muslim and Hindu communities, for example, it would be quite hard to decide who the right ones were. I'm not saying that's a reason for not doing it – it's just a complicating factor."

Does he ever feel his job is impossible? Here comes the little rumbling laugh again. "Only about once a day." And does he ever regret speaking up about matters that could be considered beyond his remit, such as the recent comments on sharia law which left him with burnt fingers?

"No. I compare it to miners sending a canary down the mine ahead of them, to see if there's any poisonous gas about. I'm the canary. My little lungs are slightly congested." But, in spite of everything, somehow he's still laughing.