I went and looked at one of these great cathedrals one day, and I was blown away by it. From there I became interested in how cathedrals were built … interested in the society that built the medieval cathedral. It occurred to me … that the story of the building of a cathedral could be a great popular novel. ~ Ken Follett
The Golden Age of cathedral building began in the 11th century, hot on the heels of the Norman invasion of Britain in 1066. The Normans were a bunch of French brigands from across the English Channel. I learned something else today, however. The Normans were, in fact, a blend of Norse and Norman. Danish Vikings, who invaded Normandy in the 10th century, adopted the culture and language of the French, while continuing the tradition of their Viking ancestors as mercenaries and adventurers. Landing at Hastings in October 1066, they defeated the last Anglo-Saxon King, Harold Godwinson, with a single arrow to the eye. The Norman conqueror was crowned King William I in London, on Christmas Day. He quickly decided that the best way to subjugate the rebellious Saxons was to overwhelm them with the impressive size of the castles and churches he could build.
Thus began a period of prolific construction, sturdy castles and vast cathedrals popping up all over the British Isles, to prove that these Norman conquerors had the financial and spiritual muscle to call the shots and were not going to be easily swept aside. Previously unheard of in Britain, one thousand castles were built in strategic positions up and down the country within two hundred years. Cathedrals, too, in Canterbury and Chichester, Durham and Gloucester, to name but a few. The competition was on, as newly appointed Norman bishops competed to build the largest churches and the tallest spires. While some collapsed under the pressure, Salisbury won the race, and still has the tallest spire in England at more than 400 feet.
And yet, it is not simply about the size, but about the imagination, the skill, the faith and the creativity that goes into making these monuments to God.
This summer, as we roam through an exceptionally chilly English summer, we have often found ourselves wandering through yet another mediaeval cathedral. It hasn’t been intentional, but cathedrals seem to have become something of a theme. Last year, the One and Only walked between Winchester and Salisbury, and along the Pilgrim’s Way to Canterbury. This year, he has been to St Paul’s Cathedral for the first time, finally succumbing to the outrageous entrance fee that helps to keep this iconic building in one piece. We also popped into Ely Cathedral, for which we have long had a soft spot. We passed by Lincoln Cathedral as we headed north, but there were others to be found in Sheffield, Birmingham, Hereford and Bristol. However, the highlight so far is Wells Cathedral. In fact, I am writing this in the Crown Inn as the One and Only watches Denmark draw with England at soccer.
Before he realized that tonight’s match started at the same time as the service, he had agreed to accompany me to evensong at the Cathedral. We rarely go to church these days, but, in England, it has become a special treat. Last week, we were in Birmingham, too busy trying to find a pint and a wind-free suntrap in this chilly city to do more than offer a passing nod to their baroque Cathedral – summer, my foot, I’ve had to buy a thick, woolly jumper – but we did find a dear little church beside a moated manor, in which to warble a hymn or two.
Tonight is a different matter. The Vicars’ Choir is singing Evensong in Wells Cathedral, and we are invited to sit right behind a row of choristers in the northern choir stalls. How eleven choristers could produce enough volume to make the psalms rise to the top of that vaulted roof proves that not only are those voices beautifully trained, but that the acoustics are superb. Their voices filled the choir stalls with ease. Luckily, no one has invited us to join in and spoil the effect. (As a wondrous bonus, just before the service began, we watched the local high school was rehearsing for a performance of Romeo and Juliet in the Lady Chapel, accompanied by the school orchestra. I can only say that the cello gave me goosebumps.)
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A few miles down winding country lanes hemmed in lush hedgerows lies the city of Bath. Bath does not have a Cathedral, but an Abbey. What is the difference? Well, an Abbey was once a monastery, the home of nuns or monks. A cathedral is the principal church of a regional diocese, the seat of a bishop, attended by local parishioners. Bath Abbey, however, did get converted from a Benedictine Abbey to a Cathedral, although it has been the Anglican parish church since 1572. Confused? Me too! Yet, despite its perplexing nomenclature, Bath Abbey is worth its entry fee – especially if you toss in the tour of the tower.
Here, in 973 AD, Archbishops Dunstan of Canterbury and Oswald of York crowned Edgar the King of all England in the Saxon Abbey. Since then, the headline act among Bath’s religious community has been rebuilt and abandoned, demolished and renovated countless times over the centuries.
The nave of the Abbey is awash with memorials to illustrious citizens of Bath, mostly those who inhabited the town during the 17th and 18th centuries. On the walls there are 635 mural monuments, while on the floor, there are 891 ledgerstones (two new words for the day) including one containing ‘the complicated dust of the Reverend Charles Hoskyns’, with no explanation as to what made his dust so complex. One very extravagant memorial to ‘Sir Philip Frowde, knight’, is topped by a bewigged bust – presumably of said knight – with skulls engraved into his eyeballs! Others chose to commemorate their loved ones in stained glass. A chatty guide is eager to show me one such window that depicts, among other memorabilia, the coat of arms of each of the colonies in which that family had served: Canada, South Africa, India, New Zealand and Australia. This last panel shows an early version of the escutcheon on the recently federated Australia’s coat of arms. Containing the heraldic badges of each state, most nod to their commonwealth status. Apart from two. Western Australian flaunts the native black swan, while South Australia’s piping shrike or magpie warbles to the rising sun.
Onwards and upwards. Leaving our bags at the foot of the 212 steps we must climb to the top, we set off with our two guides, to explore behind the scenes. Bath Abbey has ten bells, including a tenor bell which, at 1.7 tonnes, is the weight of a full grown female rhino. Big Ben, once the largest bell in the British Isles, was long outdone by “Great Paul”, the 17-tonne bell in St Paul’s Cathedral, that cast in 1881. Ethel may not be a lightweight compared with ‘Great Paul’, but she still needs two people to ring her. Our guides regretfully refrain from giving us a performance, but they do show us how the clapper strikes the inside of the bell as it swings. Having recently stayed with bellringing cousins in Yorkshire and learned the lingo, I am delighted to see these ones in action.
Henry VIII apparently sold off the six original bells of Bath Abbey to Spain during the dissolution of the monasteries, when the newly divorced king was trying to fund his expensive lifestyle. Boat and bells sadly sank in the English Channel. (Perhaps the Armada was sent to retrieve them?)
We clamber cautiously through a low door – not because people were shorter, but because the parishioners were stingy, according to our irreverent guide, Summer – to view the vaulted ceilings inside out, and peer through a tiny hole into the nave. Tourists stand far below and I long for a handy acorn.
We also get to see the back of church clock facing north towards the Guildhall and the market place. Originally, the clock and its very heavy mechanism were set too high up the tower, and the weight cracked the tower, so that the clock had to be reset lower down. Now run on electricity, in the past the clock required winding manually, every day, for decades. Our guide explained how one man kept the clock going for forty years. And when the clocks went forward an hour for British Summer Time or backwards in winter for Greenwich Mean Time, Fred would either have to hold onto the mechanism for an hour because you couldn’t turn it backwards, or turn it forward by eleven hours. (Don’t quote me on that, I am a bit blurry on the story line.)
Another narrow spiral staircase not made for size six feet, and we are on the roof of the nave, watching the buskers performing in the squares to the south and west of the Abbey. Eventually, breathless and hobbling – where have they hidden the defibrillator? – I make it to the top of the tower, where the view is definitely worth the effort. Bath is a UNESCO world heritage city, and from this vantage point, you can see why. On this calm sunny afternoon (at last!) we have plenty of time to admire the beautiful 18th century Palladian architecture dressed in honey-coloured Bath stone, designed by father and son architects John Wood the Elder and John Wood the Younger. Clambering down the spiral staircase far more quickly than we went up, my head is spinning by the time I reach the bottom, and I am more than happy to cross the square for a Chardonnay, to pass the time till the One & Only returns from hiking through the surrounding hills.