The Mediaeval Cathedrals of England - Part 2

Here is a video about nine of England's beautiful Madiaeval Cathedrals. They range from tiny little Christ Church Cathedral, Oxford, which is only as large as a parish church, to Norwich and Peterborough which are 48o feet long. All these cathedrals have been extensively restored during the 19th century, but all of them are substantially intact ancient buildings, with the exception of the spire at Chichester..... and thereby hangs a tale.

The Mediaeval spire at Chichester was 277 feet high, was completed in 1402, and could be seen from the English Channel and for miles across the countryside. In 1861, a small boy was appraoching Chichester on the train, when his Grandmother said to him "Look out and you will see the spire of Chichester Cathedral!"
He looked out, and saw the spire. And while he was watching, it suddenly caved in on itself, like a telescope. As it was a masonry spire, there was nothing left except a huge pile of rubble on the floor at the crossing of the cathedral. The people of the little cathedral city of Chichester were devastated at the loss of their famous landmark. The famous Gothic Revival architect, Sir George Gilbert Scott, rebuilt it, faithful to the original.

I mentioned her that Chichester is a "Cathedral City". That term is usually applied only when the town in which the Cathedral stands is too small to be a city in its own right. Some cathedrals stand in large towns that have always been cities, or have become cities because of industrial growth in the 18th and 19th centuries. Norwich, for example, has been a city for hundreds of years, but Chichester, for nearly a thousand years, has been a Cathedral City in which the entire population of the town can fit inside the cathedral itself.

Like the cathedrals of the previous video, most of these buildings were begun shortly after the Norman invasion, although several of them have been the location of cathedrals since the 7th century. All of them were extended in the Gothic period, with Peterborough remaining the most Norman, and only Lichfield being entirely Gothic.
Some of these cathedrals are remarkable for their overall lovlieness, such as Chichester, while others are renowned for an architectural feature which is either unique in England, such as the Early English Gothic West front of Peterborough, and the Reticular interior in the choir of Gloucester, or is a superb example such as the vault at Norwich, and the central tower at Worcester. The cathedrals here are Chichester, Exeter, Gloucester (pr. Gloster), Lichfield, Norwich (pr. Norrich), Peterborough (pr. Peterbruh) , Ripon, Worcester (pr. Wooster like wood) and Oxford.

The Mediaeval Cathedrals of England, Part 1

One of the delights of my life is visiting old churches and cathedrals. Firstly, what exactly is a cathedral? Is it just another name for a very large church?
No. A cathedral is a church with a very special function - it contains the seat of a Bishop. From the Cathedral, the Bishop administers the churches of a region known as a Diocese.
The Bishop is not actually the Head Priest at the Cathedral; that role belongs to the Dean, who is assisted by Clergy and Layity called Canons.

Because Mediaeval England became unified politically at a comparatively early date, this also brought about a centralising of the church organisation. The result was that in England in the Late Middle Ages, there were far fewer cathedrals than in other countries, such as Italy and France, with Mediaeval England having about 18 cathedrals and France more than 180. In the 16th, 19th and 20th centuries, a number of churches that were ancient Abbeys have joined the ranks of cathedrals. More recently, a number of large parish churches have also become regional cathedrals, as the region around them became more populated.

Some cathedrals of England such as Salisbury, Durham, York and Wells, are internationslly renowned for the importance of their architecture. But among the less famous of the ancient buildings, every one of them has features that are remakable in some way.

Here is the first in a series of videos that shows some of the lesser known amoong the mediaeval buildings with their architecture and artworks.

Italian Poem No 1.

Afternoon in Venice

Italy

You promised me Italy-

the dream of bumble bees,

the hazy loaves of Tuscan hills

and colonnaded shadows deep with wine;

Steep streets with red checked tables cut to stand

where no chair ever could;

Pale shutters faded to the shade of autumn grass;

Light, iridescent glinting sparkling twinkling

in the long rays of the pale autumn sun;

Pale frescoes

faded to the pink of autumn skies;

walls of ripe apricot and sanguine orange,

crumbling ochre and the pale red bricks:

the flesh of Italy beneath its plaster skin;

Cool streets of small cafes and purple shadows

and the smell of bread warm from the oven

and of shining fish scales in the afternoon;

The sacred goldfinch in a window cage

sings of the Passion to the patient pheasant

who awaits his sacrifice upon a faience dish

decked with the fleur de lys;

The Ancient Roman shop-front,

and inside, the fashion of today, this minute,

never seen again:-

the shoes, the bags, the scarves, the gloves, the style;

the cars, the motorbikes, the leather jackets;

and the taps that will not turn, the drains that block,

the creaking lift and trains that do not go.

The singing countryside,

the hilltop town with bells to wake each morning;

and the nightingale

among the orange trees

to penetrate the stillness of the night

with essence of a long past Tuscany

where man and wife,

now smiling on their tomb in cool display of their commitment,

once clung with lust,

once sank, longing and deep

into each other's souls of desire:

their sighs are wind in pine trees,

the sudden rain that falls upon the earth,

their procreation and the dust
that lies across the bonnet of the hired car

was once child of their love, long turned to earth

and now part of the richness and the sacrament

of this enchanted feast,

the bread and wine,

the broken meat,

the olives and the fish.

And how I long to eat this feast,

and walk on hills whereon my feet

crush pungent oregano as I go,

and tiny strawberry plants

show trefoil leaves

beneath the holm oaks:

and the Trinity,

God of all wonder and all sacrifice,

God of all inspiration and all life

is there for all to see,

vision of colour and geometry

deep in the magic painted recess of a crazzled wall.
Part of my soul, my self, is in that land.

My spirit soars to fill the vaults and domes

of smoky sensuous darkness

and gold light of candles. 

My spirit rises like the bells on drafts of air

up from the swaying towers,

and sings with painted angels,

tier upon tier

in perfect cacophony

vermilion, green and lapis lazuli.

My spirit hangs suspended like the cross

between the pointed arches of the sky above

and marble floor beneath.

It burns with the brightness of the sacred lamp,

red as a pomegranate, in the sanctuary.

The Virgin smiles for me.

The Child forever lifts his hand for my atonement.

I am one with them:

A stranger in that place,

and yet belonging by adoption.

You promised Italy,

my place of dreams,

my church of golden singing

and rich banquet of the senses.

Take me there,

to satisfy my dreams

and hone the edge

of my appreciation

and my appetite for more.

©    Tamsyn Taylor