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.

Italian poem No 10.

The Millstream

I am fishing in the millstream

in the brown and frothing current;
foam a-swirling, leaves a-twirling
on the mountain's rushing torrent.
Our poor Gwen fell off the culvert
in the dark and stormy night,
soaked her clothes
bruised her knees,
spilt her handbag,

grazed her elbows,
gave us all a nasty fright!
Now I'm fishing in the millstream
for her wallet, purse and keys,
the gold compact that her husband
bought her once from overseas.

Let me see where they have fallen,
whereabouts the wallet's gone…
Has it drifted in the current
somewhere underneath a stone?
Yes! It's here!
Her cheques and passport
and her photo, quite forlorn!
Lay them in the sun and dry them!
Luckily there's nothing torn.

Now I'm wading in the millstream
on this grey and stormy day
while the sullen water eddies
round the branches in its way.
I am searching for Gwen's purse
which holds, along with all her money,
driver's license,
ring of keys,
book of stamps,
and credit cards
the loss of which is not so funny.
So I'm in the stream once more,
wallowing in drizzling rain,

trying to find her things before
the river rises once again.

A neighbour comes in waders
with a fishnet on a pole.

"I think the purse might float a bit,
then sink into that hole."
And here it is!
The missing purse,
A lump of sodden leather!
Put it by the fire to dry.

Luckily it held together! 

Here I'm paddling in the millstream 

on this bright and blowy morning. 

How the water winks and sparkles! 

Over pebbles it goes gurgling. 

I am looking for Gwen's compact, 

with the powder for her face. 
It's round 

and gold, 

engraved, 

and loved, 

and not so easy to replace. 

The sun shines down. A thing like that 

should gleam and glow and shimmer. 

But what Gwen didn't tell me was - 

it's in a black felt cover. 

My foot is resting on a stone 

that’s flat and square and slimy. 

"I saw a compact once before  

that's just like Gwen's. Oh, Blimey! 

Here it is,  

her precious gift - 

I've stood upon it all the while! 

Eureka! I have found Gwen's gold!" 

How glad I am to see her smile! 

© Tamsyn Taylor 

Italian Poem No 9.

      

Molino Revisited 

"Here's the place!" I say.
We stop the car 
and from the grassy verge

look just below us in the valley
where an aged limestone building squats,
an old beret of terracotta tiles
pulled on its head.
It has green shutters
at the upper window where,
so many years ago, I slept.
The millstream curves around
and though the wheel
is long since gone
some nights
you wake to hear
a rhythmic thundering
and a churning sound
as though this building has a heart.
The millstream ripples by
and by that stream
tall poplars grow.
They are the spreading sort
and in the spring
the air is full of golden down
and by the stream
a swing is moving gently to and fro.
One can sit dreaming
in the dappled light
and hear the rippling tune of water
gliding over stones.
And through the open shutters
in the night
it plays continuo
while the nightingale
sings its sonata sweet
and softly to the darkness.

In the morning bright

the cuckoo calls
with joyful, childish repetition
of his two-note song
and round the ancient archway
to the kitchen door
wisteria climbs,
and in those blooms
are bumblebees
so large
that they could carry you away
if they had need to,
but they're busy.
In my mind I see
Louise
in dress of faded crimson
wading in meadow grass
and golden haze,
picking a sheaf of poppies
and some daisies
and some heads of wheat.
They're for the big blue jug
without a handle
on the breakfast table,
with the crusty loaf
and soft white cheese
and steaming milk
and fresh ground coffee.
How I love this place!
We turn away
and start the engine
for today
we must press on to Venice.

© Tamsyn Taylor,

Italian poem No 7.

                                                                                                                                                        Foto: Basilio Speciari

San Gimignano Red

"I want a glass of San Gimignano Red,"
I told my husband,
"And the only place to drink it
is in San Gimignano!
"Where is that?" he said.
It's four and twenty cramped and stifling hours
away from Mascot
and a Fiat hired in Florence
and the breezy countryside with rising larks
and startled pheasants.
"Look!" Upon the hill there looms a city
built of kiddy blocks
and up and up the thirteen towers go-
Just how high can they go
before they topple over?
We share our bottle of San Gimignano Red
with Osso Buco and some garlic beans
at a trattoria in the city wall.
It's not the finest plonk in all the world
but Oh, what fun it is
to drink it here in San Gimignano!

                       ©    Tamsyn Taylor 




Dante Aligheri, in Purgatorio Stanza XXIV describes the gluttonous Pope Martin IV dining on Bolsena eels pickled in vernaccia.  Vernaccia di San Gimignano is the region's best known wine and the only white wine of Tuscany that is registered as Denominazione di Origine Controllata e Garantita.  However, the ancient Vernaccia grapes were harder to cultivate than modern varieties, and during the 20th century red wine varieties were planted.  "Rosso" and a "rosato" or rose wine was produced, the latter with a very distinctive character given by the Vernaccia grapes.  It was "rosato" rather than "rosso" that we drank that night in San Gimignano.  The proprietor had a gallery of portraits of himself drawn by visitors.  I rose to the challenge and contributed another portrait to the collection.  TT
                                       

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