Westminster Abbey: not a cathedral but still worth a lick.
So, my cathedral-licking days are over. In the previous post you will have seen evidence of the 64th and final lick at the lovely St. Asaph cathedral in Wales, which brought to and end a grueling, fascinating, stressful, eye-opening and bizarre couple of years.
With that victorious lick the burden shifted from my shoulders onto Adam’s, and now it is all down to him to uphold his end of the bargain! I saw him and his wife Charlotte in York just after Christmas and he was surprisingly upbeat about the whole thing, which was a trifle galling to be honest. He even offered to do the streak there and then! Quite what our fellow drinkers in the Snickleway Inn would have thought of that, I can only imagine. Sadly the great event did not take place that night, mainly due to lack of a good camera to record it all. I have been inundated with messages lately calling for proof of the dreaded forfeit, some of which have been rather alarming! Clearly a lot of people want to see Mr. Drury’s bare behind and other hidden equipment.
As enjoyable as it was visiting 64 wonderful cathedrals, it is a great relief not having to rush off around the country on a series of panicked journeys anymore. Now that it’s done though, I have been reading through this blog and remembering some truly great trips and stunning buildings, which I was lucky enough to share with some of the very best people. With these positive thoughts in mind I started writing the Introduction and first chapter of the cathedral-licking book about two weeks ago. It is coming along slowly but well, and I have decided not to rush it. I want to include all the best bits about each trip and every cathedral, which will take a good deal of time and research. I am hopeful that it will be near completion by the end of 2013 and may even post a few excerpts on here to gauge people’s reactions.
With this project on the go it is unlikely that I will post any more accounts of my trips on this blog. I wish I had been a little more diligent in updating it, especially the final few English and Irish cathedrals (plus the Scottish ones), but rest assured they will all appear in the book when it is completed. I do still plan to write on the blog occasionally and already have a few ideas in mind, including my Top 10 cathedrals and Top 10 tastiest cathedrals.
Other than writing, back in January I also had the honour of giving a lecture on the cathedral quest at the University of Westminster (big thanks to Samir Pandya for organising this). It was the final talk of a 3-day course for architecture students and it seemed to go down fairly well. Looking at the faces of my audience there was a range of emotions on show: confusion, merriment, disbelief and incredulity mostly! I do hope they enjoyed it and forgave me for a few nerves and a dodgy Powerpoint presentation.
The BBC also invited me to do a number of radio interviews back in December. I did 10 in total for various regional stations and had a thoroughly good time. The one with BBC Leicester was particularly fun, as was the one with Radio York, both of which I am hoping to post on here soon. Apologies to BBC Leeds though, who seemed a bit upset when I told them that Wakefield Cathedral tasted the worst of the lot!
Hopefully the true message of this blog will have been understood through my posts, and you will know that the challenge was not just about some fool licking buildings! Certainly that’s how things started when the bet was created, but it didn’t take long for me to realise that I actually rather liked visiting these cathedrals and learning their secrets. A lot can be discovered by trying something new and exploring something you previously ignored, so I urge you, go and see your local cathedral and enjoy its treasures. Whether you lick it or not is entirely up to you, but I wouldn’t recommend it.
As many of my readers will know, yesterday was the final deadline for the cathedral-licking bet. It was a date I had long feared, as back in September 2011 when Adam adjusted the terms it seemed like there would hardly be any time at all to finish this gargantuan and nerve-shredding task. What a great joy it is then to announce that on December 5th the last two cathedrals (those in Bangor and St. Asaph) were finally licked!!
Adam has been in touch and has gracefully conceded defeat, and word on his forfeit will be appearing on here soon! He should be very worried, unless he has somehow managed to raise a remote and obscure parish church to cathedral status, an achievement I would not put past him!
Obviously I am hugely relieved not to be in Adam’s shoes right now, but also a little sad that the adventure has come to an end. 2012 was truly the year of the lick and I was lucky enough to visit some incredibly beautiful and intriguing cathedrals over the last 12 months. I’ve also had the pleasure of meeting some truly wonderful people, many of whom have helped me along the way, so a huge thank you goes to them for their kindness and sense of humour.
The plan now is to turn this blog into a book, which will hopefully give a good account of the whole adventure, as well as an overview of the superb collection of cathedrals that we have in the United Kingdom. I never expected to get so hooked on these places when the bet began, but by visiting and exploring them I’ve gained a new-found passion that will be with me for life.
The blog itself is in need of a serious update, as there is still nothing on the last few licks in England and Northern Ireland, nor anything on the triumphant tour around Scotland. This will all be done after Christmas hopefully, but a more detailed account will appear in the book, of course.
So, although the adventure has come to and end there is still a lot more to come. But for now it is a simple case of basking in VICTORY!
With the first Northern Irish cathedral licked at Armagh and a good breakfast inside us we hit the road once more. We had ambitious plans for the day ahead and wanted to get three more done before nightfall, which would be breaking all previous cathedral-licking records. The three triple licking jobs with David had been tiring enough, but this would be a whole new experience.
The next two stops were in across the county border in Down, and on the way an eerie sense of familiarity appeared at every turn. It wasn’t just the fact that all the road signs were British, but also the rolling countryside, which at times resembled Yorkshire in all its greenery and earthy character. It was disorientating to say the least, like an old friend who has changed their name. Instead of signs for Harrogate, Whitby and Leeds we encountered Ballynabragget, Tandragee and the curiously-named Blackskull.
Our first stop, Dromore Cathedral, was a great surprise. When thinking of cathedral cities the tendency is to picture great beasts of churches dominating the view for miles around, in the way that the likes of Lincoln and Durham do so impressively. Their overbearing Norman aura leaves you in no doubt that they were meant to be seen. At Dromore it is a different story, so much so that we actually had trouble locating the cathedral and drove past it several times before realising that the modest-looking church by the River Lagan was in fact our intended goal. It seemed strange to think that this unassuming little building was a member of the cathedral club, but the signs outside confirmed its identity.
Dromore Cathedral
By the entrance we found a fine, ancient cross of stone, just one of many we would see on our journey. The sight of it gave me the feeling that Irish Christianity is as old as the stones themselves, and Dromore and its various cathedrals have certainly witnessed a great deal since St. Colman first put wattle to daub here early in the 6th-century. Since these early beginnings the building has gone through several makeovers thanks to a series of destructive mobs and battles nearby. The Normans were once such mob and it was they that saw fit to knock up a castle in Dromore during the 13th-century, which helped to hold the Irish population here under their sway, much like they had done in England 200 years previously. All that remains of their once formidable fort today is a great cone of grassy earth known locally as “the Mound”, from which unsurpassed views of the town and upper Lagan Valley can be had.
Annoyingly the cathedral doors were locked, leaving us cursing our bad luck. This really was a blow, as the prospect of stepping foot inside every Northern Irish cathedral had been an appealing one. We gave the door a good shake or two, in the hope that a kindly curate would unbolt the locks and welcome us in with a smiling apology, and maybe even a cup of tea and a biscuit. In hindsight we probably looked like two desperate men seeking sanctuary. It was all to no avail and all we could do now was lick the place and continue our journey.
Thankfully we had more luck at out next stop, Downpatrick. This place had irked Christopher somewhat, as it is a difficult place to get to by road, but its connection with Ireland’s famous patron saint drove him on with such zeal that we were within sight of the incredibly spiky cathedral in next to no time.
Downpatrick (from the Irish “Dún Pádraig” meaning “Patrick’s Stronghold”) is the county town of Down. The city oozes history and can boast the last resting place of St. Patrick himself, which can be found next to the cathedral on top of yet another hill. Up this now we huffed and puffed and were eventually met with a splendid sight. Looking at its copious spiky stonework I once again pondered the question of the World’s most dangerous cathedral, in terms of its shape when copied into mini models for sale in gift shops. This had been on my mind ever since Silvio Berlusconi had been attacked with a reconstruction of the viciously pointy Milan cathedral in 2009. Had his assailant chosen to wield Down Cathedral, we agreed, that naughty Italian’s woe would have been far greater.
The very spiky Down Cathedral
The cathedral is dedicated to the Holy Trinity and is certainly one of Ireland’s great churches. In true Armagh style it has been destroyed and rebuilt many times over, by a mixture of Vikings, other scallywags and even an earthquake! For great stretches of its history it stood as a ruin remained a venerated and holy site. John Wesley was one of its many admirers and he once preached underneath its crumbling walls in 1778, dubbing it a “noble ruin” in his diary. Indeed, the church here was held in such high esteem that Henry VIII had one of its many destroyers – Lord Leonard Grey, Lord Deputy of Ireland – put to death in 1541. If only we could have done the same to other famous church-smashers throughout history, of which sadly there is a depressingly long list.
Although undoubtedly an attractive building, it is the St. Patrick connection that draws most people here of course, ever since the burial of Ireland’s famous snake-botherer somewhere on Cathedral Hill long ago in the year 461. His exact resting place is a mystery but the presence of such holy bones is still celebrated with a great block of stone inscribed with his name. I spent a memorable few minutes here in the company of an enthusiastic tabby cat, who showed its pleasure at meeting me by sinking its claws deep into my thighs. I tried to explain to it that such behavior was not conducive to peaceful, religious reflection, but obviously it thought otherwise and stuck me again and again.
St. Patrick’s puss was much friendlier to Christopher.
Inside the cathedral we were met with the booming sound of the organ in full voice, which in a gloomier, less welcoming church such as this would have easily filled us with dread. The interior was light, airy and a pleasure to behold. Hints of its medieval past can be found here and there, but most of the present building shows signs of recent renovation, which is no bad thing. While working in Westminster tourists would often complain to me (why, I do not know) about the ongoing renovation work at the Abbey: “It should have been left as it was” they would parp, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Westminster Abbey is a working church and not actually a museum. While on this subject, one woman even declared pompously that only English people should be allowed within its precincts (!), but that is a tale for another time. No, as lovely as medieval architecture is, it is far better to have a building to worship in and enjoy than a crumbling one that sheds masonry onto your skull.
When we made to leave we experienced an awkward moment. A middle-aged lady walked ahead of us and tried in vain to open the door by pressing on a large silver button marked EXIT on the wall. After several fruitless attempts she turned to us and in a soft English accent chortled “Oh, that’s very Irish, you know!” Unsure at how to react I stood frozen to the spot, watching her go as the door finally yielded to her push. “Very Irish, yes” she tittered as she went on her way, giving me a cheeky wink.
I turned to Christopher looking for support, but he was just as dumbfounded as me. The only other person in sight was a kindly old lady in the cathedral shop, who judging by the redness of her face had heard every word and was a now a highly offended local, ready to defend her national honour with a Down Cathedral letter-opener, or anything else that might do the rude Englishwoman some harm. No doubt she had heard me talking to Christopher in my London-cum-Yorkshire accent and identified me as comrade in arms on these foreign shores. Well honestly! I have rarely been so embarrassed by one of my own.
Soon after we made our own way out and got down to the all important job in hand: the 49th cathedral-lick. The prospect of victory was starting to taste better and better.
Downpatrick looked like a good place to spend some time, with charming winding streets and cosy-looking pubs galore, but we were on a mission and time was ticking. For our next stop we took the road north to Belfast, stopping at the bustling suburb of Lisburn for the next lick. It was now late afternoon and we were both beginning to tire and were slipping into that cruel lethargy that creeps up after time spent on the road. The prospect of a good meal and a few jars of ale in Belfast dulled our wits and it is probably for that reason that I remember very little of our time in Lisburn.
Lisburn
As in Dromore the cathedral was closed, this time because of a funeral going on inside. This made us a little uneasy so we got the job done quickly. Once finished we got chatting to to a young, friendly vicar who presumably was on his way inside to conduct the service. This sad occasion blurred my mind further, so much so that the significance of this particular lick bypassed me entirely. Only when we were heading out of town did it occur to me that a huge milestone had just been reached: 50 cathedrals had now been licked! This realisation made me want to hug Christopher with joy, but he rightly suggested that a pint would be a far better way to show my appreciation, so off to Belfast we headed to celebrate this bizarre achievement.
The great Christopher Power and his van, which brought us to all 8 Anglican cathedrals in Northern Ireland.
It’s fair to say that this licking odyssey has caused a great deal of stress and general misery. Of course, it can be argued that this was largely self-inflicted when I uttered the words “go on then” to Adam that night in the pub, thereby burdening myself with a gruelling task that would prove costly, both financially and mentally. There have been many low points on the quest and none more so than sleeping on that cold, hard bench in Manchester Airport one freezing October night, whiling away melancholy hours before a 6am flight to Ireland.
During that night of fitful sleep and waking snorts I once again questioned my own sanity and tried in vain to think why on earth I had thought all of this was such a good idea. Barely six hours earlier I had left London for good, having handed in the keys to my flat and given notice on my job, using the last of my leave to get through as many cathedrals as possible before the December 16th deadline, which was now rapidly approaching. How I would do this on only a shoestring budget remained a mystery and one that would have to be worked out on the road. This was all madness, utter madness, and now I wanted no part of it. Thankfully such dark thoughts began to evaporate once on board the aeroplane, and were replaced with a reassuring sense that perhaps the greatest challenge of the whole cathedral-licking bet, namely the licking of the eight Anglican cathedrals of Northern Ireland, was about to be removed forever.
I was met at Dublin airport by a smiling and jolly Christopher (the brother of Lisa, my girlfriend), still fresh from a lengthy early morning drive from County Wexford. It was wonderfully cosy inside his red van and after a quick look at the map we began the journey north with much boyish enthusiasm. The simple pleasure of having a companion again gladdened my heart after the lonely hours spent in Manchester. Christopher quickly proved to be excellent company, as I had known he would be, and I was provided with a wealth of knowledge on the towns and villages we passed through on our journey. He also related how the cathedral-licking story had been greeted in Ireland since it made the news back in June. It had appeared in Love It, a glossy magazine full of tales of lunatics, into whose bosom I had now been inadvertently welcomed. Lisa had done an interview for the feature, which included a mocked up image of me tonguing the ample spire of Salisbury, and apparently it had caused quite a stir in her home town.
So engrossed we were in conversation that I did not even notice when we crossed the border. It seemed strange to be back in the United Kingdom so quickly, especially on a different landmass from the one I called home. I was uneasy about calling it British soil given the history here, and soon it became clear that this question was one that continues to divide people today. Just over the border we passed through a small down bedecked in the red, white and blue; not only flags but paving stones and the very curbs of the road. A few miles on, sometimes even a few hundred yards, this was replaced with green, white and orange. My ignorance of the history was embarrassing but Christopher did a fine job filling in the gaps before we arrived at our first stop of the trip.
It was perhaps fitting that we started the licking tour in Armagh, which is Ireland’s religious capital and a city of great historical importance. An acquaintance of Christopher’s had given the place a pretty damning review and had not offered much in the way of praise for it. Taking a stroll around its sunny streets however, we agreed that this assessment had been harsh to say the least. Certainly there are fairer cities in the World, but that morning Armagh had nothing but charming streets and friendly nods of greeting from locals a plenty.
The city is famous for its two cathedrals, which can be found atop two equally noble hills, both dedicated to St. Patrick and dominating the skyline for miles around. The Roman Catholic cathedral is perhaps the more attractive of the two but (luckily for me and my already burdensome quest) would not require a lick. It really was magnificent to behold, with its twin towers glowing white in the morning sun and the sight of it raised my spirits once more.
My mood soon dampened somewhat as we struggled up Ard Macha, the steep hill that gives Armagh its name and upon which the Anglican cathedral proudly sits. This lofty spot has seen plenty of action and upheavals in its time and has been fittingly dubbed “the Canterbury of Ireland.” Here also was a famous site of pagan worship, as well as a stronghold for the kings of Ulster in days long since passed.
When Christianity first spread to Ireland during the mid 5th-century Armagh became the island’s ecclesiastical capital, following the foundation of a church here by St. Patrick himself. This would not only be a place of Christian worship, the saint decreed, but also one of learning. Soon he was declaring that only those educated at Armagh could spread the gospel, and that is exactly what they did. Soon Irish monks began crossing the sea to northern England full of Christian zeal and determined to convert the newly arrived Anglo-Saxons. During what some have described as “some of the darkest years in English history” it was the Irish that were saving Greek and Latin culture for Europe.
The cathedral itself is a modest affair but exudes an air of peace and tranquillity, something this hilltop has had little experience of in its time. No less than seventeen different churches have stood on this site since St. Patrick first huffed and puffed his way up here. This is thanks largely to the efforts of Viking raiders, who had such a fabulous time trashing it in A.D. 832 that they returned to do it further damage on nine separate occasions. The carnage finally ceased in 1014, when a Danish army was comprehensively defeated at Clontarf by the forces of Brian Boru, High King of Ireland. This celebrated Irish hero is now buried somewhere within the cathedral grounds, having been cut down at the battle by some brute while thanking God for his great victory.
When the Vikings weren’t around to cause mischief the weather put saw fit to put the boot in, or more precisely a lightning bolt, which caused such terrible damage in 995 that the building was left largely in ruins for almost two centuries. Two further incarnations were put to the flames during the troubled 16th and 17th centuries, making Armagh one of the most patched up and punch-drunk cathedrals in the World. Now it sits in a peaceful glow, surrounded by trees and enjoying its lofty perch over the city.
The cathedral seen today has been heavily restored during the 19th-century but still retains some delicious medieval features, but it is the collection of older, Iron Age treasures that most captures the imagination. In the south aisle can be found six stone carvings, which serve as a reminder of the old Celtic religion that once thrived on this site. Principal amongst these is the Tanderagee Idol, a comical yet sinister effigy of a grinning creature believed to represent another of Ireland’s greatest kings, Nuadha. He is famous for possessing an arm of pure silver, a wonderfully garish gesture following the loss of the original limb in battle. Another carving shows yet another legendary ruler, one Labhraidh Loingseach, who would have been glad of a silver appendage but instead was cursed with a pair of horse’s ears.
Having had our fill of the place it was time to get moving. With seven other cathedrals to get to we could not afford to linger too long. As we made our way out and down to the van I shrieked at the realisation that I had forgotten to lick the cathedral! This was a disturbing thought given the fact that I had gone to such pains to get there in the first place, so back up the hill we trudged and captured the following video.
Of its taste I remember nothing, but it can only have been tinged with a sense of relief on having licked my first Northern Irish cathedral. Whatever flavour was left on my tongue was soon vanquished by a hearty breakfast in a nearby establishment, where we planned the next licks with great excitement. Slowly but surely the bet was being won.
As readers of this blog will know I am a proud man of York, a beautiful city in the north of England and home to the world-famous York Minster. Since an early age I have attended services here with my family and have often popped my head inside just to gawp at its splendour. The sound of its bells in the morning is, for me, the sound of home and for the people of this city the Minster is York.
Despite all of the wonder, this stunning cathedral is in dire need of help. It may come as a shock to learn that it costs around £20,000 a day to keep the Minster operating. Visitors often grumble at having to pay for admission to the building but their money directly supports the future of this holy and historic building. The funds raised from admission charges are not always enough, however, making other sources of income vitally important.
The York Minster Fund was originally founded in the 1960s in order to raise money for the restoration of the Minster’s Central Tower, which was in danger of collapse. Since then it has continued to generate funds for the work of conservation and restoration of the fabric of the building. We should all be able to enjoy this stunning building and help to preserve it for future generations but, to put it bluntly, York Minster cannot survive without your help.
To aid the work of the Fund I have set up an account with the online charity website Just Giving. If you have enjoyed reading this blog and would like to help support one of the World’s greatest cathedrals then please do make a donation. It’s quick and easy to do and your help is greatly appreciated. You can also aid many other cathedrals, churches and Anglican charities on Just Giving, so please do spend some time exploring their website.
The journey east to Brecon was long but not without its charms. Back in Haverfordwest I caught the train to Carmarthen through gorgeous green countryside and over many an old railway bridge topped with merry people waving. At times it was like being part of a very large model railway. The experience would have been all the more enjoyable were it not for the train guard. The ticket office at Haverfordwest had been deserted and the prospect of a free trip was a distinct possibility. This bet had been crippling me financially since the start, so any chance of a freebie had to be seized with both hands. Things were looking good until the penultimate stop, when the dreaded guard caught me day-dreaming and yanked a £10 note from my reluctant grasp.
From Carmarthen I caught another bus, having first had a brief look at what remains of the castle there. Wales is absolutely teeming with these things, thanks partly to the efforts of the Normans and later King Edward I, who saw fit to knock up a good few fortresses to keep the locals under his boot. Standing amidst the ruins, I reflected on the imperialist nature of the English throughout history and wondered quite why we have gone to such lengths to extend our borders and generally piss off the rest of the World. Before this trip a Welshman in a pub had warned me about opening my mouth in certain regions of this homeland. He was adamant that colourful language would ensue and a few other choice words that would leave me in no doubt whatsoever that they really were not keen on me. So far though everyone had been kindness itself, and I began to think his words had been little more than scaremongering. And in any case, it is difficult to be intimidated by the Welsh, who of all the people on Earth possess the least threatening accent.
My penultimate stop was in the small town of Llandovery, where the ruins of yet another castle can be seen atop a grassy mound. There was a half hour wait for my next bus, so to kill some time I explored yet another noble fort. Here a rather unusual mounument to Owain Glyndŵr, the famous hero of Welsh nationalism, can be seen. Even in the afternoon’s dull weather its metallic sheen was blinding. The statue (I’m guessing) is not supposed to be 100% realistic, otherwise the English army would have been dealing with some sort of Johnny 5-like robot during the Welsh uprisings of the early 15th-century.
I was the only passenger on the bus to Brecon and the driver was at liberty to talk. He winced at my pronunciation of the towns and villages we passed through but was friendly enough. He gave a snort when the purpose of my trip was revealed and heartily gave his approval for the venture. Once we arrived in Brecon it was too late to visit the cathedral, so I asked him if he knew the way to the Youth Hostel, where I had planned to spend the night. He looked at me as if I had just asked the way to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and said that he didn’t think there actually wasa hostel in Brecon. This was worrying news as it was getting dark and my meagre budget would see me laughed out of all the other hotels in town. Most of these I trudged past on my way down to the canal, which the driver thought was roughly in the right direction of the hostel. The hotels all looked warm and inviting of course, as most places do when you know you can’t afford them. Inside jolly, red-cheeked folk were sat down to dinner in the bar, tucking into steak and quaffing pints of ale, while I pressed my nose against the windows with a sigh, like some pathetic Victorian urchin.
Downtown Brecon
Feeling mournful and suddenly very lonely I began the long walk along the canal path. The bus driver had called it a “pleasant stroll”. If by “pleasant” he meant a laborious trudge through puddles, thick mud and goose crap, resulting in total despair and general dark thoughts then his description was spot on. The path went on for quite some way and I began to question the accuracy of the directions I had been given.
As the sun began to sink behind the nearby Brecon Beacons I had a good mind to retrace my steps, go and find the bus driver and do him some horrible injury; that or ask someone else the way. Eventually a kind soul appeared on the path and confirmed that I was on the right track, but warned that the hostel was inside a deep, dark wood where it was likely that I would be shot with a poisoned dart and wake up inside a burning wicker man surrounded by locals chanting pagan songs of sacrifice. He didn’t actually say that, but those were the images running through my head as I entered the dark wood in question.
Eventually the hostel appeared amongst the trees and so ended a long and exhausting journey. The building itself was rather drab and depressing, but the staff were friendly and the prices low and the dinner excellent. Sleep came very easily that night.
Over breakfast the following morning I got talking to the hostel’s only other guest – a fellow Englishman on a gloriously aimless jaunt through Wales. He had been driving around with no particular destination in mind and seeing where his fancy took him. This seemed a splendid attitude to travel and it was worthy of praise. He had also passed through St. David’s and agreed that it was a “fine spot”, and recommended a number of other charming towns and villages in the locality. He had yet to go to the north and I toyed with the idea of asking hum for a lift to the cathedrals in Bangor and St. Asaph, before reality reminded me that work awaited me the following day. He did though offer me a lift into town, which I gladly accepted.
Brecon Cathedral
It was fine summer morning and Brecon was at its very best. In a happy state of mind I made a leisurely route up to the cathedral, which sits in the quiet backstreets of the town, on top of a hill almost entirely obscured by trees. It is a lonely spot but a wonderfully peaceful one. A modest doorway serves as the entrance here and in I slipped. Just as I got inside my phone rang:
“Hello, this is BBC Radio Coventry. We’ve heard all about your, err, hobby and wondered if you’d like to do a live interview with us this coming Sunday?
Yes, why not? I told them I would be delighted to and hung up.
Oh no. Just then I remembered all the mean things I’d written about Coventry on my blog, not about the cathedral but the ugliness of the city itself. Making a mental note to think of some nice things to say about the place I delved into my fourth Welsh cathedral.
Brecon Cathedral exudes an air of calmness. The building and its interior is certainly charming but cannot be called stunning, having a relatively modest layout that is simple to explore. The beauty of a cathedral (or any building, in fact) does not always have to lie in its appearance but in the feeling it gives you, and here it was an aura of calm that was most striking. This is not to say that the building is ugly, far from it, but that for perhaps the first time on this licking trip it was the atmosphere of the place that had the greater hold on me, rather than the architecture. I sat for a while to drink in this serenity and then began exploring.
Although modest by design and layout, the cathedral contains several eye-catching treasures, most notably an ancient baptismal font decorated with the heads of horned, ugly beasts with enormous tusks. These date to the Dark Ages and have no doubt been frightening pre-baptised babies and other young children for centuries. Carvings such as these were, it is believed, a hark back to pagan myths, which were still well-known even after the arrival of Christianity on these shores. Religious faith could be altered, but even as late as the 15th-century Western Europe still clung onto some remnants of its pagan past. This is evident in churches and cathedrals up and down the land, where the unsettling faces of grinning creatures look down on us with menace from lofty heights.
Brecon’s other main highlight is its association with the British army. Brecon men have served and died in numerous conflicts over the years, most notably the Zulu War of 1879 when a good number saw action at Isandhwala and Rourke’s Drift. Their colours can be seen in St. Lawrence’s chapel here, and include one that was captured by the Zulus. Another hero lies in the churchyard: one Charles Henry Lumley, who won the Victoria Cross during the Crimean War for leading a near-suicidal charge at Sebastobol. Although not a local to these parts, this proud Scot later achieved the rank of major before being laid to rest here in 1858. His other claim to fame is being an ancestor of the actress Joanna Lumley.
I’m sorry to say that pretty soon I had exhausted all there is to see at Brecon Cathedral, though the beasts’ heads on the font were given another thorough examination, and if anything, they get uglier the more you look at them. Now it was time to get licking.
There had been no decent signs anywhere inside the cathedral, and it’s very generic interior would not be sufficient proof of its location, so I turned my attention to the exterior. A suitable sign was found near the main door and I licked away, being very pleased with the result. I recorded the lick on film as well, just for good measure. Having traveled huge distances I was paranoid of losing a camera so decided to get as many copies of the deed as possible. The loss of such evidence would be catastrophic.
My mood was buoyant post lick; I had achieved what I had set out to do and now the rest of the day was before me. Strolling back into town I nodded good morning to the good folk of Brecon, who all returned the greeting with a smile. What a jolly fine place this was. Passing two old gentlemen with another nod, I overheard part of their conversation, which was delightfully baffling:
“So yes, in that respect the fish and I are in agreement.”
After a couple of drinks in a friendly pub it was time to start heading back to London, a fact that did little to cheer my heart. It had barely been 48 hours since I’d left and already the travel lust was alive in me again. At the bus station I spotted buses heading north, up to St. Asaph and Bangor, and once more the temptation to cast my responsibilities to the wind and continue my Welsh licking journey was overpowering. I could always call in sick and tell work that I was far too ill to come that day, tomorrow or however long it would take to get back from some, as yet, unknown destination. In the end I decided to be sensible and climbed aboard the bus home, a choice I soon came to regret. The journey back my mind was plagued with thoughts of “what if” and where I might have ended up had I taken the chance. Sensible is so overrated.
York Minster
The official website of my hometown cathedral
York Minster Fund
If you have enjoyed reading this blog and would like to make a contribution towards the future of one of the World’s greatest cathedrals, please click here.
YorkMix
An excellent online magazine about my hometown of York
