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Published: March 22nd 2012
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Traversing the market square we passed through the Penniless Porch at the North East corner where true to its name sat two vagrants. One, bearded, attempted a Bob Dylan tune to sing for his supper or more likely to supply something to his ladyfriend sat beside him in a stupor. Her haggard face and distant gaze recalled better days. A long tatty dress covering multi-coloured stockings and leather boots seemed to freeze her in time. Two strays from nearby Glastonbury frozen in the 80s, waiting for the next festival to begin.
The immense West front rose up before us, its horizontal central section adorned with stone statues reputedly the finest examples of medieval sculpture in the world. It's lucky that Cromwell's soldiers couldn't reach high enough to destroy these. The statues in the lower section within lance's reach suffered ignominious destruction. The curiously truncated towers rose to the left and right seemingly awaiting conical hats to complete the picture.
The beautifully painted medieval clock within the cathedral reminded me of the Prague Orloj, a slightly younger model. There one jostles amongst the crowd to approach and observe. Here we sat silently on our own on
the wooden bench marvelling at the immense scissor arches installed to stop the newly erected tower cracking further in 1338 waiting for the quarter hour to strike.
The white painted wooden figure called the Quarter Jack bangs his heels smartly to sound the quarter of the hour. Four jousting figures on horseback circle each other above the clock and the same olive-green Saracen is knocked back on his horse every time. I counted at least six knock downs; six times every quarter of an hour, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year for 600 years. It's surprising he wants to get up in the morning. Laid prostrate more than 126 million times. The original clockkeeper was paid 10 shillings a year presumably to keep this poor knight's mechanism working.
We clambered up the worn stone stairs curving to the right into the chapter house where a gaggle of voices and musical instruments could be heard tuning up. We turned down the offer of dancing but watched as a dance of universal peace circled the central column. Vestiges of a pagan ritual perhaps? The magnificent tierceron vaulting erupted like a
Roman candle. Cromwell may have understood the sheer majesty of the strong stone lines and perhaps his destruction of the stained glass windows in this space have actually minimised the distraction they may have caused.
There has been a church on this site since 705 AD so as one could expect there was no shortage of reclining stone bishops variously parked around the naves together with exquisite stonemasonry of roods and chapels. Eat your heart out Jude.
Once more outside the cathedral close we wandered up the cobbled street of Vicar's Close. The identical houses on either side of the street sported proportionally tall chimneys and variously planted front gardens whose pathways came onto the street by means of a large flagstone under which slops and refuse must have run, unfortunately for the Bishop, in the direction of his palace.
Students from the Cathedral School wandered down to soccer and music practice in shorts, their modern day parlance shattering the medieval illusion. Although I am sure this was not the first time defamatory remarks had echoed down the lane.
Walking alongside the moat we
could hear the rush of the water leaving the sluice gates. At the rate of 40 gallons a second emerging from the springs it was hardly surprising that this has always been a sacred place, a place worshipped at by Britons and Romans alike. An excellent spot for Aldhelm, Bishop of Sherborne to found a church! …
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