I set Tuesday as the day to go to Durham because rain was predicted and I thought a cathedral would be a better place to spend a rainy morning than tromping around Berwick on the city walls.  My interest in Durham cathedral began with Bill Bryson and was encouraged by Sue. I had read and heard that it was magnificent. But then I find that all the cathedrals are.

When I got off the train in Durham, it was indeed raining and I wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t fancy the walk from the station to the cathedral and evidently, I wasn’t the only one because there was a shuttle available. The bus driver—Geoffrey—proved to be a helpful acquaintance. He took me to the cathedral and showed me how to walk back into town and where to catch the bus back to the train.

My first impression was that Durham was heavy and dark. It’s Romanesque and has the earliest surviving rib vault ceilings, which always fascinate me.  They are Bach in architecture. Barchitecture.

Barchitexture

The Venerable Bede is (finally) resting there. The Venerable Bede was a monk and scholar who influenced both Chaucer and Shakespeare. English majors can’t get through their degree without reading his name in footnotes and wondering who the heck he was.

To St Cuthbert the “finally resting” is perhaps most apt. He did some traveling after his death. A monk and scholar, Cuthbert was buried at Lindisfarne (Holy Island) where he had been Prior. The head of St Oswald, king of Northumbria, was tucked into the coffin for safekeeping. Seven years later when St Cuthbert’s body was exhumed for travel to Durham, he was found to not have decayed at all and was still clutching the head of St Oswald. I have no reliable intel as to the condition of St Oswald’s head, leading me to assume it looked like Norman Bates’ mother. Both were moved to Durham cathedral.

St Cuthbert with St. Oswald’s head (presumably) It’s not clear to me what happened to St Cuthbert’s head

I don’t know what he thinks he is doing amongst the saints and kings in Durham Cathedral but the enormous reclining figure of a 19^th century headmaster of Durham School sprawls in the nave. I wondered if his ego was as big as the statue but perhaps he had nothing to do with its creation and placement.

Robert Britton

Robert Britton’s little friend

When I emerged from the cathedral, it was bucketing down. I hurried to the bus waiting on the other side of the square. Who should be in the driver’s seat but my man, Geoffrey? He left me in town with instructions of where to get the bus for the train station. He pointed out the Sainsbury local and advised me where I could get the best fish and chips—Bells —and set me down in the rain.

I didn’t want fish and chips, I wanted hot soup. I found it at Vennels, a crowded café hidden down a narrow alley. I was advised to bag a table before I ordered at the counter. A woman who was leaving a small table in the corner, waved me over to her.

“Would a jacket over a chair be enough to save this table?” I asked her.

“Oh, you go order,” she said. “I’ll wait until you come back.”

I ordered a vegetable-barley soup and sat down at the table. “Thank you so much,” I said. “This was so kind of you.”

“Women traveling alone,” she said. “We look out for each other.”

Elizabeth sat with me and we chatted while I ate the very tasty soup. This was the second time in two days I had experienced the kindness of strangers; in both cases, women looking after women. It gave me a warm feeling for Northumberland.

I never made it to the Sainsbury local because I found a farmer’s stand in the Market Square. I bought carrots, peas, apples and bananas to take with me to Holy Island the next day. I’d been advised there was no place to buy fresh produce on the island and I need my fresh produce.

Finally, I was on the train on my way back to Berwick, feeling worse by the minute.  A half hour past Newcastle, the train stopped. We waited. And waited. A voice came on the address system to say there was water on the line and we were awaiting the technicians to see what could be done, if anything. If anything. What did that mean? The staff came down the aisle passing out forms for us to fill out regarding our destinations and situations. I asked what was going on.

“They’re trying to decide if they can clear the water or if we have to go back to Newcastle and put you on buses. If we have to go back, they will refund your train ticket.”

I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. The tea cart came along and I had a cup of restorative tea. I got out the stash of postcards I’d been carrying around and set out to feverishly write six of them. Postage on international postcards had gone up twice since I had last been in the U.K. a year and half ago. The few stamps I had from then needed so many additional stamps, there would have been no room for a post card message. Then again, that would have been an improvement on the whines that went out that day from my first-class seat on the train.

Finally, the train began to move and was only two hours late getting into Berwick. I had that peculiarly English experience of gathering up my things, dis-embarking the train and walking home, which, in my case, was down some stairs and around the corner.

More images from Durham Cathedral