Thoughts Between Wells Cathedral & Cheddar Gorge.

 I suppose I am just not comfortable unless I am walking about the silent stones of historic places. Be them Graves, statues or the walls of Cathedrals. Even the leaning towers of 13th Century churches (Little Puxton reference).
 And I had been spoilt for History, being born in England. Basildon was once home to a shiney and glittering new maternity ward, that housed the likes of my family come the day of my birth. Since then of course, said place has crumbled (and not literally enough perhaps), and I have branched out. Quite thoroughly. Though not enough.

 Wells Cathedral. Where the dead sit together as candles.
The heat was certainly heat, perhaps it could be passed as a Winter nearer the southern hemisphere, but it was sweltering for the likes of our English blood. In beige trainers and a net dress covered in birds, by the arm of my darling, I strolled beside a medieval moat, lined in the finest greens through the clearest waters, home to a dozen snap-happy fish and skimmed by the silver-blue of a dragonfly larger than my own finches.
 There were people, and how I dislike people, but even in company their lack of clothing, their red raw skin and foul & smoking mouths - I was happy. Because some how, near such history, the air was summer-quiet. That serene, strange light of the air, where a thousand creatures live in flight, and each will seek the shade just to be near -but not in- the heat. Small children fed the ducks, and Swan statues graced the pathway surrounding the waters.
 Of course it had a moat, and of course there were weight restrictions, by which my daring and I agreed certain individuals need never cross.
 In this town, people lived in the castle grounds, in this town, a small stream ran down the road sides of the high street, and in this town a woman played green sleeves by flute in a sheltered archway, and gave polite and well spoken thanks for busking change given.

 The sun gave a roaring beauty to the greens of the grass surrounding the Cathedral. Yes, have you ever read my writing? Oh beauty still is night, beauty still lies under the Frost of winter, but this is the rare post that appreciates summer. And I suppose it is sweet, it is tranquil, on the arm of another, with the cool stones in which to shelter from the heat.
 If you step from the sunlight into the shelter of the entrance of a cave, the icey breath of the earths depths envelop you hauntingly, and yet enticingly. That is what summer is worth. (Reference, a little Cheddar Gorge Caves).
 The Cathedral grounds were large, they were grand, they were eloquent and of course a little religous. Well, very religous. But open to any one in the modern day (And by any one, we mean the worlds tourists, accompanied by flashing electronical devices and ringing modem shiney communicator boxes).
 Many twists, many turns, many ancient steps. And I'm allowed to say ancient, surely. For although the Cathedral was built some where around 1175 (No Young Ones reference yet) and 1490 - The grounds of the Church have been there since 705.
705. That was a three digit year. By the Gods, what a wonderful time ago.(Must watch modern lingo, did accidently say 'Oh my god' quite, very loudly within the quiet Cathedral at one rather rash and east-end moment).
 The graves within the grounds lie above a stream, or perhaps quite in line with it, that you can hear, and just about see from behind a fence. Steps descending into the earth beneath the church grounds, beneath the graves seated about the area. A sight giving a beautiful nod to Palais Garnier. (The French Opera House of which Phantom Of The Opera was based upon).

 And then I stood beside the Church Monument of John Dokensford. The cool air of ancient stone surrounding my ankles, the quiet breath and rabble of other people beginning to blur. John Drokensford was a Bishop of Bath & Wells. He died when he was 20, and that was in 1329. 
 Another beautiful amount of years ago. A man two years younger than me lying in eternal stone recognition, and he was a man at 20, in 1329. I then found a Church Monument of another man who died in 1033.
I guess you have read this far, and are finding my fascinations morbid or thoroughly interesting. Either way, continuation if you please. I have never seen a grave site so old, not even in Puxton.

 After the bitterly sweet moment that I lit a candle for Sue, and Mark lit a candle for Brad, and we sat them together in a corner near the top of the candle holder - we rounded a corner to find a grave from the very late 900s.
 I cannot tell you how that feels, I can only write of what it was. Having litten a candle for two people who have only left this realm within the past couple of years - that feeling like a lifetime without them - and yet here, remembered in stone only, a person from around 1000 years ago. It is little. It doesn't feel like you are so little. It -is- little.
 It is not sad, as that might be read. But it is little.

 A small mechanical man, much like an automaton, rang a bell and a group of jousters above an ornate astronomical clock ran their event for around a minute. The surviving mechanism is from the 1300s, and is the second oldest surving clock of England. Time has not varied for such a thing, it has just kept going, over all the dead it lingers before.
The Quarter Jack (the automaton) has been ringing that bell every fifteen minutes (With breaks for services) for hundreds of years. A simple job, but a lasting one.

~
 The rest of the day saw myself and Mark strolling by the rustling river of Cheddar Gorge, gazing at the cliffsides and stealing the icey air from the lungs of the earth.
 I suppose, in recognition of happiness in life, that if I am always surrounded by History, or mythical wonders, or ancient tales and folklore, of heroes and of legends, scaled beasts and galloping steeds, life would simply be life - and not living.
I spend these last sunny days on the West of the country painting childrens faces in the zoo, and telling the public of the nature of butterflies, the feeding habits of Lorikeets and the scoundrel behavious of the Lemars. And in my spare time, visiting the places of History and breathing in the years I was not present for.

 I'm watching the television now, many runs of Only Fools & Horses - and I am remembering. And cherishing what I am about to do.

Late July, 2012.