A trip to Chichester cathedral

This past week I was in Chichester for a couple of hours for reasons that had nothing to do with the 17th century but I thought that I might as well keep up my search of all things related to the English Civil War. Or maybe this was an afterthought - for when I stepped inside Chichester's cathedral my only thoughts were for my love of these buildings and of poetry. Maybe one has to be a convinced atheist like me to be as much in love with cathedrals and churches as I am. Because when you take God out of the equation you are left alone with the truth of these beautiful, almost impossible places.

The building of the cathedral started on 1076, after the Council of London decided to move the cathedral from nearby Sesley to Chichester. Small for a cathedral, Chichester was when constructed a typical example of Norman style, but after the fire of 1187 Early Gothic elements were added. We are in Early Gothic country then and I must say that's where I feel most at ease. I like transition art forms and traces of more primitive styles to show up, specially in architecture. Chichester is a weird place, though, in that it mixes this very old enviroment with a lot of nods to modern - indeed modernist - art: there's a stunning tinted window by Marc Chagall, tapestries by John Piper and a painting by Graham Sutherland. All of this resting perfectly besides the Tudor painting of Kings and Queens of England and past bishops by Lambert Barnard that dominate the transepts. Wonderful incongruences. The most famous piece in the cathedral, though, is a medieval tomb for a knight and his wife. This particular sculpture depicts the couple holding hands, an unusual show of public affection for the times (and the status of the knight as well). Even if there has been some controversy around this tomb (is the hand-holding a later addition and not the astonishing medieval rarity all believed it to be?) one can't help to be a little in awe at the sight, specially if one keeps in mind (there's a reproduction by the side of the tomb, in case you forget) Philip Larkin's unbearably beautiful poem:

‘ Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.  ’

(The tomb and the poem got me thinking a lot. I confess to being very shaken by it - I was fascinated by the fact that this very private gesture - the tomb was not meant to be seen by strangers, it was in the knight's house until it was destroyed, never meant to be displayed in a cathedral - ends up being spied on and reinterpreted by those who come upon it. It might as well have been all an invention: love is not there until we invent it. It got me thinking about private affections being transformed by and into stories. Yes, of course, it got me thinking about my novel.)

I would have been perfectly content with all this: it's a small, wonderful cathedral. But I also discovered some Civil War connections that sparked my imagination. 

When the Civil War broke out in 1942 Chichester declared for the King but the Parliament being strong in the South the army seiged the city. The cathedral itself was a dramatic site, ocuppied and plundered during the siege. (I already have Model Army soldiers sleeping in a desecrated church in the beginning scenes of my book but I wouldn't be surprised if Chichester cathedral ends up getting its way into my story as well somehow). The leader of the Parliamentarian forces in Chichester was William Cawley, son of a wealthy brewer and three times mayor of Chichester, John Cawley - pictured, remembered in this portrait in the cathedral. Fascinatingly so William Cawley was one of the men who signed Charles I's death sentence, and he had to flee England come the Restoration.

So, Civil War connections indeed. I got more than I bargained for. Thank you, Chichester.

Epilogue: Simon Armitage's new book came out while I was in Chichester, and since I always make a point of buying a book whenever I can if I visit a new city or town, and since I couldn't wait to read my favourite living poet's new volume, I was glad to pick up a copy:

A Visit To Turnham Green

These glriously sunny days are an invitation for a little trip around the city. All Civil War-related, of course.

Today I decided to venture a journey to the west in search of Turnham Green. It shames me to admit that I do not know the West of London very well, compared to other neighbourhood, which is ironic considering I live pretty much on the west. Research can get you out of your comfort zone and expeditions are literal as well as inner.

From UK Battlefields Resource Centre:

The battle of Turnham Green was fought on the 13th November 1642. Following the battle of Edgehill, and after taking Banbury and Oxford, the royalist army eventually advanced on London along the Thames valley. On 12th a royalist detachment attacked two parliamentarian regiments quartered in Brentford, which were covering the approach to London from the west. The royalists were victorious but their army was delayed by the parliamentarian resistance and halted, probably on Turnham Green at nightfall. This allowed the parliamentary field army and London militia to form-up on Turnham Green and Chiswick common field the next day.

Both armies appear to have deployed in traditional 17^th century style with cavalry on the flanks and infantry in the centre. The parliamentarian line extended further than that of the King’s army on the northern side of the battlefield and the royalists deployed musketeers in the hedgerows there to counter this threat. These were driven out by parliamentarian troops, which then outflanked the royalists on that flank with a march to Acton. Despite this favourable position the parliamentarian commander, the earl of Essex, recalled this detachment due to fear over splitting his army and the battle settled into a stalemate. The royalist army was too small to force its way past the parliamentarian forces and, as night fell, the King had to withdraw.

Recriminations occurred on both sides following the battle. On the royalist side, there were some who judged the King had missed an opportunity to end the war, though in reality had he launched an attack on the parliamentarian lines his own army would probably have been defeated. Others on the parliamentarian side, who saw Turnham Green as a missed opportunity to defeat the royalist army, particularly following the successful outflanking manoeuvre, probably had more of a case.

Turnham Green is now largely encompassed by the urban development of Greater London. However there are limited areas which remain undeveloped – parts of Turnham Green and Acton Green, though now municipal parkland, provide a sense of the open ground, which extended as far south as Chiswick House in the 17^th century.

Turnham Green is one of the few chances to visit Civil War battlefields inside London and since I'm short of cash to make trips to more glamurous locations like Edgehill at least for the moment, I took the bus towards Chiswick with high spirits and a copy of Eliot's The Wasteland in my bag, pen and paper, and my camera. (I always carry poetry with me, it's absolutely balsamic.)

Chsiwick itself is a tranquil and pretty part of the city; an explosion of green and things that scream "local goverment", with that feeling of tight community one finds in a village, not in a metropolis. It also looks tremendously fashionable and unaffordable.

Turnham Green turned out to be a small, flat, humble business of a park, not really atmospheric. This is the closest the Royalists came to London. I tried not to feel too esoteric about it - much as I like the idea of psychogeography I think of it as more of a poetic notion than real phenomena. But the sunlight was generous and the noises were few and I spent a nice morning sitting on benches reading and writing.


Then it was time to change scenery and make the most of a day in the West and in the 17th century but visiting another cultural, if less well-known, spot. After a long stroll along the Thames - strange, unfamiliar sights and moods, like those near the Steam Museum, and the treetops of Kew on the other side - I set off for Boston Manor Park.



The house in Boston Manor Park was built in 1623 and only converted into a house-museum in the early 20th century. The park itself is a mix of the mundane and the wild, with spots you'd find in Regent's or Hyde Park and then dark, untamed corners. (A man walking his dog passed my way and we exchange greetings - that doesn't happen in Spain, you don't exchange greetings at public parks, not in my experience anyway). The Lake was definitely a highlight. It felt refreshing under the shadow of the trees and once again I was reminded of my love of public parks.



I was excited to see the 17th century house - it looked interesting from the outside, not too grand - but alas, I had made a mistake checking the opening times and it was not open today. Oh well. The walk alone was worth it.


More info about the Battle of Turnham Green from the BBC.

Check out the website of the Friends of Boston Manor for history of the house and events.

Prologue: How did I get here?

York, Sunday 30 August 2009

It's half past four in the morning and I'm in the train station at York, having just got off the coach from London. There are no lights in the sky and dawn won't break for another hour or two, I'm afraid. I'm tired, I'm cold and I'm slightly scared by being in a strange town in the pitch black night and with nobody in sight. There's nobody in the streets and on top of that it's Sunday. As a Spaniard with a very basic knowledge of British geography right now I could pinpoint York on a map just because I bought a slim tourist guide before I came here.

How did I get here?

By becoming the kind of person who goes to English Civil War battles re-enactments. One year ago I would have been quick to mock the people who spend time in such events. And yet here I am, the last weekend of August, six hours of bus from London, cold and frightened in foreign and dark York, just to check out the annual re-enactment of the Marston Moors Battle, by The Sealed Knot Society.

Of course one year ago I couldn't even begin to predict that I would be writing a novel about the English Civil War myself.

After one hour or so hanging out in the train station - feeling slightly safe in the knowledge that there was a guard patrolling the whole place, but cursing that the cafes wouldn't open until 7 - I decided to venture into the city, suspecting the first lights. As it turns out it's a very beautiful town, and for a couple of hours I had it all to myself. That's the advantage of arriving in the middle of the night. The deserted city looked even more beutiful, ancient and haunting. I spent a great deal of time walking around the York Minster - appealingly gothic - before the cafes opened for a Full English breakfast.


I was trying to get myself all inspired and I had brought along some Ted Hughes volume for its sounds, reading to myself and wandering among the ruins of St.Mary's Abbey. I had always been curious about THE NORTH and since the main characters in my book it was decided would be Northerners, it was a good excercise in place-inspiration to breathe the air of these parts.


From my notebook of those hours (not even a day): "It feels a priviledge (& a small wonder) to be here and feel the air of the centuries, the birds in flight a rustle of feathers louder than the minster's bells. To be here and stare at the decay of things made by men, and their strange resilence too, for nothing is lost here, everything is skin-deep carved into these stones, the sorrows and the joy."



I walked and wandered, searching for clues on the city, hints of why I was there, why I had come to far and was I right in doing so?

Although the place was well signaled - or rather, I had printed out various maps, from Google Maps to the own Sealed Knot Society indications, I must have looked a bit ridiculous walking around checking all those papers - it took me quite a while to get to the site, the York racecourse. For one, I had no idea what an empty racecourse looked like, or what a british racecourse looked like, for that matter. But I turned left on a street and I found some open ground and as gloomy and gorgeous clouds filled the sky, I knew I was in the right place. The horizon started drawing tiny figures of people and tents and cars and there was smoke here and there.

And then I heard drums.

I had arrived.


Thanks to the running commentary (a modern-day solution to the confusion of watching the battles unfold) we could follow the various figures on the battlefield; we had one Cromwell, of course, and we even had a Thomas Fairfax.

"Here learn, ye mountains more unjust,
Which to abrupter greatness thrust,
That do, with your hook-shouldered height,
The earth deform, and heaven fright,
For whose excrescence, ill designed,
Nature must a new centre find,
Learn here those humble steps to tread,
Which to securer glory lead."
Andrew Marvell, UPON THE HILL AND GROVE AT BILLBOROW.

It was an eye-opening journey, but also a confirmation of faith. It was what I had hoped it would be, but in ways I never imagined it would be.