Place: Cumbria, England
Date: Thursday, 26th August 1999
The parking lot was almost empty as we made our way towards the ticket office of Lanercost Priory. My two friends Trevor and Joseph, my girlfriend Daphne and I were lodging in a splendid B&B in the borders called New Pallyards for a few days, before moving up north to Scotland. It was our base for exploring parts of the Lake District, but we were also intent on getting a taste of the once notorious borders between England and Scotland. After visiting Carlisle Castle, we crossed the border to the Gretna Green Blacksmith, and even staged a funny simulated marriage between Trevor and Joseph, just to check how the system worked!
Later, we drove back into England to Lanercost Priory. I slid the car into an empty car park, and we all alighted and stretched our limbs, while inhaling the cool, limpid air. Joseph drew our attention to a suspicious signpost warning that the cows in the nearby field were known to chew car aerials and side mirrors, implying that we were parking there at our own risk. We were greeted by a large monastic complex of medieval, red sandstone buildings. A massive cruciform church loomed over its melancholic underlings beneath a heavily overcast whitish-grey sky. We walked towards the ticket office in unusual silence, as if the sight had sobered us up and put us in a more serious frame of mind.
The buildings were surprisingly well preserved, considering that the priory, which had been built in the late 13th century, had been at the centre of centuries-long turbulent events that transpired during the uneasy relationship of medieval England and Scotland. The borders had then been a hotbed of war and pillage. All around us, green-clad rolling fields stretched as far as the eye could see, punctuated by occasional clumps of trees, whose rich foliage acted as richly textured borders to what might have otherwise been bland fields. The rustling leaves and the birdsong enveloped us in a trance-like sense of peace. The wars had long been forgotten and the fierce warriors had turned to dust over the passage of time. However, the legacy of the Augustinian monks who built this place of worship and work had been immortalised in the very fabric of that magnificent building. Fierce border-crossing armies bent on revenge and bands of border reivers had failed to snuff out the light of that staunch religious community. It had taken the perfidy of an insidious monarch to wipe them out with the stroke of a pen – the infamous dissolution of monasteries. But their legacy had not been erased completely for it was etched in those ancient stones. As we walked alongside the church, we were amazed to see stones with Roman inscriptions. Apparently, the monkish property developers of the middle ages did not think twice about using stone blocks from the nearby Hadrian’s Wall.
Date: Thursday, 26th August 1999
The parking lot was almost empty as we made our way towards the ticket office of Lanercost Priory. My two friends Trevor and Joseph, my girlfriend Daphne and I were lodging in a splendid B&B in the borders called New Pallyards for a few days, before moving up north to Scotland. It was our base for exploring parts of the Lake District, but we were also intent on getting a taste of the once notorious borders between England and Scotland. After visiting Carlisle Castle, we crossed the border to the Gretna Green Blacksmith, and even staged a funny simulated marriage between Trevor and Joseph, just to check how the system worked!
Later, we drove back into England to Lanercost Priory. I slid the car into an empty car park, and we all alighted and stretched our limbs, while inhaling the cool, limpid air. Joseph drew our attention to a suspicious signpost warning that the cows in the nearby field were known to chew car aerials and side mirrors, implying that we were parking there at our own risk. We were greeted by a large monastic complex of medieval, red sandstone buildings. A massive cruciform church loomed over its melancholic underlings beneath a heavily overcast whitish-grey sky. We walked towards the ticket office in unusual silence, as if the sight had sobered us up and put us in a more serious frame of mind.
The buildings were surprisingly well preserved, considering that the priory, which had been built in the late 13th century, had been at the centre of centuries-long turbulent events that transpired during the uneasy relationship of medieval England and Scotland. The borders had then been a hotbed of war and pillage. All around us, green-clad rolling fields stretched as far as the eye could see, punctuated by occasional clumps of trees, whose rich foliage acted as richly textured borders to what might have otherwise been bland fields. The rustling leaves and the birdsong enveloped us in a trance-like sense of peace. The wars had long been forgotten and the fierce warriors had turned to dust over the passage of time. However, the legacy of the Augustinian monks who built this place of worship and work had been immortalised in the very fabric of that magnificent building. Fierce border-crossing armies bent on revenge and bands of border reivers had failed to snuff out the light of that staunch religious community. It had taken the perfidy of an insidious monarch to wipe them out with the stroke of a pen – the infamous dissolution of monasteries. But their legacy had not been erased completely for it was etched in those ancient stones. As we walked alongside the church, we were amazed to see stones with Roman inscriptions. Apparently, the monkish property developers of the middle ages did not think twice about using stone blocks from the nearby Hadrian’s Wall.
haThe church itself delighted us beyond our expectations. A part was roofed and still used for services. The other part, for it was indeed a large church, was roofless, and as we went in our eyes were drawn up along its three tiers of pillars topped by gothic arches towards the overcast heavens. That stunning piece of architecture was stunning both for its incredible practicality and for its aesthetic aspect. It was artwork hewn in stone. We then ventured into the accompanying graveyard, where a horde of weathered gravestones huddled in the shade of trees that had outgrown even the lofty church building itself. The thickly lichen-covered headstones seemed to sprout like mushrooms out of the humid, sweet-scented grass. Joseph was clearly feeling ill at ease amidst that eerie collection of memorial stonework, but I was entranced.
Finally, the others convinced me that reading all the gravestone inscriptions was not a good idea and they did not intend to spend half our holiday waiting for me to end my task, so grudgingly, I followed them to the car. I gave one last glance at the weathered old buildings, that somehow did not convey any impression of decay at all. They seemed to be announcing the victory of peace and tranquillity over war and turbulence. The inexorable passage of time, that relentless terminator of the human condition, had erased all trace of the powerful warlords who had trodden that land in the past.
Finally, the others convinced me that reading all the gravestone inscriptions was not a good idea and they did not intend to spend half our holiday waiting for me to end my task, so grudgingly, I followed them to the car. I gave one last glance at the weathered old buildings, that somehow did not convey any impression of decay at all. They seemed to be announcing the victory of peace and tranquillity over war and turbulence. The inexorable passage of time, that relentless terminator of the human condition, had erased all trace of the powerful warlords who had trodden that land in the past.
Later, as the light downpour subsided, we drove along the waters of the Irthing and stopped to take some pictures on a picturesque one-arched stone bridge that spanned the sluggish river. We also stopped to take a picture by a quaint little hotel called The Abbey Bridge, that, I read, had been converted from an old pub. A bit further down the road, we also stumbled across a privately owned castle – Naworth, that we could only admire from beyond the gates, and, which according to a sign, hosted an antiques fair. It was the perfect place to host the Antiques Roadshow – a quintessential British stately home.
We headed back to New Pallyards satiated by a good dose of historic buildings and rolling greenery. We were looking forward to a warm shower and the promise of a grand supper provided by our gracious hosts. We were not to be let down!