Northumbria’s Capital

A weekend away. In Yorkshire. My association with York goes back to a holiday in 1975 and when I lived up north I visited many times, twice as a member of the Yorkshire Ridings Society. Every year on Yorkshire Day – the first of August – members walk the city walls to read out at each of the mediæval gates or Bars a declaration that the historic Yorkshire and its Ridings continue to exist, whatever folk in London may decree to the contrary. The Yorkshire Declaration of Integrity is read four times at each Bar, in each of Yorkshire’s ruling languages down the centuries – Latin, Old English, Old Norse and modern English. Norman-French is missing, but no-one wants to talk about the Harrying of the North. The readings take place first outside Micklegate Bar, to the West Riding, then Bootham Bar to the North Riding, inside the walls at Monk Bar to the City & Ainsty, finishing beside Walmgate Bar with an address to the East Riding (except that now a further reading takes place in the city centre). The ceremony began in 1977, the 1100th anniversary of Yorkshire’s formation by the Vikings, and each year it starts one minute later to mark the onward march of time. So much imagination crammed into one expression of pride of place must be without equal. It would be good to see others try.

York does imagination. Its four major mediæval Bars now have five big siblings, the park-and-ride sites around the outer ring road that mark the modern points of arrival – Askham Bar, Grimston Bar and Rawcliffe Bar, plus two more with longer names that lack the Bar label. Masterpieces of modern design they are not but they are the product of careful thought nonetheless. The car park at Askham Bar is shared with a supermarket and a day nursery and with proper foresight is sited next to the East Coast Main Line. Trains in the livery of Northern Rail whizz by, a glorious provocation both to those who would have all trains run from London and to those whose imaginative powers fall short of visualising Northumbria Restituta.

One of the city centre’s most delightful spots is Holy Trinity, Goodramgate, its leafy churchyard surrounded by the old high brick walls of buildings that front onto busy shopping streets. One such wall is formed by Our Lady Row, a terrace of timber-framed properties dating from 1316, their upper floors jettied over the pavement of Goodramgate. Inside the church, now redundant, are mediæval stained glass (above) and a fleet of Georgian box pews, bobbing on uneven floors. Every city needs somewhere like this. It makes a refreshing change from the usual litany of granite benches, concrete spheres and ill-placed fountains.

And so to the Minster (left). Rehearsals for a rock concert were underway. ‘Spawn of Satan’ or some such band. During the war, the glass was taken out of the windows in case it was shattered by blast. It might have been a wise precaution on Saturday, judging by the volume. High on the nave ceiling was pointed out to me the roof boss depicting the Ascension: the soles of two feet disappearing into a cloud. Easy for some. For mere mortals, there was no escape from the power of the amps, even below ground. And below ground is the most interesting part of the Minster.

The Undercroft is the result of engineering works 40 years ago to stabilise the tower. Winding its way between the concrete plinths run through with reinforcing rods is an archæological trail reaching back to the Roman headquarters building where Constantine was proclaimed emperor in 306. I remember when the Undercroft was new and I remember the impression it made upon me. Continental equivalents are numerous. Notre Dame and St Denis at Paris, the Duomo at Florence and the Vatican at Rome all attempt the same presentation of the history beneath our feet. Other English cathedrals must surely be capable of the same, the opportunity patiently awaited.

Foremost among the treasures displayed beneath the Minster is the Horn of Ulph. The man himself was an Anglo-Danish landowner, who gave his estates to the Minster shortly before 1066, reportedly to prevent his sons squabbling over them. The horn came with them as the ‘title deeds’. There are other examples of this custom from Wessex, the Pusey Horn and the Savernake Horn, both now detained in London museums, but the Horn of Ulph remains with its grateful recipient. It is documented only from the 14th century but the object itself dates without question from the 11th. It is actually a tusk of elephant ivory, carved at Salerno in Italy, possibly by Arab craftsmen since it carries Asian motifs. We may ponder what other treasures, now lost, a small world might have delivered to England’s largest county a millennium ago.