NCN 1 Lincoln

Day 8
Defoe on Lincoln
‘Lincoln is an ancient, ragged decayed and still decaying city; it is so full of the ruins of monasteries and religious houses, that, in short, the very barns, stables, out-houses, and as they showed me some of the very hog-sties were built church-fashion; that is to say, with stone walls and arched windows and doors. The cathedral indeed and the ruins of the old castle are very venerable pieces of antiquity.’

Journal note written after watching the TV news
Covid is everywhere - the north is covered in deep purple - the south slightly safer. I can’t go on.

Journal note written at breakfast
I wake to my restless legs
now fit and strong saying to me
let’s get going
but the news on the TV says
that Covid is raging across the land
and great swathes of the south
have turned dark pink overnight
and the north is deeply red.
It’s bleak outside, drizzling
and a siren wails
along a distant street.
I book two tickets on my phone
one for the cathedral
the other for the train.

Journal note in Lincoln Cathedral
As a bell tolls ten
a lady wearing a visor turns
a huge key in a lock whose hole
is nearly big enough to be a door.
She lets me in
says ‘hello-good-morning’
as one word
and asks that I follow the one-way system
and use the sanitiser along the route
but best of all
she says
is not to touch anything at all.
She does not smile.
The nave is closed by plastic tape
and the door to the tower is locked.
The silence is great.
I sit on a stone plinth in an alcove
topped by silent angels
mouths shaped in stone
the only man in the vast ship-yard of a place
and I watch dust dance in the light
uncomprehending the vastness
of the space around me.

Later…
someone walking on wooden boards
somewhere in the roof
a transformer buzzes
a bunch of keys rattles
and a key is turned in an old oak door
A great bell chimes eleven
two ladies with arms full of flowers
pass me - ‘we’re just here to do the altar’
one says.

My hand strokes the stones
born in an age of dinosaurs
180 million years ago.
Ooliths, an egg-shaped shell
lived and squirmed
in a warm shallow sea
and died in their millions
to be crushed by time into stone
the colour of a bread crust
and fashioned by the mason’s hand
and placed
where
for 840 years
they have witnessed
the power and pomp
procession and prayer
and the vanity of man.

earthquakes have pulled down the tower
winds have smashed the walls
fire has burnt the pulpits
and the ooliths remain
untouched by fire and time

Journal Note in Lincoln
Covid has covered the north and I have decided to return home. The government recommend ‘essential travel only.’ A bike tour in pursuit of Daniel Defoe is not essential.

What’sApp message home
As agreed last night, I am coming home. Train is due soon on platform 1.