Today, I knew that I'd broken the back of the walk, and because I had only nine miles to walk, I could afford to take things easy. This was the first real time of the walk that I felt a weight had been lifted, and there was true excitement for what was ahead: three day's through London, staying with people I'd known for years.
The morning started as a direct continuation of the evening before. There were more stories, first of which involved the object shown above. Peter had this on a bookcase, and I had to take a photo of it, because this is a walk for the history of England, and the cross is a replica of something central to one of the most fundamental stories/legends on which this island's sense of identity, history and importance is based.
It's a copy of a lead cross which was apparently dug up from the graveyard of Glastonbury Abbey by the monks, in 1191. Six feet further down, the story says, they found a huge coffin, with the bodies of a large man and a woman with blonde hair which crumbled away when touched. The wording on the cross says 'Here lies the renowned King Arthur in the Isle of Avalon'. The facts behind this story are that the Abbey had burned down a few years earlier, and that pilgrimages to see relics were big business in those days. Due to this, the story is probably correctly considered today to have been a hoax, especially since the cross was last seen in Wells over 400 years ago.
More interestingly though, is the question why Glastonbury would ever have claimed to have Arthur's grave, and to be 'the isle of Avalon'. There isn't the space to go into that here, because believe me, it's the biggest tale in that entire universe of sources where factual English history becomes literary history, then legend, then myth. All that needs to be said is that the cross is a link to what has been know for over 1000 years as 'The Matter of Britain' - the body of stories which have acculmulated around the notion that Arthur was buried in Glastonbury because he and his knights searched for the Holy Grail, which was buried there, because it was brought there by Joseph of Arimathea after the crucifixion, because he was fleeing the Romans, and knew the area from his voyages as a tin merchant, one of which he'd taken the young Jesus on during those twenty-or-so years when the bible says nothing about him.
The Da Vinci Code has recently brought another take on this story, by shamelessly nicking the research already done by The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, and opting that the whole story hangs on a mis-translation of the word 'Sangraal' - what the Matter of Britain had as 'Blood Grail' was actually 'Blood Royal': The mystery is not about an actual object in which Jesus' blood was carried to Britain, rather, it concerns the line of descent of Jesus' family. This seems to have been the most popular story in the world over the past five years, but in the ENORMOUS context of all the stories concerning the grail, and England, it just seems like a little addition.
What has always fascinated me about the cross since I first heard about it nearly 20 years ago is that it alludes to the first stirrings of belief in these islands as a 'special place'. It's the first notion that Britain was more than just a place full of tin and deep woodland, inhabited by barbarians, and that instead, it was a place of destiny, over the sea. From this came the sense of belief/arrogance that Britain formed of itself, and was able to keep right up until the 2nd World War. This cross sits at the beginning of the momentum which led to Shakespeare's 'This sceptred isle, this demi-paradise', and Blake's 'Jerusalem' - a poem/song which is specifically about Jesus's 'feet in ancient times walking upon... England's green and pleasant land.'
It's always been hard for me to believe the lyrics of Jerusalem. Inspiring though 'And was the holy lamb of god..' and 'Bring me my chariot of fire..' may be, the poem also says: 'those dark, satanic mills.' I don't like the idea that 'green' England looked at industry, and by extrapolation, a place like Jarrow as 'exempt' from its allegorical, Avalonian vision. That's why the March - and the photo taken in Lavendon - is so resonant with me - it reminded those who actually thought that vision was true, what the real England looked like.
Needless to say, this is the sort of history that Bede had nothing to do with. This morning continued with me being shown various buildings, such as this house, built by William Strong, I believe, who was Christopher Wren's main mason, and therefore the man who really did build St Paul's Cathedral:
However, something extra emerged from all the stories that made me feel very close to St Albans: Behind each tale, was the understanding between Peter, me, and everyone we met that everything in this town originated from the tale of Alban, the first Christian martyr, who was beheaded here by the Romans in the 1st Century for giving sanctuary to a christian. And all of us were aware that that tale is only known because it was written down by Bede in the 8th Century, 300 miles north from here, in the little monastery overlooking Jarrow Slake.
As I felt the March had really found a home in Lavendon, similarly, it was obvious to us all that the World Heritage bid has its second home here, in St Albans. Bede is a bigger legend here than anywhere else, with the exception of Wearmouth/Jarrow.
Peter led me through the market place, to where the streets became thinner (older):
In a minutes we were at the Cathedral, an ancient building, and in-keeping with the age of the story it was built to commemorate, older than most others in Britain. A lot of the exterior is made from re-used Roman stones:
To say there's a lot to see inside is an understatment. The cathedral's particularly distinctive in being really long, yet it doesn't seem that way, because the screen which is normally placed across the east end of the crossing, is here placed 3/4s of the way down the nave -the longest part, where the congregation sits. This screen was covered with these unsettling, modern and unforgettable papier mache statues in ancient recesses:
Even more eye-catching are these two in the north transept:
..which are used during the yearly procession through the town, when Alban's execution is acted out. This was the view up from the transept/crossing:
The fact that these arches - the ones that support the entire weight of the cathedral and tower - are semicircular shows just how old they are, although there have been collapses more than once over the years. It was here that I was introduced to a few of the helpers in the cathedral, and I first go the inkling of the high regard Wearmouth/Jarrow is held in down here. Looking down above all of this were these supporting columns:
..yet again..very like the ones in Jarrow, if slightly younger.
Around the corner, in the choir, is this screen, the only stone one in England:
...and beyond, in another chapel, is this remnant of the cathedral when it once had colour:
Behind it is what's known as the Lady Chapel. This area at the head of the church has once been blocked up by a wall, and used as a girl's school. When this dividing wall was demolished to make the cathedral complete again in the 19th Century, it was discovered that most of the rubble filling it was actually the remains of the original, medieval shrine of St Alban, which had been destroyed during the Reformation, and was thought to have been lost forever. Over many years, the shrine has been painstakingly restored, and it's now just behind this picture, intact:
In the coffee bar, I got talking to a couple who found everything about the walk amazing - it was a justified book-signing moment. After this, I said goodbye to Peter in the Market Place, and left to explore the town's clock tower, which has this written on the back door:
..and all of this written just when you come out on the roof:
The views from the top are great. This is looking north:
Looking south to the cathedral:
..and looking down:
Coming down, I had a coffee, and found myself sitting next to an old couple from Houghton-le-Spring, who were down here visiting their son. Another nice talk ensued, with a book-signing, and after they left, the waitress came over and whispered 'when they left, they paid for your coffee too.' Feeling even more happy now, I took a few moments to explore the grounds and gardens around the cathedral:
..and made my way down the hill, for a coke stop in this pub, which is the closest rival to The Old Trip in Nottingham for the title of oldest in the country:
The thing about St Albans is that just when you think you're away from the cathedral, and therefore the 'cultural' part of the town, you stumble straight on even more history at the bottom of the hill. Here, I was taken back a further 1000 years from the cathedral to
the time when Alban was killed, and to the place he lived - today, the green patch at the front of this pic: site of Verulamium, the 3rd-largest town in Roman Britain:
...but just before we get there, notice the lake. Earlier that day, when Peter and I had flyered the Museum, the woman there had told us that there's a story around the town that the lake was dug by the Jarrow Marchers! That's just the way all the stories I've encountered develop- from misunderstandings that stay so long uncorrected that they start to be taken as true. There's no possibility that the Marchers- who only stayed here a day - could have had anything to do with this, and the only tiny speck of truth may be that every one commented on how the towns en route had more work than Jarrow. Some returned after the march had finished to find work and settle in them, and one or two may have come back here.
Close by are remains of Verulamium's town wall:
I'm sure I'm not the first to have thought this made a really clever view point for a photo, but...it made me happy, anyway. Just around the corner are more substantial ruins, of the front wall, which used to look like this:
In the finest Lavendon tradition, this is the view from the exact same spot today:
As can be seen , most of the site is taken over by playing fields:
As I left, there was some event going on in the lake:
I'm not sure what it was , but it seemed to mainly involve men of a certain age standing in it:
I followed Peter's advice out of the park, past an unfeasibly pretty street, the site of Verulamium's amphitheatre, and two roundabouts (not Roman..). Finally, I reached a place that I'd known from the very start of planning the walk meant an important step had been taken:
This was once one of the most important roads of Roman Britain, and finding it not only demonstrated that I was close to London, it also meant that it would be straight path from now on, all the way to Marble Arch, where -after many name changes - Watling Street ends. It's still the same route today, and still follows the same, dead straight path as it did 2000 years ago:
Just as I was about to leave St Albans thinking it was a town where the word 'unsavoury' doesn't seem to exist, I passed under this, right on the outskirts:
After that, it was full steam ahead along Watling Street, through many pretty little towns, for the rest of the day. Being free from map reading gave me more chances to notice the little, eccentric things again, like this house sign:
As they say, an Englishman's home is his castle, and if a guy in a massive house in the Home Counties chooses to name his mansion after an early 80s Scottish pop/punk combo fronted by a songstress with a squeeky voice who was also the supporting actress in Gregory's Girl, then that's up to him.
I also passed this place which, no matter what, can't hide its former use. Or perhaps it still is a pub, and is simply called 'The Traffic Self Drive':
Soon I walked over another sure-fire sign of proximity, the M25:
...which was immediately followed by a road named something a lot better:
...and a place which could have been made for me, but was unfortunately closed:
There was this very 'magical-looking' lane, which would have led me to who knows? I had to stick to the road, though:
..And press forward to my half-way point, a town I'd last visited just over a year earlier, en route to Rashmi's wedding. Never thought I'd be back here so soon, and in this fashion:
Radlett had one of the most tasteful, and original war memorials I'd seen on the walk:
...although just after it, the eccentric 'only here, only now' sights began again:
I was entering a world of detached houses, driveways and large gardens, all clustered around leafy lanes. I can't really recall in what order I saw the next few images, but I do recall coming out at a road junction and seeing the first sign for the day's destination:
..round about the same time I saw this street name:
..and this ridiculously 'keep out' hedge:
..all of which were around the vicinity of these places, famous in the film world for many classics, and specifically famous amongst men of my generation as the place where most of the interior shots for Star Wars were filmed. This area was making films in the 30s, and when the March came through here, a flick about the police was being made. Many of the extras were on lunch break, milling around the streets still in 'constabulary costume', and the Marchers got a little freaked by thinking that now they were in London, the surveillance and security had really stepped up:
Just past here, Marion phoned. I wasn't really aware of what was going to happen that night, other than the fact I would be staying at the house of one of my 'mates from uni', with the other ones there, as well. It had been organised that I'd be at Emily's, in Kentish Town, which was a bit of a surprise because she'd just given birth to her first child, a girl, only about a week before the walk started. Marion had decided to meet me in Edgware, and drive me to Emily's, where -she told me -'There was champagne..'
I followed her directions -she had a London map infront of her - and it was another hour or so before I really started to feel that the fields were far behind. Infront of me, I could see the sure-fire signs that something big was ahead:
I walked through typically wide, 1930s suburban streets, with shops, and estates, blocks of flats and roundabouts, until I got a text saying 'I can see you!' Straight ahead, over a roadside fence, was my old uni flatmate, Marion:
Now things got very fast and furious. Marion had been following the blog/twitter since day one -she was the person who rang me when I was walking with my cousins just an hour after leaving St Peters Wearmouth on the 9th, and in our eagerness to catch up, we said 'let's have a pint..in...this pub.' Just before we went in, she took this, just to prove I'd made it:
And as for the pub..It took a second or two to realise that it wasn't the most classy place in the world. It was full of guys gearing up to watch a match, and although there were a few comments, I think we could have got away with sitting quietly in the corner if it hadn't been for one bloke, louder than the rest, who thought what I was doing was the best thing he'd seen all year. His name was Lee, and he'd had a few already that day, because he was so loud, and enthusiastic, and a little unpredictable. He wouldn't leave us alone, but there was no trouble with him. He just kept on shouting 'This goy's dan free'undred moyles!! I can't f##### believe it! Have you seen -this goy's dan free...!!' Marion took this photo of the event:
It was a great 'welcome' into London -he bought me two pints of Guinness, and ontop of the one I'd got when I first came in, that made three in 40 minutes on a sunny day- I rolled out of the place, and just sat next to Marion, hoping her sat-nav would magic us to Emily's house:
We got there quickly, and I regret that I was a little drunk, because I try to make the most of every time I get to meet these guys. I've known them since the early 90's when I spent 4 yrs at Keele University near Stoke-on-Trent. They were the best years I've ever had - I didn't know what university WAS until about 1991, and due to the education of a great music lecturer at South Tyneside College, Rosie Prince, I was taken through the process of UCCA/PCAS, and getting the right grades to start in 1993. I couldn't believe a place like a campus could exist - an entire village, with its own shops, church, launderette etc..dedicated to learning was something totally new to me. I joined the Drama Society as Stage Manager, and met Emily in about Nov 93, followed by Nick in the summer of 94, when he was roped in to play guitar for our production of 'The Merry Wives of Windsor'. Marion was doing German, and was in Germany, so I didn't get to meet her until the fourth year, 1996-7, by which time I knew everyone, and I shared a flat with the three of them. This was us then -Marion, Me, Emily and Nick, just after our finals:
..and this is us now, in Emily's flat:
The night went on, and became an endless cornucopia of food and drink. Apart from me having walked here, there was something else, a little bit more important, to celebrate, as well... Emily has just had a daughter, who she'd been threatening for months to call 'Popsy'. Anyway, she saw sense in the end, and this is me with 'Esme' - safe in the arms of Nick's wife, Denise:
Sometime during the evening, Nick decided to try his hand at my guitar, which, being strung left-handed, is the wrong way up for him:
..and my brother phoned. Getting a bit freaked by the fact that I was at a party, he handed the phone to my mother, and I handed it to Nick and Emily. My mother met then all in 1997, and their parents, and is always asking how everyone is getting on, so it was good to see them catching up with her after all these years:
Finally, Denise took this photo of us all, including Richard, Emily's partner, who used to teach me English Lit at Keele, and is now a professor of Irish Literature at Kings College:
All in all, along with this walk, going to unversity and meeting these guys was the best thing I've ever done. Ever since I've graduated, and done so many crap jobs, and then started up my business, I feel I've often been criticised by certain people - mostly men aged a few years older than me -for going to university. These are the type of men I believe think they're a little cleverer than the guys they see around them, and have ripped right into me for the fact I went, and yet still don't have any money. That's very true - I still don't have any money, but their error is to believe, hands down, that that's what university is all about. When I tell them that for me, it was about widening what I knew, getting the 'foundations down' and it being a 'frame of mind thing', and that I wouldn't have changed anything about it, because I'm a much better person now that I would have been had I not gone, well...that's when they really start ripping into me, and laughing, and using phrases like 'University of Life' , '...but in the real world' and 'Bread on the table' etc... But, I've met people from all sorts of backgrounds and places, and when I see the attitude of guys like that, I DO tend to think they laugh alone.
..And that's why I can't help but view things culturally in place of economically, because some things should be more important.
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