I
am not religious. I have only a passing interest in architecture. But I’ve always been fascinated by cathedrals: the elaborate vaults and arcades, the clash and contrast of clerestories, the stained-glass windows and ornate organs. Cathedrals possess an aura that compels us to touch their walls. They make us feel small. Cathedrals are seldom humble, often humbling. But I’d seen very few English cathedrals and little of England, my experience largely limited to European celebrities: Sagrada Familia, Notre Dame, Santa Maria del Fiore. Always up for a challenge, always a glutton for self-imposed deadlines, I decided in June last year to visit all 42 of England’s Anglican cathedrals in the space of a year.
I do not own a car, and trains require mortgages, so I often relied on family and friends for favours. My partner drove us three hours from our London flat to a log cabin in Ledbury, accompanied by our year-old whippet. I planned to start strong: three cathedrals in three days. Hereford felt homely, much like the city, and Gloucester hosted the most striking cloister I’d ever seen.
Fan vaulting was developed in the 14th century in Gloucester Cathedral’s cloisters
But Worcester proved the favourite, not for the Norman crypt, certainly not for King John, but because it welcomed dogs. Our whippet pulled at the lead, dragging me past a well-behaved collie and timid dachshund, itching to reach a statue with an outstretched hand. The highlight of the trip: our usually quiet puppy, bark echoing across a silent nave, desperate to play with a marble Bishop Philpott.
