Cloisters
Image by Nuria Millas, Pixabay
Originally the word ‘cloister’ meant ‘a place of religious seclusion,’ a religious community, ‘cloistered’ or ‘closed off’ from the world. The word entered English in the early 13th century via the French ‘cloistre’ from the Latin, ‘claustra.’ It soon took on the additional specific meaning of ‘a covered walk connecting monastic or church buildings,’
David and I are on a mission to visit all the English cathedrals whose cloisters survived the dissolution of the monasteries. Over the past 10 years, we’ve been to Salisbury, Lincoln, Norwich, Worcester, Gloucester, Hereford, and back to Durham where my fascination with cloisters began.
In my days as an undergraduate at Durham University, a short-cut from my hill-top college to the Classics department took me on a lovely route - steeply downhill to the heavily-wooded riverbank and across the 18th century Prebends Bridge whose honey-coloured stone arches span the River Wear. Once on the city peninsula, I ascended the riverbank and snuck into the cathedral precinct via a back entrance that led into the cathedral cloisters. I cut through these, passed through the rear of the vast church and exited the cathedral via the north door onto Palace Green, opposite the Castle. It sounds idyllic and sometimes it felt that way too, though often it was cold, damp and dark. Durham was my first close encounter with a cathedral and I never failed to be impressed by its imposing massiveness and solidity. But being ‘Half church of God, half castle ‘gainst the Scot,’ (Walter Scott), it’s a rather daunting space. The cloisters, however, had an entirely different atmosphere for me and I loved them, especially the way each step provided a different glimpse of the cathedral tower or roofs if you looked up. At ground level, the changing perspective was of the enclosed garden, or ‘garth.’ In my day, a wooden sculpture of St. Cuthbert, carved from an elm trunk, provided a focal point there.
View from Prebends Bridge, Durham. Image by Jim Sumo, Pixabay
In my novel, ‘The Twelfth Cross,’ I used the sense of changing perspectives in a cloister to introduce the character of Princess Mary, daughter of Edward I who had been ‘given to God’ as a child of 6 and entered the convent at Amesbury, Wiltshire. Now 12 years old, she’s navigating the uncharted territory between childhood and young womanhood. She receives a visit from Brother Clement, the royal scribe.
“I will wait for you in the cloisters, brother,” Mary said, beaming. She made her way to the colonnaded quadrangle beside the priory church. After looking both ways to check she was alone, she raced all the way around, laughing. Next, she walked around it slowly, looking towards the garden at its unroofed centre. This was one of her favourite pastimes; noticing the subtle changes of view as she passed each stone arch, watching the play of sunlight on the grass and observing the priory buildings from ever-changing angles. She often wondered whether this was part of the master mason’s purpose for the structure. Beyond providing a covered walkway connecting different areas of the priory, did he intend a lesson here: that each step we take may bring a fresh perspective on the familiar, if we take the trouble to open our eyes and look?
