York in the Snow | Naoyuki Agawa (Vice-President in charge of Shonan Fujisawa Campus)
2010.12.13
When the express train I boarded at Durham station arrived quite late at York station, it was early December in the north country, the sun had long set, and it was already completely dark. I walked through the light, swirling snow to the Royal York Hotel, adjacent to the station. An unseasonal cold wave had covered all of Britain, and the temperature was unusually low. After finally finding the hard-to-spot main entrance, I went inside and checked in. I brought my bag to my assigned room on the fourth floor (or the third floor, in the British style) and took a breath.
This was my second visit to York. Nearly twenty years ago, I had impulsively set off on a journey aboard a cargo-passenger ship that sailed Norway's coastal route. On the way there, I flew to Britain and took an express train to Edinburgh. I made a quick round trip that same day and stopped by this town. There was a National Railway Museum near the station, and I wanted to see it. From the window of my room at the Royal York Hotel, where I was staying, I could see the curve of the great iron and glass roof covering the station platforms. I could hear the arrival and departure announcements directly, and trains came and went, north and south, right before my eyes.
This time, after finishing my business in London and Cambridge, I had arrived in Durham by train the previous night amidst the snow. On this day, I visited Durham University to discuss future exchanges with Keio, and then returned to York. I could have gone straight down to London to wait for my flight the next day, but hotels in London are expensive. So, I decided to stay overnight in York, where hotels are cheaper. This was just an excuse; I had a plan to stay again at the nostalgic hotel in York and revisit the railway museum.
It was cold and pitch-dark outside, and while it would have been easier to stay in the hotel, opportunities to visit this town are rare. Besides, although it was dark, it was just past five in the afternoon. I wrapped a scarf around my neck, put on my overcoat, and resolutely went outside again. Looking to my left, I saw the great cathedral of York, its towers lit up and shining. I decided to head there for the time being. Mingling with people hurrying home, I began to walk slowly along the city walls on the slippery path.
York is an ancient city. It is said that when the Romans ruled the island of Britannia, the emperor's northern court was located here. After the Romans left, it fell under the rule of Vikings who invaded from across the sea for a time. The people of northern England are apparently ethnically close to Scandinavians. The cathedral in York is said to have begun as a small wooden structure built in 627 for the baptism of King Edwin of Northumbria, who had converted to Christianity. Later, the stone church that replaced it was destroyed by the Normans, and construction began anew around 1080, forming the prototype of the present-day great cathedral.
Walking along the freezing road, I reached the front of the cathedral. There was not a soul in sight. I pushed on the large wooden entrance door, but it wouldn't open. Another door was also locked. According to my guidebook, it was supposed to be open to the public until 6:00 p.m. Just in case, I went around to the side of the cathedral and pushed another door, and this time it opened. Two guides were standing at the entrance. When I asked if I could come in, they showed a slight hesitation but then said in a low voice, "We've already closed, but it's all right if you just want to walk through the cathedral's aisles." They subtly prompted me to make a donation in the collection box placed nearby. I dropped in a few coins and went inside.
As I took a step inside the cathedral, I understood why the guides had hesitated for a moment to let me in. A service was being held in the Quire, which extends eastward from the center of the cathedral. Standing in front of the Quire, I could see inside through an ornate iron gate. On the left and right, choirboys clad in white robes were positioned, singing hymns in soaring voices. Beyond them, at the center front, was the altar, where priests were conducting the ceremony. Occasionally, a passage from the Bible was read, a sermon was given, the pipe organ resounded with its deep tones, and the choir sang again. It seems that "Quire" is an old spelling of "Choir." I see. Since a choir is called a "Choir," "Quire" must have originally meant the place where the choir sings.
I had had several opportunities before to hear choirs sing in English country churches. The acoustics in old stone churches are magnificent. The boys' voices echoed like the voices of angels. It was enough to make one want to convert to Christianity on the spot. And in this great cathedral of York, the vaulted ceiling, reached by piling countless large stones, is incredibly high. The voices reverberated at the very top of the ceiling, where several beams intersect at the highest point, and descended to the ground.
I was completely captivated, listening to the singing for what felt like an eternity in front of the Quire. The guides didn't reprimand me. It seemed they would let me be as long as I remained quiet. The west-facing wall surrounding the entrance to the Quire is called the Quire Screen and is covered in ornamentation. And above it sit the enormous pipes of the pipe organ. In particular, on the middle section of the wall, there are statues of past English kings lined up: seven to the left of the entrance and eight to the right. They are said to be the fifteen kings from William I, who led the Norman Conquest, to Henry VI. Incidentally, William I was a king of the 11th century and Henry VI of the 15th century, and these sculptures were apparently completed at the end of the 15th century.
Each king holds a sword upright. Looking closely, they wear slightly different attire and have various expressions. Most of them are clad head to toe in what look like robes, but among them is one king who looks like a rugged warrior with his hairy shins exposed. There is a rugged one with a beard, and another with a smooth face who appears weak-willed. For 500 years, the fifteen kings have remained here, each one perfectly still. Even hearing the choir's song, they do not crack a smile. A round ornament decorated with conifer leaves, hanging from the high ceiling, rotates slowly with the air currents inside the cathedral. Each time, it slightly blocks the light from above, casting shadows on the kings' faces. Their expressions seem to change faintly.
The fierce lords of old, here in York,
Have become the very stones of the cathedral.
The service ended, and I went outside. The night air was even colder. After walking for a while down the town's frozen main street, a tearoom surrounded by glass windows called Bettys appeared before me. Here, I had sandwiches, scones, and tea for dinner. All the waitresses served in uniforms and aprons. Most of the male customers wore ties, and the female customers were also neatly dressed. An elderly gentleman would appear from time to time and play the piano softly. I had never seen a place so quintessentially British, not even in Britain. I had the illusion that I was in a British children's story I had read long ago, and that Alice and the Rabbit from Wonderland might pop out at any moment.
Leaving the shop, I walked toward my hotel. It began to snow again. As I walked, I reflected on how many different places I had visited on this business trip. There was Taiwan, where I stopped to give a lecture on the way, and the old-fashioned train pulled by an electric locomotive I rode there. The Taiwanese high-speed train that flashed through the darkness in an instant on the way to the airport. The atmosphere of the three colleges I visited in Cambridge. The British express train dashing across the plains, kicking up clouds of snow. The morning after arriving in Durham, climbing a frozen slope to visit the famous old cathedral, also of Norman design, and next to it, the castle now used as a college of Durham University. The dining hall of the latter was said to have been used as a filming location for scenes in the wizarding school in the Harry Potter movies.
On the hill where the Norman cathedral and castle stand,
Snow flutters down, like a messenger from heaven.
The cold York night deepened, and I crossed the bridge over the River Ouse, continuing my walk toward the hotel along the top of the city walls. Suddenly, from behind me, I began to hear the sound of the cathedral's bells. Many bells of different tones rang out all at once, overlapping and resonating, and the sound seemed to go on forever. These same bells must have rung out across the town from the cathedral's high tower 100 years ago, 500 years ago, perhaps even 1000 years ago. Tomorrow, I will leave London and return to Tokyo. When I get back to Mita, a lot of work will be waiting for me. Christmas is near.
(Published: 2010/12/13)