Back to the beginning, in a way

Five years ago this month I arrived in York as an exchange student to spend a term at the University of York as part of my MA degree. I was very excited about this, both because by that time I was already deeply in love with York, but also because the road there had passed through a lengthy and detailed bureaucratic process in which there were enough uncertainties to make me think at some point whether it was all worth the trouble. Fortunately, the two administrative secretaries at the York Centre for Medieval Studies were very capable ladies and guided me through the process successfully.

This year I'm back in York as an exchange student, spending a term at the University of York as part of my PhD thesis. I have been looking forward to this for quite some time, especially since this possibility was partly why I decided to do my PhD at the Centre for Medieval Literature, which is a cooperative enterprise by the University of York and the University of Southern Denmark. I'm excited to be back, and although I've spent most of my time at the work space I've been allotted on campus, I've spent enough time walking about the town to see what has change and to appreciate what is pretty much as it was back when I first came to study.

With this short blogpost I'm going back to the beginning of things, in a way. I started this blog five years ago this month, and when I started my posts were mainly updates of what I was doing and things I had seen on my many wanderings in town or on short trips to various places, such as Whitby, Edinburgh and Durham. My emphasis back then was to share with my friends those things great or small which interested me, fascinated me or which simply were there, like some snowdrops in churchyards. I thought of this blog as a way to share things that were relevant to my time in England, and this is reflected both in the name, in the brief description of the blog and the quotations in the margins which I still have kept. The blog has come a long way since then, and so have I. To some extent, there is still a strong presence of the kind of everyday minutiae which draw my attention from time to time, but my emphasis now is on the academic side of things. Most of my blogposts now are concerned with my work, and I spend more time doing research for the things I post now than I did five years ago, although even back then I had embraced the importance of research.

In the present blogpost I return to the beginning of things since I now allow myself the kind of personal reflection which marked some of my earlier writings, and in a way it feels right to do so five years later. I do this kind of thing less now, in part because I think there are much more interesting things to talk about than myself, but also because I have gained a much wider audience in these five years, an audience which is here predominantly for the academic stuff.

I'm very happy to have this blog as an outlet for my many fascinations and my sundry experiences in research and in life outside it (if such a thing can exist for a medievalist). I try to maintain a balance between academic and accessible, and also between academic and non-academic material, such as poetry, music or nature, and this allows me to tie together elements in my spectrum of interests which lie relatively far apart. All this, of course, hopefully without becoming too careless about the question of audience.

I have changed a great deal in these past five years, and things have changed a great deal for me in many ways, and this blog, too, has undergone some changes although these changes have been primarily additions rather than alterations. It's nice to look back at those five years, thinking of what I've done, what I've achieved, what I have yet to achieve, and of course there are many things I wish I would have known back then which I know now. Many things have changed, but at the core this blog remains a mixture of personal and academic journalism, and although the balance between those two has shifted, I'm happy to think that the blog is only improved, not markedly altered since I first began writing it five years ago.

Annealed in Glass

But when thou dost anneal in glasse thy storie,
Making thy life to shine within
The holy Preachers, then the light and glorie
More rev'rend grows, and more doth win ;
Which else shows watrish, bleak, and thin.

- The Windows, George Herbert

As mentioned in my previous blogpost I have a certain fascination for stained glass and its place in the didactic unit of the Medieval church building, a fascination I seem to share with George Herbert. Depicting scenes from the Bible or Christian mythology the stained glass could convey elements of the Christian religion in a way that made it accessible to the illiterate. There is also a certain mysticism inherent in such a didactic approach for in stained glass the sun itself - whose diurnal course is and was a perfect metaphor for the Passion of Christ - becomes the teacher, animating the figures crafted from glass and making them cast their colours on the stone. For anyone who has stood in the long, dark nave of Durham cathedral and looked towards the rose window seemingly miles away, or seen straight at the heart of Yorkshire in York Minster when leaving the quire after Evensong knows what a wonderful sensation this is. To the Medieval mind, unaccustomed to the variety of visual impressions of our time, such an experience must have been tantamount to feeling the presence of God Himself. 

  The heart of Yorkshire

Since there are many churches in York, all with their own stained glass windows, I do not intend to mention them all here, but rather draw the reader's attention to this subject whenever I write about the various churches, as I intend to do in due course. This particular blogpost, therefore, will be centred around the church of St. Martin, cum Gregory on Micklegate, now home to the stained glass centre. 

The church itself is referred to already in the Domesday Book, but most of the present building dates from the 14th century and onwards, the brick tower being raised in 1844. It is currently no longer functioning as a parish church, but instead hosts the stained glass centre where people can drop by to learn about the historic windows of the church, try their skills in the glazier's craft and buy their own little windows crafted by current glaziers. 

I came across this church by chance one day I had decided to explore the city on southwestern side of the Ouse, and as I was walking down Micklegate I noticed the church and that the church was open. I walked inside, always eager to see new places of historical value, and was met by a friendly woman who informed me about a guided tour that had just started and which I was free to join. She also directed my attention briefly to the selection of cakes available for sale, but there and then I chose scholarly nourishment over bodily sustenance and drew closer to the guided group. 

During the English Civil War many churches suffered badly from the iconoclasm of Cromwell's troops, in some cases spurred on by a Puritan rage against art, in other cases presumably just a manifestation of a certain lust for destruction. In the case of St. Martin cum Gregory and other churches in York, however, the glass was spared due to the direct orders of Lord Fairfax, commander of the parliamentary army. When the royalists lost the Siege of York in 1644, Fairfax forbade his soldiers to wreak havoc on the churches and his orders were to my knowledge largely followed.

In 1709, however, came the Great Wind, a storm that ravaged the country and caused much material damage, and human damage too, presumably, and that destroyed many church windows throughout England. This was a time when there were very few glaziers around since the trade had fallen out of fashion since the Middle Ages. Fortunately, however, some of St. Martin cum Gregory's 14th century glass survived even this and can be admired today, which I of course did.

A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye,
Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass,
And then the heav'n espy

- The Elixir, George Herbert

The stained glass of this window is genuinely Medieval as can be seen both from the style it is wrought in, thedark ruby-red colour typical of 14th century English glazing and also the fact that the glass has become opaque through centuries of oxidation. The central panel shows St. Martin of Tours (4th century) cutting his cloak in half to dress a beggar. This beggar, according to legend, later turned out to be Christ and Martin was soon thereafter baptised and eventually left the army in favour of religion. The flanking figures are Virgin Mary and John the Baptist.

At the bottom we find the donors of this particular glass, namely Edmund and Katherine Grey, earl and countess of Kent. 

The Virgin Mary

To the right side of this window can be found two other Medieval windows, crafted by the glazier Richard of Micklegate and depicting St. Catherine and John the Baptist. Richard's trademark can be seen on the borders. Some parts of the windows are not original but 1899 replicas, nor have they all escaped destruction scot free but have been subject to rearrangements. As can be seen especially in the case of poor Katherine Grey above, certain bits have been irrevocably lost, whereas in other cases the bits have been put together again more or less successfully.

Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one
When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and aw:

- The Windows, George Herbert

I wandered a bit in and out of the tour in order to turn my attention to details I found fascinating. There are many beautiful pieces of art throughout the church, be it stone carvings or stained glass. I roamed a bit on my own at intervals and - while trying the baked goods - I ended up having a nice chat with a local vicar about history, and, as often is the case in York, he took even greater interest when he learned I was from Norway.

It so happened during my visit that I met a friend whom I had just recently become acquainted with and we decided to go for a cup of tea when she had finished her glazing and consequently I did not sit down myself to try my hand at it. Next time I'm in York I hope I get the chance.

The Dichotomy of Travel

He looked like one who has undergone a journey,

his face bitten by hunger or by sorrow.

- The Epic of Gilgamesh

(...) that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself.

- Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen

In general I remain quite skeptical about dichotomies, believing firmly in the intricacy of things, but from time to time I do concede that there are conflicting states found within the same experience that allow for dichotomies to appear. An example of this is to undertake a journey.

When I decided to return to my friends in York and after having arranged a number of important things, I frequently felt in the consequtive days an overwhelming feeling of expectation and joy, the true happiness, to paraphrase Jane Austen, and I was so eager to see my friends again that I ignored the dreadful complexity of my itinerary. It was only later, as the day of departure drew inexorably nearer, that I realised how silly some of my solutions were, and that most of them stemmed from laziness and naïveté on my part. In sum the trip I had lined up on my schedule was far longer than what I was forced to endure on my trip to England back in January. The difference, however, was that this time the duration was not due to mechanical problems but choices of my own, and this made is acceptable as I had time to let the gravity of the prospect sink fully in before I had to embark on the journey itself.

Some people have expressed that to travel is to live, to arrive is to die, emphasising the joy of being on the move, the joy of the suspended consummation. I for my part do not share this sentiment. To me travel is a transition, a limbo of incompletion, a state of suspension in which I achieve nothing beyond moving closer to the goal I seek. This sensation of comatose time came very strongly to me during my hours in Aberdeen since I arrived shortly after six and came to the train station just as things were closing down and the area was left to the night and its passengers. 

  Aberdeen

 The Granite City

 Aberdeen Station

What further enhanced this sensation of transience was the city itself. Aberdeen is one of the most depressing places I've ever passed through and as the bus drove through much of it on the way to the railway station I noticed shut down houses, a school and even a church, all granite grey and surrounded by kindred structures, truly earning the city its nickname: the granite city. I understood very well why most of the advertisements throughout the city revolved around how to get far away. After a two-hour wait or so the train finally departed the station and brought me south across the stretch of mossland called, in a Medieval colloquialism, the Scottish Sea, the area between Clyde and Forth once a natural border between England and Scotland.

The toughest part of the journey was no doubt the five-hour stay in Edinburgh for which I was not prepared beyond knowing that I was not prepared, and immediately upon arrival I started to walk about searching for somewhere to rest a couple of hours. However, despite the very bleak scenario I was actually very happy to see Edinburgh again, especially because the city's Victorian Medievalist architecture becomes all the more impressive and imposing in moonlight, but also because of the familiarity I felt when walking parts the royal mile again, recognising landmarks looming vaguely out of the darkness like something half-formed and ghostly. Fortunately I ended up at the Edinburgh backpacker hostel and was kindly allowed to loiter in their common room for four hours, a much needed rest that even allowed me half an hour sleep as I was assured by the kind lady in the reception that she would wake me at four, which she also did. 

  Edinburgh by night

So far I have pointed out the more miserable aspects of my journey, save the joy of seeing Edinburgh at night, but to keep in tune with the title I must note that despite the travail I was constantly alert to the fact that for each minute I was moving closer to York and the the long-awaited reunion with my friends there. This sensation became all the more pervasive as I finally departed from Edinburgh and was brought south into England.

From there on everything went rather swiftly and after having slept a little I beheld, through blurry eyes refusing to stay open, the sun rise above Northumbria in a bleak spectacle that was hauntingly beautiful. It was relatively unostentatious compared to the sunrises back in Norway, but its ghostly pallour seemed a fitting memento of past crimes and trespasses, in particular William's harrowing of the north. In not long I changed trains in Newcastle and was brought with utmost speed past the wonderful cathedral of Durham and the lovely parish church of Doncaster and into the well-known harbour of York Train Station.

Immediately I felt an immense delectation as I advanced through this well-known terrain, rejoicing in the fact that I had returned, that I had arrived, feeling that pleasure which allows one to forget the travails of travel and that makes all tribulations worthwhile. 

  The familiar Ouse

Asarotos

Once when he supped alone, there being only one course, and that but moderately furnished, he called his steward and reproved him, who, professing to have supposed that there would be no need of any great entertainment, when nobody was invited, was answered, "What, did not you know, then, that to-day Lucullus dines with Lucullus?"

- Life of Lucullus, Plutarch

The phrase asarotos entered the Latin language from the Greek and means "unswept". It refers to a mosaic depicting refuse and scraps left over from a meal lying on the floor, and to a historian or archaeologist this is like a catalogue of foodstuffs available in those days. Likewise the following array of pictures will serve as a catalogue - albeit lamentably incomplete - of certain experiences with food I had in the course of my stay in England. Unlike an asarotos, however, I do not believe this will excite any historians at all.

This blogpost is something I have planned from the day I decided to chronicle my stay in Britain, and it is greatly inspired by a friend of mine, who explored American cuisine on his blog. My post is vastly inferior to his work, partly because I have not been as meticulous as he was, neither with regard to photographic documentation nor with regard to the variety of things recorded. In many cases I forgot to take pictures of my food due to mind taking a backseat to hunger, or due to the fact that I often had a meal on the go, which often didn't give me good opportunities for photographing.

English cuisine oftens finds itself subject to barrages of negative commentary, either due to its various substances or how those substances are treated, giving the phrase substance abuse a whole different meaning. I had been to England once before coming over in January this year, so I was not unaccustomed to British food and I had found it somewhat better than its reputation. However, last time was back in 2009 and I had been going to York as a tourist together with a friend of mine. I had, therefore, not been exposed to groceries, so navigating the available options for the everyday food consumption was an entirely new opportunity for me which would of course require experimentation.

Being from Norway I'm accustomed to good wholemeal bread, and I quite soon discovered that was not as easy to come by in England. After living on toasted ham and cheese for a while, I eventually found some buns that were adequate, but mostly I lived on fruit and yoghurt when eating in Constantine House. England has, however, a wide variety of condiments, some of which I tried on toast and buns. My favourite was the apple sauce, which fortunately was more apple than sauce, and it was lovely with chicken and cheese. The horseradish was very good on toast, although the first time around I nearly singed off the roof of my mouth, and the pear, onion and raisin chutney was surprisingly tasty when used with toasted cheese.

On the whole I'm very satisfied with various foodstuffs I tried, possibly owing quite a lot to the fact that York is one of England's greatest tourist cities and makes its food accordingly. This I experienced quite a lot because I constantly juggled my role as student and my role as tourist, so I ended up dining out very often. There are numerous good places to go for a nice meal and they are quite reasonable.

My first documented English foodstuff. This is a Richard III Wensleydale purchased at the ever-so-lovely Hairy Fig, a food shop located in Fossgate. Its texture is crumbly, its taste is stingy but not too stingy and it goes excellently well with sliced chicken on buns.

The sausages in England are somewhat less meaty than most Norwegian sausages and I prefer the latter option. However, Norwegian sausages do not come with relish, the red blob on the middle of the hot dog, nor do they come with sliced cheddar, which I didn't try this time around.

This is a turkey sandwich from the Yorkshire Hogroast shop in Stonegate. The various meats are displayed in the window and the slices are cut while you wait. The turkey also comes with sage and onion stuffing and cranberry sauce, a constellation of exceptional taste.

One of my favourite dining places in York.

 This is Ye Olde Starre Inne's delicious meat pie with peas, the compulsory fries and an onion gravy. It was so wonderful I had to come back for a second try, although then I decided to do without the sauce, which is quite filling. You get fries to almost anything in England, and although they are, in my opinion, far better than the fries in Norway, they are in the long run a poor replacement for real potatoes.

Gooseberry fool is a kind of mousse, which is somewhat unfortunate since the fruity flavour of the gooseberry is really overshadowed by whatever else they have put into the product. I bought this at the local Sainsbury's in a case of mild curiosity, and in hindsight I believe I bought it more for the purpose of including it in this blog than anything else.

The writing-book shows that the picture is taken when I were reading up on the Summulae of the 13th century English bishop Walter Cantilupe.

Double cone with vanilla and strawberry, straight from Debbie's in Stonegate. Lovely. After a while they started to recognise me, which is always a very good sign in these matters.

 I bought these pies at the international market in Parliament Street, and I have sadly lost track of what they contained. I'm pretty sure they all had pork meat in them, and at least one of them had a delicious onion relish underneath the sage-sprinkled cheese cap. In hindsight I believe this to be one of the best things I've ever eaten in England.

This is a cornish pasty from the Cornish Pasty Shop on Coney Street filled with chicken balti, a white sauce, the obligatory potatoes and various other vegetables. Balti means that it is prepared in emulation of North Pakistani cuisine, although balti food itself is probably a British invention. I discovered this pasty shop fairly early in my stay and I frequented it quite often. They have a wide range of fillings - ham, lamb and mint, chorizo and beef, just to mention a few - and it is an excellent meal on the go. It is no wonder I saw numerous people every day walking around with a pasty in their hands, nor is it any wonder how there can be at least four pasty shops and two competing pasty companies in York.

This is the epitome of English scrambled eggs, at least according to my experience: soggy, tasteless and accompanied with slices of toasted white bread. I ate this at a cafè situated in an old almshouse close to Durham university, making the venue far more interesting than the meal.

Now a Cafè.

Another double cone from Debbie's, this time with raspberry and banana.

  This photo is taken at a restaurant belonging to the other pasty company found in York: the Cornwall Pasty Shop. To the right is a bucket of potato wedges which are somewhat inferior to ordinary fries, at least when it comes to texture.

Another sandwich from the Yorkshire Hogroast, this time with pork, apple sauce and the wonderful sage and onion stuffing.

The only emperor is the emperor of of ice-cream.
- The Emperor of Ice-Cream, Wallace Stevens

This ice cream comes from La Gelateria in High Petergate, a charming locale situated in a charming stretch of road. The chef had his own recipies and experimented with new ones from time to time. The flavours in question are raspberry and pistachio, but my favourite ones from this place were raspberry tart (an invention of the chef) and a delicious banana and pineapple ice cream.

Half-eaten pork burger with apple sauce and sage and onion stuffing, purchased at the unostentatious sandwich shop of Blake Street, a lovely little place not much bigger than my apartment where the burgers were remarkably tasty and, if you came at the right time, fresh from the grill. I discovered this place far too late, probably at some point in the last two weeks of my stay, but in recompense I frequented it so often that the lovely ladies behind the counter started to recognised me.

Beans, fries, eggs, a burger and a sausage, all put together in a classic constellation of protein and fat; could you imagine anything more stereotypically British than this? I have a hard time finding anything, but it was nonetheless a very pleasant meal. I dined at a little cafè in London close to Paddington station, somewhat shabby but with a pleasant chef. This is actually one of the meals I remember the most from my stay in England, and although it was a very satisfying meal I believe my overall experience owed more to the circumstances than to the food itself.

When I came across this cafè I had just installed myself in a little hotel in Sussex Place and had walked around London for hours without any food. I had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to locate Sussex Place in my city guide without knowing there are two locations in London called Sussex Place, a fact that seemingly had escaped the portners at the hotel I had booked. Naturally, as an infrequent but diligent adherent to Murphy's Law, I first went to the wrong location, which is situated at the end of Baker Street. This meant I had to walk up and down Baker Street while suffering from stiff musculature following a walkabout in Edinburgh only a few days earlier. The tube did of course save me a lot of mileage, but I was nonetheless rather exhausted when I finally, and thanks to a kind Englishman, found the hotel in question. It is therefore no wonder why I found this assortment of ordinary foodstuffs so very delicious.

I'm rather annoyed with myself for not having done a better job chronicling my meals, as there would have been many interesting things to tell you about, and also more variety than is presented above. There also ought to be pictures of other venues I explored, some of which were very pleasant, and I regret this. I trust, however, this will not have been my last trip to England and next time around I hope to do a better job.