The French Connection

Douce dame jolie,
Pour dieu ne pensés mie
Que nulle ait signorie
Seur moy fors vous seulement.

- Douce Dame Jolie, Guillaume Machaut

He is the Lord of Misrule.

He is the Master of the Leaping Figures,

the motley factions.

- Tenebrae, Geoffrey Hill

As a student in York all my courses were held at the Centre for Medieval Studies, which is situated in the Kings Manor, an annex to York University comprising Archaeology, Eighteenth century studies and Medieval studies. Among the extra-curricular activities open for students and staff here is the drama group Lords of Misrule, performing various plays three times a year. Several of my friends at Constantine House and in my modules were partaking this term, and from fairly early on I was looking forward to see the result.

Lord of Misrule is a late Medieval title given to an official responsible for the Christmas festivities, including the arrangement and direction of processions, feasts and plays. During his reign, which could last up to three months, the Lord of Misrule presided over a mock-court and was saluted, comically, by the participants. A Lord of Misrule could be found not only at court or the households of noblemen, but also at Inns of Court and colleges at the Cambridge and Oxford universities. The historical antecedents of the Lord of Misrule were probably the "kings" or "bishops" in charge at the Feast of Fools, a Medieval New Year celebration in monasteries and churches, and the boy bishop elected at the Feast of the Holy Innocents December 28. This connection is more visible in the Scottish equivalent whose title was, to my great delight, the Abbott of Unreason.

The name of the drama group is therefore a very fitting and poetic name, and this term we were promised a double feature of French plays called The French Connection. The bill consisted of Le Jeu de Robin et de Marion and the Farce of Master Pierre Patelin, both anonymous. The stage was the quire of St. Mary's Bishophill, a beautiful church with an Anglo-Saxon tower, and the show took place every evening from 10th to 12th of March. St. Mary's also has an Anglo-Saxon cross carving in stone which I forgot to take a picture of, to my lasting frustration.

St. Mary's Bishophill

Although the plays were both excellently performed and very humourous - particularly so the latter, which was more akin to the modern drama with its more clearly structured plot - neither are my focus in this blogpost. I would love to do a proper review of the actors' theatrical prowess, but since I, for very good reasons, didn't use the flash on my camera I have very few pictures worth displaying, and they shall remain merely as my own private keepsakes from a wonderful evening.

The Church's a stage.

Instead of the plays this blogpost will deal with some of the music played during intermission, performed by the extremely talented duet Virelai. The name comes from a form of song and lyric poetry practiced in France in the 14th and 15th centuries, and the duo is comprised of two of my flatmates from Constantine House. I was very excited about this as I had from time to time overheard fragments of their repertoire in passing through the common room, but I was far from prepared for what ensued. The first song was a beautiful, sad little piece called Dame, Vo Regars, composed by Jehannot de l'Escurel (fl. c. 1300), but although it was very pretty it did not make such an impression as the last song: Guillaume Machaut's (c. 1300-1377) virelai Douce Dame Jolie. The music was performed using Medieval instruments - in the latter case rebec and soprano recorder - and this, along with the venue, greatly enhanced the atmosphere. 

 

Virelai to the left, the always talented Erika Graham and Amanda Hauer. To the right: the very skilled director of the Farce of Master Pierre Patelin, Niraj Davé.

Douce Dame Jolie started off slowly with the hesitant notes of the rebec, accompanied shortly by the equally hesitant recorder. Then there was a brief little pause, and then it all exploded in an energetic instrumental followed by the verse, sung beautifully with lilting energy. I was astounded when I heard it, for it is a very wonderfully wrought tune that lodges in the brain and remains there, perennially returning from oblivion. When I got back to Constantine House I immediately looked it up on youtube and spotify, and I have listened to it time and again ever since. Although there are several beautiful recordings of the song, the one I remember most fondly was Virelai's rendition in St. Mary's Bishophill. This is, of course, partly due to the fact that it was the first time I heard it, but equally important was the performance itself, which was - to a much greater extent than any recording I've heard since - a perfect combination of vocal and instrumental excellence.

Virelai performing Dame, Vo Regars. I was too mesmerised to take pictures during Douce Dame Jolie.

For those of you who may not know the song in question, here is Gothic Voices' rendition of Douce Dame Jolie, the best version I've been able to locate on youtube. Sadly it is solely a vocal rendition, and although it is beautiful, it lacks the energy of Virelai. For an instrumental I strongly recommend the recording by Ensemble Alba Musica Kyo, available on spotify.

Douce Dame Jolie performed by Gothic Voices.

The original text runs as follows:

Douce dame jolie,
Pour dieu ne pensés mie
Que nulle ait signorie
Seur moy fors vous seulement

Qu'adès sans tricherie

Chierie

Vous ay et humblement

Tous les jours de ma vie

Servie

Sans villain pensement.

Helas! et je mendie
D'esperance et d'aïe;
Dont ma joie est fenie,
Se pité ne vous en prent.
Douce dame jolie...

Mais vo douce maistrie

Maistrie

Mon cuer si durement

Qu'elle le contralie

Et lie

En amour tellement

Qu'il n'a de riens envie
Fors d'estre en vo baillie;
Et se ne li ottrie
Vos cuers nul aligement.

Douce dame jolie...

Et quant ma maladie

Garie

Ne sera nullement

Sans vous, douce anemie,

Qui lie

Estes de mon tourment,

A jointes mains deprie
Vo cuer, puis qu'il m'oublie,
Que temprement m'ocie,
Car trop langui longuement.

Translated into English the song, according to wikipedia, runs something like this:

Sweet, lovely lady

for god's sake do not think

that any has sovereignty

over my heart, but you alone.

For always, without treachery

Cherished

Have I you, and humbly

All the days of my life

Served

Without base thoughts.

Alas, I am left begging

For hope and relief;

For my joy is at its end

Without your compassion.

Sweet, lovely lady....

But your sweet mastery

Masters

My heart so harshly,

Tormenting it

And binding

In unbearable love,

[My heart] desires nothing

but to be in your power.

And still, your own heart

renders it no relief.

Sweet, lovely lady....

And since my malady

Will not

Be annulled

Without you, Sweet Enemy,

Who takes

Delight of my torment

With clasped hands I beseech

Your heart, that forgets me,

That it mercifully kill me

For too long have I languished.

Nature offering Machaut three of her children, Sense, Rhetoric and Music. Miniature from a Parisian manuscript from c. 1350.

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.

Woodwose

But what shall I be called am I the first
have I an owner what shape am I what
shape am I am I huge

-Woodwose, Ted Hughes

As an aspiring historian of mentalities and the Middle Ages I have an immense fascination for worldviews of the past, chiefly the Medieval worldview. Part of the historian's task is to understand or at least be familiar with the realities peoples in ages past believed themselves to inhabit. These realities can be very strange to our modern minds, but it is all the more important, therefore, to abandon our modern-day prejudices when examining or studying the worlds that once were, regardless of whether they existed or not.

There are numerous windows into the Medieval mind through which we can peer and attempt to gather some knowledge, but we can never enter through those windows so the knowledge we harvest is imperfect at best, whereas sometimes we just get it wrong. Some of the best windows are those of cultural aspects, be it literature, art, architecture or folklore. It is partly because of this I have a strong fascination for legendary creatures. We now know that the mythical beasts encountered in Medieval bestiaries or architecture, for instance, either never existed or were at best based on real animals but distorted by interpretation and misunderstanding. To the Medieval man or woman, however, this was not the case; to them basilisks, griffins and dogheads - just to mention a few favourites of mine - were as real as the fox or the heron. Historians must necessarily take this into account, and I have made it a mission of mine to accumulate knowledge of mythical beasts that once roamed the realities of ages past.

One of these creatures is the woodwose, a wild man of the woods that appear either covered in hair or leaves and which can be found in numerous works of art or literature from the Late Antiquity to modern times, particularly they are to be found in carvings of wood or stone adorning Medieval architecture.Mike Harding's A Little Book of the Green Man is a very nice compilation of such carvings; he has chronicled various green men in English churches and Javanese temples alike.

I have myself stumbled across a couple of woodwoses in York, or three to be more precise, but I am convinced I would have found more had I searched more diligently. The pictures are not very great, but they should give you an idea of some of the woodwose's appearances.

I am the face in the leaves,

I am the laughter in the forest,

I am the king of the wood.

- Mike Harding

The above woodwose is found on the exterior of St. Mary's Church in York, and this is perhaps one of its most typical depiction: the vegetable man with leafy branches issuing from its orifices. I became very happy when I discovered it.

It was to weet a wilde and saluage man,

Yet was no man, but onely like in shape,

And eke in stature higher by a span,

All ouergrowne with haire, that could awhape

An hardy hart, and his wide mouth did gape

With huge great teeth, like to a tusked Bore:

For he liu'd all on rauin and on rape

Of men and beasts; and fed on fleshly gore,

The signe whereof yet stain'd his bloudy lips afore.

- The Faerie Queene, Edmund Spenser

The above picture shows a circular bench nearby the York Minster. In the background you can see what was formerly the archbishop's palace, which now houses York Minster Library. This carving is of course modern, but it is deeply rooted in the age-old vision of a beastly humanoid.

Edmund Spenser in his description, as quoted above, merges the wild man of English folklore with the creature Orc found in Ludovico Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, which was Spenser's chief source of inspiration to his epic poem.

Sumwhyle wyth wormes he werres, and with wolves als,

Sumwhyle wyth wodwos that woned in the knarres

- Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Anonymous

This picture shows a ceiling boss from the Guildhall. When you stand in the main hall and look up you'll see several woodwoses staring down at you with a grin in their leafy faces. I do not know how old these carvings are, but although the hall itself is Medieval I suspect the above decoration to be a result of more recent endeavours. Nonetheless, it was a very gratifying discovery.

Sundries of York

Time which antiquates Antiquities, and hath an art to make dust of all tings, hath yet spared these minor Monuments.

- Urne Buriall, Sir Thomas Browne

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower
- Auguries of Innocence, William Blake

Since York is such a marvellous place in many respects there are many great pictures to be taken and many amusing motives to be found. Several of these, sadly, I missed despite my many excursions, but a number of them have been presented on this blog already and some will be presented in future posts. In this particular blogpost, however, I aim to compile certain photographs who just don't fit in anywhere else, or which I have forgotten to include in previous arrays. This, and the fact that the pictures were taken in York, are the only over-arching themes uniting them. Aside from that they have very little in common, and I think that is part of the fun. I have used "sundries" partly because it is very apt, but mainly because I like word; it is for instance used as a collective term for the minor courses on the menu at York Arms. 

York is a city very proud of its history, and that is partly why being a history student in York was so much fun. Throughout the city you will come upon plaques dedicated to the memory of persons or places worthy of commemoration, some of which are familiar to outsiders, some of which are known primarily within York. In other words, it seems that regardless of the geographical extent of one's fame, the city of York will honour your legacy somehow if you have an affinity to the place. I am myself very flattered that there is a street called Hope Street, and I'm sure if I return to York often enough there will be a couple of buildings named after me as well. Christ once said that nobody becomes a prophet in his own country, but if you are from York or connected to York you will at least achieve some degree of fame, even if your sole material legacy is a plaque on a wall. 

Marygate Tower, situated at the junction of Marygate and Bootham. It was damaged during the Siege of York (1644), when Parlamentarian forces tried to take the Royalist city.

If Silvio Berlusconi ever visits York he can not walk on the city walls.

The below picture, which I believe is from the 17th century, is situated in York Castle Museum, and it mesmerised me from the first time I saw it. The image is a splendid portrayal of the post-Renaissance melancholia and the preoccupation with the brevity of life, frailty of man and fickleness of fame that is found to such great extent in works of Spenser, Donne and Browne.

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

- Death be not proud, John Donne

This sign marks the direction to a particular exhibition in York Castle Museum:

In ages past when spells were cast
In a time of men in steel
Where a man was taught no special thing
It was all done by feel

- Listen learn read on, Deep Purple

Tea, among the greater part of those who use it most, is drunk in no great quantity. As it neither exhilarates the heart, nor stimulates the palate, it is commonly an entertainment merely nominal, a pretence for assembling to prattle, for interrupting business, or diversifying idleness. They, who drink one cup, and, who drink twenty, are equally punctual in preparing or partaking it; and, indeed, there are few but discover, by their indifference about it, that they are brought together not by the tea, but the teatable.

- Review of "A Journal of Eight Days' Journey", Samuel Johnson

I was told that glass and other sharp materials were embedded in the brick walls to prevent pigeons from perching there. The pigeons are a pest in York, but fortunately their number has now attracted falcons who hunt them for food. As long as people do not pay attention to the "don't feed the pigeon" signs, this is a solution I approve.

The white building in front of St. Wilfrid's Church is the De Grey Rooms, a 19th centry building where the Yorkshire Hussars had their officers mess. It is now the main tourist information centre in York.

A little bit behind this section of the wall is King's Manor where the Centre for Medieval Studies is situated.

A flower-bed meant to symbolise the city's emblem: the white rose of York.

Memorial for those who fell in what the British call the Second South African War, but which is more commonly known as the Boer War.

While the dealers they get together

And they decide who gets the breaks
And who's going to be in the gallery
- In the gallery, Dire Straits

Our Banners to th'Alhambra's turrets bear;
Then, wave our Conqu'ring Crosses in the Aire

- The Conquest of Granada, John Dryden

This 14th century timber-framed house is called the Bowes Morrell House, and it is named after John Bowes Morrell who had a remarkable career in this city. He also was a key figure in establishing the University of York which was founded in 1963, and the main campus library is named after him as well as this beautiful Medieval house. 

 

I presume the spikes are meant to keep the pigeons off the bars, but why place the bars there in the first place?

O, you most shameless desperate ruffian, you
O, villain, villain, arrant vilest villain!
Who seized our Cerberus by the throat, and fled,
And ran, and rushed, and bolted, haling of
The dog, my charge!

- The Frogs, Aristophanes

 I have heard there is an old law that says if a Scotsman is found within the city walls of York carrying an arbalest, or any other long-range weapon presumably, he must be shot. I suspect that this society is a part of a cunning plan to lure more Scotsmen within the city walls.

Bootham Bar.

At least the Romans gave them sanitation.

Lastly, Whereas men affirm this colour was a Curse, I cannot make out the propriety of that name, it neither seeming so to them, nor reasonably unto us; for they take so much content therein, that they esteem deformity by other colours, describing the Devil, and terrible objects, white.

- Vulgar Errors, Sir Thomas Browne

This may be a coincidence. I sincerely hope it is.

This is the Centre for Medieval Studies where I spent the mornings three days a week. It is an utterly charming place, although it reeks heavily of the 1960s, and I believe this to be the only place in York where they do not have separate taps for hot and cold water.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.

His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!

You may seek him in hte basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!
- Macavity the Mystery Cat, T. S. Eliot

On my way home from a trip to the Merchant Adventurers' Hall I stumbled upon this guy.

He promised that if any of his swords fell down and killed any children, he would help their mothers make new ones. Not many people laughed.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it, and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

- Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare

I really, really like this pun.

Hey, how many trees did you have to hug to get that strong?

- Bucky Katt

This commemorative plaque is located inside the Guildhall and states yet again the particular fondness the citizens of York seem to harbour for their long-dead king. I did not discover this until after my double blogpost on Richard III, but due to that post I felt compelled to put this picture up.

The fesaunt, scorner of the cok by nighte

- The Parlement of Foules, Geoffrey Chaucer

This pheasant started to hang out in our backyard a few days prior to my departure. He was the third - and last - pheasant I came across in the course of my stay.

Donuts. Is there anything they can't do?
- Homer Simpson

The expression "sleeping with the fishes" suddenly took on a new meaning.

These were all the sundries I were able to find this time around (with the exception of the last two pictures, which were taken in 2009), but please stay tuned for more blogposts concerning my English adventures.