The Journey’s End 3: Inside Wimborne Minster-The Man In The Wall & The Chained Library

[Wimborne Minster. The Church of St Cuthburga. Wimborne, Dorset. Photo is mine.]

The day we find the perfect church, it becomes imperfect the moment we join it.

~~Anon

Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

~~Thomas Gray Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

How do I say farewell to Dorset? What words? What ideas? What phrases? How can I tell the whole story when the story, hopefully, is not at an end, for me, forever?

And, what of the entire trip? Paris and the Garden of Luxembourg. The Latin Quarter. Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

Morocco? The Medina of Tangier. The Blue City and the tile factories of Fez. And the highlight? The camel ride into the edge of the Sahara Desert. The adobe villages, the High Atlas Mountains and the chaos of the Market Square in Marrakech.

And I can not forget the pot of honey at the breakfast table on our last day in the warmth. The swarms of bees trying to get their honey back. The warmth, left behind, and the chill and rain that met us in London. The languid days in our hotel, watching the pelting rain on the roofs of the adjacent buildings.

I cannot think of these things now. I must concentrate on the town where I lived forty some years ago…where all this started. Where my love of English footpaths, pubs and Cathedrals began in earnest. The recollections of the desert? I must file them away for a future time, new blogs, new sharing of photos, other stories and other regrets. I was cursed with the need to pay attention to every detail, every leaf and every grain of sand. Every child’s eyes and every woman in a Burka. The men in turbans and the young girls in Hajibs. I memorize everything because I have this lingering fear that I may never see these things again.

Accordingly I must stop this flood and stay focused on another special place of mine. The Minster church in Wimborne. Back in the days when I lived in Wimborne, I spent many hours sitting in this beautiful place. I wasn’t praying then, I was absorbing history. I was fortunate to be sitting in the right place one evening when a group of bell ringers came through the main door and headed for a smaller door that I had not noticed. I stopped one of the women and made an inquiry. Before I could say “bats”, I was up in the belfry and given a rope. I heard a few seconds of instruction and then I was ringing the changes! I felt special. I felt a part of something. And, I knew that my tug resulted in a tone that was heard throughout the town and into the country.

That’s what happens when it’s quiet and the wind blows in your favor. The music of the clapper against the iron wall of the carillon drifts.

[The belfry floor from below. I was up there. I rang the changes. Photo is mine.]

The Minster has a number of interesting places to visit and things to see. Here are the two major attractions:

The Chained Library

The second largest chained library in Europe is here in the Minster. It was founded in 1686. The small room of books that are literally chained to prevent thievery is at the end twenty-six steps up a narrow winding staircase.

[It’s a hard steep climb to the Chained Library. Video is mine.]

Here are just a few of priceless items in the room:

[The Polyglott Bible. (1657). It’s in nine languages. Each character is hand set from hot metal. There are six volumes. The black ink was produced by oak apples crushed and blended with lead oxide. Photo is mine.]

[Each book is chained for protection. Photo is mine.]

The Man In The Wall

Pity poor Anthony Ettricke. He had some issues with the church. But he was a man of means so his requests were taken quite seriously by the Minster. After one particularly difficult session with the church fathers, he vowed to not be buried outside the church walls, and not in the ground. He also did not want to be buried within the church. In the end, he was buried in the wall. To further complicate things, he truly believed he would die in 1693. So his casket was inscribed and sat somewhere in storage awaiting…awaiting his death. He lived another ten years. So, the date of death had to be corrected.

It was.

[The casket of Mr. Ettricke. The death date nicely done over. He is in the wall but the casket does not appear outside the church. Photo is mine.]

Oh, there is so much more I could write. More stories to tell about my experiences in this church. So many memories…of a Christmas concert performed by the students of the school where I taught. Of showing the beautiful tracery and vaulting of the ceiling to my wife. Sitting in the crypt (now a children’s play area, not at all spooky, but beautiful with arches and stained glass), writing in my journal.

My journal. Only three times during this entire trip–two months of travel–was I able to catch up in my entries. Always looking, filming, studying, observing and learning. I should have been sitting down, to catch my breath, and to be in the moment and to write.

That’s what ideally should happen. But that’s not the way I work. Not the way I travel. I’m in the moment, for sure, but I can’t stop sometimes.

There’s too much to see in this amazing world. I hope it holds together. I have a zillion more places to visit.

…I will be sharing more at a future date. I must be off now to jump aboard a large ship and sail the North Atlantic.

Fini