York: Nightly Visions
Those who are deeply moved by the sense of something running through our ancient story like a thread of time, binding age to age, will think there is no place like York. Here it is no imagination that we walk down the corridors of time; we are in the presence of the centuries, and the consciousness of something sublime stirs us as we walk for miles on these medieval walls, or saunter in the footsteps of the Romans, or look on these majestic minster towers. We are walking mostly on the narrow space between two rivers, and on the banks of one of them, looking at the facade of the Guildhall across the Ouse, we may fancy ourselves for a moment on the Grand Canal looking at Venetian palaces. To come into the west doorway of York Minster and stand gazing into this vast place is to have a sense of deep humility and an overpowering consciousness of the dignity and majesty of the achievements of mankind. Man is so small, and his work is so great.
The romantic wonder of this city fills the mind as London does, the grandeur of Oxford, and the magic of the countryside yet York has something that belongs to none of these. It has the great white walls enclosing it, and within them a square mile which is like a living page of history, filled with monuments of the past and sights to hold us spellbound, with pavements that have echoed to the tramp of Caesar's men, ramparts built by the Conqueror's men, ancient houses overhanging in the streets, towers soaring in the sky, the dust of Caesar under our feet, and the sun pouring in through more medieval stained glass windows than all the rest of England has. In one of its windows alone are a hundred thousand pieces of glass still in the lead that has held it for 700 years.
As dusk finished and the night turned black, I sat in the quiet hotel bar tucked into a candlelit corner nursing an Old Fashioned and dreaming up adventures I want to take you on. The wind hollowed through the window panes. A guest came in, breaking the silence, rubbing his hands commenting the cold front had moved in. The fire taunted me, willing me to stay in the safe refuge of the warm hotel. Yet thoughts of wandering alone throughout the dimly lit medieval streets armed only with my camera gave me the burst of resolve I needed.
Outside the cold air pricked my nose. I could feel the cold enter my lungs, filling me. I pushed on through Bott Gate.
The sound of my feet in the cobble stone, the crisp cold night air and the empty storied alleys sent my mind swirling with visions. Peering into windows, I became a voyeur of intimate half exposed moments. Sepia light chased shadows. Secrets and history suspended held by time.
