St Peter Mancroft towers over the modern market in the centre of the city. The brutalist City Hall, to it’s left, the Norman Keep to the right beyond the shops of Gentleman’s Walk and Back of the Inns, and on the other side of the market is the flint Guildhall.
I wanted to return to to St Peter to look again at the font canopy, and the wonderful glass in the Chancel.
I approached the church just after one, I was hot and the walk from the Cathedral had made me hotter.
I walked to the glass door, and a hundred faces turned to look at me, as there was an organ recital going on. Should I stay or go?
I stayed in the cool of the church, even if I did overheat for ten minutes.
In front of me, a video screen showed the organist’s hands and feet as he put the instrument through its paces. I learned from this the pedals on the floor didn’t just make the organ loud or quiet, they played a melody too. So he played with all four limbs, and the music filled the church.
Yes, I wanted to get on to get my shots, but I needed this to make me stop and consider the space and what I should do with the rest of the day.
The concert ended at quarter to two, I rushed round to get my shots, before hoping to get to the station for the three o’clock train back to London.
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Norwich is a fine city. Or so the signs say on every road into it. But, and there can be no denying it, it is a jewel in the Norfolk countryside.
For me it is “just” Norwich Where used to go for our important shopping, for football and later for concerts. We, and I, would take for granted its cobbled streets, Norman cathedral and medieval churches by the dozen. Also it’s a pub for every day, the ramshackle market, and the Norman castle keep looking down on the city sprawled around.
Just Norwich.
Later, it also became where I bought new records from Backs in Swan Lane, and searched for punk classics in the Record and Tape Exchange.
Norwich is lucky that the industrial revolution passed by the city leaving few changes, the character and history intact. World War II did damage, some churches were abandoned, some rebuilt, but many survived.
And Norwich is a friendly city. It sees warm and colourful, and on a hot summer’s day when the locals were in shorts and t-shirts, much white flesh was on display. I also take the football club for granted. I have supported it from nearly 49 years, and being away from the city means I get my news and views largely second hand, but I also forget how central the club is to the people.
Sadly, Norwich isn’t really on the way to anywhere, well except Great Yarmouth and Cromer, so people don’t come here by accident. So it remains something of a secret to most but locals.
Other cities would have children dressed in any one of a dozen Premier League club’s replica shirts. In Norwich yellow and green was the dominant colour, even after a chastening season that saw us finish rock bottom of the league. The local sports “superstore” has a Norwich Fan’s fanzone, and a third of the window is given to the home city club.
I knew the city like the back of my hand, so knew the route I wanted to take to provide me with views that would refresh those in my mind. I didn’t dally, pressed on to my two targets, the Anglican Cathedral and St Peter Mancroft.
This wasn’t the original plan; that was to meet two friends I used to go to the football with, Ian and Ali, but they both caught a bug in Manchester watching the women’s Euros, so couldn’t meet with me. But I had an alternative plan, maybe with a pub stop or two.
The trip happened as I got a mail offering a tempting 20% off the trip that had been selling poorly, I checked with Ian and Alison, they said they were free, but had yet to fall ill. So seats were booked, as Jools liked the sound of an afternoon in Norwich and meeting my friends.
Up at quarter to five so we could catch the first High Speed service out of Dover, so to be in London in time to catch the railtour to Norwich.
Sun had yet to light up Dover Priory when we arrived, but a few people milling around, including two still at the end of their night out.
Folkestone was light by the warm light of the rising sun, and well worth a shot as we passed over Foord Viaduct.
Later, I was hoping the calm morning meant the Medway would be a mirror, but a breeze disturbed the surface ruining the reflections I had hoped for.
Finally, emerging into Essex, the line climbs as the go over the Dartford Crossing, just enough time to grab a shot.
It was already hot in London, so we stayed in the shade of the undercroft at St Pancras, had a coffee and a pasty from Greggs before walking over to Kings Cross to see if our tour was already at the buffers.
We walked across the road to King’s Cross, and find the station packed with milling passengers, all eyes trained on the departure boards waiting for platform confirmations.
Ours was due to be platform 3, and the rake of carriages was indeed there, top and tailed by class 66 freight locomotives.
We get on the train and find we had been allocated a pair of seats nearest the vestibule. This meant that they were a few inches less wide than others, meaning Jools and I were jammed in.
Almost straight away, Jools’s back and Achilles began to ache, and the thought of four hours of this in the morning and another four in the evening was too much, and so she decided to get off at the first stop at Potters Bar.
In the end, a wise choice I think.
The guy in the seat opposite to us talked the whole journey. I mean filling any silence with anything: how much he paid for the components of his lunch, his cameras and then his job. In great detail. He also collected train numbers. I didn’t know that was really a thin in the days of EMUs, but I helped out from time to time telling him units he had missed.
We had a twenty minute break at Peterborough because of pathing issues, so we all got out to stretch our legs and do some extra trainspotting.
An Azuma left from the next platform, and another came in on the fast line. I snapped them both.
From Peterborough, the train reversed, and after the 20 minute wait, we went out of the station southwards, taking the line towards Ely.
Now that we had done our last stop, the train could open up and we cruised across the Fens at 70mph, the flat landscape botted with wind turbines and church towers slipped by.
Instead of going into Ely station, we took the rarely used (for passenger trains) freight avoiding line, now a single track. Emerging crossing the main line, taking the line eastwards towards Thetford.
Again, the regulator was opened, and we rattled along. Even so, the journey was entering its fourth hour, and with my travelling colleague and without Jools, time was dragging.
We were now back in Norfolk, passing the STANTA training area, all warning signs on the fences telling the trainee soldiers that that was where the area ended. I saw no soldiers or tanks. My only thought was of the rare flowers that would be growing there, unseen.
And so for the final run into Norwich, familiar countryside now.
Under the southern bypass and the main line from London, slowing down where the two lines merged at Trowse before crossing the River Wensum, before the final bend into Norwich Thorpe.
At last I could get off the train and stretch my legs.
Many others were also getting off to board coaches to take them to Wroxham for a cruise on the Broads, or a ride on the Bure Valley Railway, while the rest would head to Yarmouth for four hours at the seaside.
I got off the train and walked through the station, out into the forecourt and over the main road, so I could walk down Riverside Road to the Bishop’s Bridge, then from there into the Cathedral Close.
The hustle and bustle of the station and roadworks were soon left behind, as the only noise was from a family messing about in a rowing boat in front of Pulls Ferry and a swan chasing an Egyptian Goose, so the occasional splash of water.
I reached the bridge and passed by the first pub, with already many folks sitting out in the beer garden, sipping wines and/or summer beers. I was already hot and would loved to have joined them, but I was on a mission.
In the meantime, Jools had texted me and said if I fancied getting a regular service back home, then I should. And a seed grew in my brain. Because, on the way back, departing at just gone five, the tour had to have a 50 minute layover in a goods siding at Peterborough, and would not get back to Kings Cross until half nine, and then I had to get back to Dover.
I could go to the cathedral the church, walk back to the station. Or get a taxi, and get a train back to London at four and still be home by eight.
Yes.
I walked past the Great Hospital, then into the Close via the swing gate, round to the entrance where there was no charge for entry and now no charge for photography. But I would make a donation, I said. And I did, a tenner.
I have been to the cathedral a few times, but not as a churchcrawler. So, I made my way round, taking shots, drinking in the details. But the walk up had got me hot and bothered, I always run with a hot engine, but in summer it can be pretty damp. I struggled to keep my glasses on my nose, and as I went round I knew I was in no mood to go round again with the wide angle, that could wait for another visit.
The church is pretty much as built by the Normans, roof excepted which has been replaced at least twice, but is poetry in stone. And for a cathedral, not many people around also enjoying the building and its history.
At one, bells chimed, and I think The Lord’s Prayer was read out, we were asked to be quiet. I always am when snapping.
In half an hour I was done, so walked out through the west door, through the gate and into Tombland. I was heading for the Market and St Peter which site on the opposite side to the Guildhall.
I powered on, ignoring how warm I felt, in fact not that warm at all. The heat and sweats would come when I stopped, I found out.
I walk up the side of the market and into the church, and into the middle of an organ recital.
Should I turn round and do something else, or should I stop and listen. I stopped and listened.
Everyone should hear an organ recital in a large church. There is nothing quite like it. The organ can make the most beautiful sounds, but at the same time, the bass pipes making noises so deep you can only feel it in your bones.
Tony Pinel knew his way round the organ, and via a video link we could see his hands and feet making the noises we could hear. It was wonderful, but quite how someone can play one tune with their feet and another with their hands, and pulling and pushing knobs and stoppers, is beyond me. But glad some people can.
It finished at quarter to two, and I photograph the font canopy and the 15th century glass in the south chapel. Font canopies are rare, there is only four in England, and one of the others is in Trunch 20 miles to the north. Much is a restoration, but it is an impressive sight when paired with the seven-sacrament font under it.
The glass is no-less spectacular, panels three feet by two, five wide and stretching to the vaulted roof. I can’t photograph them all, but I do over 50%.
I go to the market for a lunch of chips, for old times sake. I mean that was the treat whenever we went either to Norwich or Yarmouth; chips on the market. I was told they no longer did battered sausage, so had an un-battered one, and a can of pop. I stood and ate in the alleyway between stalls, people passing by and people buying chips and mushy peas of their own.
Once done, I had thought of getting a taxi back to the station, but the rank that has always been rammed with black cabs was empty, and two couples were shouting at each other as to who should have the one that was there. So I walked to the station, across Gentleman’s Walk, along to Back of the Inns, then up London Street to the top of Prince of Wales Road and then an easy time to the station across the bridge.
I got my ticket and saw a train to Liverpool Street was due to depart at 14:32. In three minutes.
I went through the barrier and got on the train, it was almost empty in the new, swish electric inter-city unit. I was sweating buckets, and needed a drink, but there appeared to be no buffet, instead just electric efficiency and silence as the train slid out of the station and went round past the football ground to the river, then taking the main line south.
In front of me, two oriental ladies talked for the whole journey. I listened to them, no idea what they talked about to fill 105 minutes.
I thought it would be nearly five when the train got in, but helped by only stopping at Diss, Ipswich, Manningtree and Colchester we got in, on time, at quarter past four.
I walked to the main concourse and down into the Circle Line platforms, getting a train in a couple of minutes the four stops to St Pancras. I knew there was a train soon leaving, and after checking the board and my watch I saw I had five minutes to get along the length of the station and up to the Southeastern platforms.
I tried. I did, but I reached the steps up to the platforms and I saw I had 45 seconds, no time to go up as they would have locked the doors. So, instead I went to the nearby pub and had a large, ice-cold bottle of Weiss beer.
That was better.
I was all hot and bothered again, but would have an hour to cool down, and the beer helped.
At ten past five, I went up and found the Dover train already in, I went through the barriers and took a seat in a carriage I thought would stop near the exit at Dover Priory. I called Jools to let her know I would be back at quarter to seven, and she confirmed she would pick me up.
She was there, people got off all out on a night on the town, dressed in shiny random pieces of fabric covering boobs and bottoms. I was young once, I thought.
Jools was there, she started the car and drove us home via Jubilee Way. Across the Channel France was a clear as anything, and four ferries were plying between the two shores. Take us home.
Once home, Jools had prepared Caprese. I sliced some bread and poured wine. On the wireless, Craig spun funk and soul. We ate.
Tired.
It was going to be a hot night, but I was tired enough to sleep through it. Or so I thought.
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The great urban churches of northern Europe sit on their market places, especially in Cathedral cities. It is as if they were intended as late Medieval statements of civic pride. They are a reminder of the way that the cities rose to prominence in the decades after the Black Death, as if the old order had been broken and a new one was beginning. They were a great affirmation of Catholic orthodoxy and social communion, in the years before the merchants that paid for them embraced Protestantism and capitalism. They are European culture caught on the cusp of the Renaissance, the beacons that lead us into early modern Europe.
These things are more easily sensed in the great late medieval cities of Flanders and the Netherlands, for example at Bruges. The bridges, the medieval triumph, the tourist tat shops and the foreign voices can create an illusion of being in Cambridge or Oxford, but the great Market Church and Belfry on the main square recall Norwich, where St Peter Mancroft and the medieval Guildhall have a similar juxtaposition. The Industrial Revolution would bring a new wave of cities to prominence, but in the provincial cities that were prominent in the 15th century, Norwich, and Bristol, and York, you still sense the power of those times.
Looking at St Peter, the sophistication of its Perpendicular architecture feels a geological age away from the coarse, brutal Norman castle on the far side of the Main Croft (‘Mancroft’), which is understandable. Four hundred years had passed since the Norman invasion, and St Peter Mancroft is as close in time to the Industrial Revolution as it is to the Normans. That is true of all late medieval churches, of course, but seeing the architecture in a city you get a sense that it looked to the future more than to the past. St Peter Mancroft feels entirely at home with the clean, Scandinavian lines of the adjacent 1930s City Hall, and perhaps even more so with the retro-Modernism of the new Forum, whch reflects it back to the city. The Forum was built to replace the Norwich City library, tragically destroyed by fire in 1994, but in style it echoes the confidence of a great 19th century railway station, the roof a triumph of engineering. You are reminded of Cologne, where to leave the railway station and step into the shadow of the west front of the great Cathedral is to merely move from one statement of civic pride to another.
The influence of Flanders and the Netherlands is familiar in East Anglia, of course, but it is only at Norwich you sense this sense of civic bullishness. Utilitarian, practical Ipswich demolished St Mildred on the Cornhill in the 19th century – the French Baroque town hall now stands on the site. In Cambridge, the market place has been skewed so that today St Mary the Great sits with its east window facing the stalls, as if keeping them at a distance. Worse, it now styles itself the ‘University Church’. The great north side of St Peter Mancroft, its massive tower and clerestory like eternal truths rising above the deckchair jollity of the stall canopies, is a constant presence. You can never ignore it.
We know that the present church was begun by 1430, and was consecrated on St Peter’s Day, 1455. That is, it is all of a piece. In the nave and chancel there are echoes of near-contemporary Holy Trinity, Long Melford, in Suffolk. The tower is something else again; idiosyncratic, a symbol of power and wealth. There’s nothing else quite like it. Pevsner thought it more rich than aesthetically successful, and this is not helped by Street’s spirelet of 1881, a flighty thing. There was a massive Victorian restoration here. Before the Streets, pere et fils, came along, diocesan architect Richard Phipson had given it a going over, and there is a sense of the grand 19th century civic dignity of his St Mary le Tower in Ipswich. Of course, hardly anything of these restorations is visible from the outside, apart from a mid-20th century meeting room down in the south-east corner, a jaunty Festival of Britain affair, now a parish tea room.
A processional way runs beneath the tower, and there is another beneath the chancel, the land sloping steeply away towards the east. You enter from either the north or south sides, through surprisingly small porches which lead into the aisles. Again, a sense of civic confidence pervades as the interior unfolds before you.
There is no chancel arch. The arcades run the full length of the church, the great east window is echoed by that to the west, and if you stand in the middle of the church and look to either end, only the west end organ tells you easily which direction you are facing. The furnishings are pretty much all Phipson’s, uneasily heavy under the delicate fluting of the columns. How good modern wooden chairs would look in here! There are civic memorials the lengths of the aisle walls, but because the windows are full of clear glass they are not oppressive here as they are, say, at St Stephen.
At the west end of the north aisle sits the font on its pedestal. You can see at a glance that it was one of the seven sacraments series, and that all of its reliefs have been completely erased, as in the great churches of Southwold and Blythburgh in Suffolk. At Wenhaston, we know that this happened in the 19th century – could the same thing be true here? Above the font is the famous font canopy. Now, font canopies are so rare – there are only four of them, and they are all so different – that it is not particularly useful to compare them. Certainly, that here reflects the rather grander example at Trunch, some twenty miles away. Since the other two are either post-Reformation (Durham) or made of stone (Luton), it might make sense to think of the Norfolk two as a unique pair. Here at St Peter Mancroft, much of the upper part is a 19th century restoration, and there seems to have been some attempt to copy Trunch. The lower part is more interesting, with its niches and canopies. It must have been spectacular when the font was intact.
Pevsner tells us that the gilded reredos in the sanctuary is by JP Seddon, but that Ninian Comper restored and enlarged it in the early 1930s. It is not exciting, but that is probably as well, for above it is one of the greatest medieval treasures of East Anglia. This is the medieval glass that survives from the first few decades of the existence of the church. Some of it was probably in place that first Petertide. It has been moved around a bit since then; the whole east side was blown out by an explosion in 1648, and the glass has been removed on several occasions since, most recently during the Second World War. After East Harling, it is the finest expanse of Norwich School glass of the 15th century.
Books have been written about the glass at St Peter Mancroft, and there is neither time nor space to go into too much detail here. Suffice to say that this is the work of several Norwich workshops, probably working in the Conesford area of the city along what is today King Street. It is obvious that some other glass in East Anglia is from the same workshops using the same or similar cartoons, notably North Tuddenham in Norfolk and Combs in Suffolk, and of course most obviously, East Harling. Indeed, by comparison with East Harling in the 1920s, the historian Christopher Woodforde was able to deduce some of what was missing here, and what there.
There are several sequences, most notably the Story of Christ from the Annunciation to the day of Pentecost. This extends into a Marian sequence depicting the story of the Assumption. There are also scenes from the stories of St Peter and St John, and other individual Saints panels, including St Faith, a significant cult in late medieval Norwich. The panel of St Francis suggests that it was also once part of a sequence. The lower range depicts the donors, some of whom are identified. The central spine is largely modern glass by Clayton and Bell for the Streets in the 1880s. Some of the missing glass is now at Felbrigg Hall.
In any other church, the 1921 glass by Herbert Hendrie in the south chapel aisle chapel would be considered outstanding. It is in the style of Eric Gill, but feels rather heavy handed next to the extraordinary delicacy of its medieval neighbours.
While I was here, I stopped taking photographs for the one o’clock prayers. One of the custodians stood at the lectern and read very eloquently from the Acts of the Apostles, and said prayers for the city and its people. Apart from me, there were only two other listeners in the vast space. It was tenderly and thoughtfully done, but I couldn’t help thinking that it is the exterior of this wonderful structure which is the Church’s true act of witness in central Norwich now.
