Putlogs!
May26-27 2011
Salisbury, Wiltshire, U.K.
I like cathedrals. This might sound a little odd, considering that I'm not religious in any sense of the word, and I find people who are devoutly so to be a little trying on my nerves. But I do like cathedrals. Anything that is big and made of stone, with a tower or a dome, is something I can appreciate. Maybe I don't care for the spiritual bullying that can go on inside, but just as I may not agree with whatever distasteful rites prehistoric peoples were performing at Stonehenge, it doesn't stop me from admiring what they've done.
In the case of Salisbury Cathedral what they have done is to build it three times. The first was a wooden one, built on the hilltop town of Old Sarum, which was struck by lightning and damaged. So they built a bigger one out of stone around it. Then, deciding they did not like having to ship their water up the hill, they abandoned that cathedral, and moved down into the river plain and built their "new" cathedral in what is now Salisbury's City Centre. It is surrounded by a wide green lawn, on which can still be seen the footprint of the old free-standing belltower, long since demolished and stuck on to the main building.
This one, I later learned, has also been struck by lightning. But, being in the middle of a city and at close proximity to three rivers, it only suffered minor damage, and today it is the centerpiece of downtown Salisbury.
When we first arrived in the city, tired and jetlagged, we stumbled our way around trying to find the Bed and Breakfast we were staying at. It was called the Cathedral View, so we knew it had to be close to the cathedral. The problem is, the cathedral has a rather impressive spire, which you can see from just about anywhere in Salisbury. So we found the cathedral all right, but it took us another hour of trudging in rectangles along the busy streets before we got some sound directions and were able to find our lodgings.
The Cloister is surrounded by a flint-brick wall, like much of the buildings there, and during our stay we discovered no less than three different gateways inside: all but one were pedestrian only, and inside traffic is reduced to a crawl, regulated by the disorderly gaggles of tourists walking around with their heads craned back, staring up at the spire.
It was here, at a bench and table across the wide lawn from the cathedral, that I spent my first morning in Salisbury, sitting and inking. It was interesting to note, over the course of the few hours I spent there, that the stringy crowds of people moving through were not entirely made up of tourists. A good number, judging from their accents (or, as our tower guide said "lack of accents") had to be locals, and some walked with such purpose and concentration right past the front doors, morning coffee in one hand and briefcase in the other, that they could not have been there for the sight. Still, if you lived in a city with something like Salisbury Cathedral, I imagine you would route your morning walk to pass it by.
But if the outside is impressive (and it is), you get a whole new appreciation for the building when you step inside, and take a look and what went into making it.
On Thursday afternoon Aunt and I took the Tower Tour, a guided walk that led up into the attic of the cathedral, before twisting upwards on tight wooden staircases past the clock mechanism, the bells, before terminating at the base of the spire (after which the only way up is a string of rickety ladders, and a the every top, where it becomes to small to fit through, you have to pop outside and climb up metal rungs to the very top. And this they would not let us do).
It was during this tour that our guide, Leslie, stopped beside a piece of wall in the attic which held two remarkable things. The first, and the one I noticed right away, was a carving of an animal head-possibly a dog, through the snout was too long; maybe a wolf? But it seemed to slight for a wolf. Maybe a fox? Leslie told us that they had a very nice story about the carving: that a long time ago a philosopher had come to stay in the city of Salisbury, and taking up stone carving as a hobby. He had carved this dog in the fashion of the other dog-heads which decorated the top of the spire-put there to commemorate the dogs of the original stonemasons. However, being outside in all winds and weathers, these carvings were much given to decay, and so the philosopher hoped that one day his carving might be used to replace one that had worn away.
"That was our story," Leslie said with a wry smile. "Then a few years back we had a gentlemen on tour with us and he got to this point and said, 'Oh, I see you still have the head I carved in 1976!'"
The other thing Leslie pointed out was the little square hole below the dog head. That, he told us, was an aperture for a putlog, a sort of bracing beam used to support scaffolding during construction. He told us to remember that word, or he wouldn't let us back down the tower. I made a point of remembering, because I know I will use it in a story one day.
Thanks, Leslie!
Now, the actual beams of would that make up the trusses and the spine of the roof are interesting: in many of them you can still see the curvature of the original bough, indeed these were often picked specifically for their shape. And there are no nails in the original woodwork: instead the medieval carpenter utilized a sort of peg-in-hole set up not unlike pinning two pieces of wood together, as you might do with a metal needle through cloth.
There are no stairs built into the wall of the tower. Instead you go up a tightly winding wooden staircase with shoots up clean through the air, and lets you off at various levels: first the bells, and then, the base of the spire. Here you look up to a complex net of wood beams which in turn support the wooden ladder which leads up inside the octagonal spire. At one side is a huge wooden wheel, big enough for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder inside. On the outside there are rungs, like that of a ladder, and the whole thing is connected to a rope and pulley system, which was used to drag the one-tonne slabs of stone up to construct the spire.
This, as I have said before, is as high as they will let you go. But we did get to go out on a (very) narrow walkway outside the tower, from which we could look out over the Cloister, over Salisbury, to Old Sarum on his hill.
The last thing I have to tell, before I am dragged once more from the computer, is of Evensong, and the service we attended before dinner. Though I had to pointedly ignore the gaping holes in both logic, reason and decently storytelling, I did very much enjoy the choir. And really, to come and sing in a building like this one, it is not such a bad way to practice your religion. I might be compelled to see the attractiveness of it, if there weren't so much more fascinating stuff out there.
I had meant to tell of the Bed and Breakfast we stayed at: of friendly talkative Steve, and slight, elflike Wenda. But I have run out of time again, as today we bicycle to Bath, and take a second pass at the Standing Stones of Stanton Drew. These last are considerably lesser known that their famous cousins on Salisbury Plain, and as such are a great deal more fun to visit.
Salisbury, Wiltshire, U.K.
I like cathedrals. This might sound a little odd, considering that I'm not religious in any sense of the word, and I find people who are devoutly so to be a little trying on my nerves. But I do like cathedrals. Anything that is big and made of stone, with a tower or a dome, is something I can appreciate. Maybe I don't care for the spiritual bullying that can go on inside, but just as I may not agree with whatever distasteful rites prehistoric peoples were performing at Stonehenge, it doesn't stop me from admiring what they've done.
In the case of Salisbury Cathedral what they have done is to build it three times. The first was a wooden one, built on the hilltop town of Old Sarum, which was struck by lightning and damaged. So they built a bigger one out of stone around it. Then, deciding they did not like having to ship their water up the hill, they abandoned that cathedral, and moved down into the river plain and built their "new" cathedral in what is now Salisbury's City Centre. It is surrounded by a wide green lawn, on which can still be seen the footprint of the old free-standing belltower, long since demolished and stuck on to the main building.
This one, I later learned, has also been struck by lightning. But, being in the middle of a city and at close proximity to three rivers, it only suffered minor damage, and today it is the centerpiece of downtown Salisbury.
When we first arrived in the city, tired and jetlagged, we stumbled our way around trying to find the Bed and Breakfast we were staying at. It was called the Cathedral View, so we knew it had to be close to the cathedral. The problem is, the cathedral has a rather impressive spire, which you can see from just about anywhere in Salisbury. So we found the cathedral all right, but it took us another hour of trudging in rectangles along the busy streets before we got some sound directions and were able to find our lodgings.
The Cloister is surrounded by a flint-brick wall, like much of the buildings there, and during our stay we discovered no less than three different gateways inside: all but one were pedestrian only, and inside traffic is reduced to a crawl, regulated by the disorderly gaggles of tourists walking around with their heads craned back, staring up at the spire.
It was here, at a bench and table across the wide lawn from the cathedral, that I spent my first morning in Salisbury, sitting and inking. It was interesting to note, over the course of the few hours I spent there, that the stringy crowds of people moving through were not entirely made up of tourists. A good number, judging from their accents (or, as our tower guide said "lack of accents") had to be locals, and some walked with such purpose and concentration right past the front doors, morning coffee in one hand and briefcase in the other, that they could not have been there for the sight. Still, if you lived in a city with something like Salisbury Cathedral, I imagine you would route your morning walk to pass it by.
But if the outside is impressive (and it is), you get a whole new appreciation for the building when you step inside, and take a look and what went into making it.
On Thursday afternoon Aunt and I took the Tower Tour, a guided walk that led up into the attic of the cathedral, before twisting upwards on tight wooden staircases past the clock mechanism, the bells, before terminating at the base of the spire (after which the only way up is a string of rickety ladders, and a the every top, where it becomes to small to fit through, you have to pop outside and climb up metal rungs to the very top. And this they would not let us do).
It was during this tour that our guide, Leslie, stopped beside a piece of wall in the attic which held two remarkable things. The first, and the one I noticed right away, was a carving of an animal head-possibly a dog, through the snout was too long; maybe a wolf? But it seemed to slight for a wolf. Maybe a fox? Leslie told us that they had a very nice story about the carving: that a long time ago a philosopher had come to stay in the city of Salisbury, and taking up stone carving as a hobby. He had carved this dog in the fashion of the other dog-heads which decorated the top of the spire-put there to commemorate the dogs of the original stonemasons. However, being outside in all winds and weathers, these carvings were much given to decay, and so the philosopher hoped that one day his carving might be used to replace one that had worn away.
"That was our story," Leslie said with a wry smile. "Then a few years back we had a gentlemen on tour with us and he got to this point and said, 'Oh, I see you still have the head I carved in 1976!'"
The other thing Leslie pointed out was the little square hole below the dog head. That, he told us, was an aperture for a putlog, a sort of bracing beam used to support scaffolding during construction. He told us to remember that word, or he wouldn't let us back down the tower. I made a point of remembering, because I know I will use it in a story one day.
Thanks, Leslie!
Now, the actual beams of would that make up the trusses and the spine of the roof are interesting: in many of them you can still see the curvature of the original bough, indeed these were often picked specifically for their shape. And there are no nails in the original woodwork: instead the medieval carpenter utilized a sort of peg-in-hole set up not unlike pinning two pieces of wood together, as you might do with a metal needle through cloth.
There are no stairs built into the wall of the tower. Instead you go up a tightly winding wooden staircase with shoots up clean through the air, and lets you off at various levels: first the bells, and then, the base of the spire. Here you look up to a complex net of wood beams which in turn support the wooden ladder which leads up inside the octagonal spire. At one side is a huge wooden wheel, big enough for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder inside. On the outside there are rungs, like that of a ladder, and the whole thing is connected to a rope and pulley system, which was used to drag the one-tonne slabs of stone up to construct the spire.
This, as I have said before, is as high as they will let you go. But we did get to go out on a (very) narrow walkway outside the tower, from which we could look out over the Cloister, over Salisbury, to Old Sarum on his hill.
The last thing I have to tell, before I am dragged once more from the computer, is of Evensong, and the service we attended before dinner. Though I had to pointedly ignore the gaping holes in both logic, reason and decently storytelling, I did very much enjoy the choir. And really, to come and sing in a building like this one, it is not such a bad way to practice your religion. I might be compelled to see the attractiveness of it, if there weren't so much more fascinating stuff out there.
I had meant to tell of the Bed and Breakfast we stayed at: of friendly talkative Steve, and slight, elflike Wenda. But I have run out of time again, as today we bicycle to Bath, and take a second pass at the Standing Stones of Stanton Drew. These last are considerably lesser known that their famous cousins on Salisbury Plain, and as such are a great deal more fun to visit.