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| Inlaid tile, Rievaulx Abbey. |
Sunday, 28 October 2012
Sunday, 21 October 2012
The Monk’s Garden Revisited
At Mount Grace Priory (Yorkshire) English Heritage have recreated
a cell and garden unit to reveal to the public the daily life of the medieval
Carthusian monk. The Carthusians led a very different existence to that of the
Benedictine or Cistercians orders, for it was primarily a solitary life. The
cell and garden unit allowed the Carthusian monk to pray, work, read and eat
alone. It was unsurprising therefore that the cell and garden often reflected
the personal choice and taste of the resident monk.
The recreated garden is based upon the archaeological evidence gleaned from the excavations of Cell 8, which revealed some clues as to the garden plan. In the fifteenth century the garden was possibly ornamental, with a feature tree and wide paths. In the sixteenth century the garden perhaps became a vegetable garden with straight beds.
English Heritage have constructed three main areas within the recreated garden. There is a wooden pentice running along the outer wall, leading to the latrine. Against this a bed has been planted with strawberries and other fruits. The central space is paved and divided into smaller beds by hedging. Here herbs such as sage, rosemary and thyme have been planted. On the opposite side to the pentice is a bed with a single ornamental tree.
Recreations of the monastic garden are of course becoming ever more commonplace at heritage sites, but it is here at Mount Grace Priory where you really gain the best insight to the character of the monk gardener.
The recreated garden is based upon the archaeological evidence gleaned from the excavations of Cell 8, which revealed some clues as to the garden plan. In the fifteenth century the garden was possibly ornamental, with a feature tree and wide paths. In the sixteenth century the garden perhaps became a vegetable garden with straight beds.
English Heritage have constructed three main areas within the recreated garden. There is a wooden pentice running along the outer wall, leading to the latrine. Against this a bed has been planted with strawberries and other fruits. The central space is paved and divided into smaller beds by hedging. Here herbs such as sage, rosemary and thyme have been planted. On the opposite side to the pentice is a bed with a single ornamental tree.
Recreations of the monastic garden are of course becoming ever more commonplace at heritage sites, but it is here at Mount Grace Priory where you really gain the best insight to the character of the monk gardener.
Sunday, 14 October 2012
A Familiar Face
At last count there were at least fifty-seven Green Men around York Minster. How many can you find?
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| Green Man in the Chapter House. |
Sunday, 7 October 2012
The Raven Of Smoke And Fire...
The last vestiges of smoke wove amongst the branches
creating an indistinct haze through which the riders squinted fruitlessly. The
cloying scent of burning and blackened wood caused the horses to shift nervously,
pawing at the frozen ground and straining their necks from side to side. The
men compensated skilfully with the casual flicker of thigh muscles, their
attention remaining carefully attuned to the shrouded forest. They all recognised
the increased likelihood of an ambush in this remorseless environment. Their
breath misted and combined with the horses’ panting, the only sound in the
otherwise unnatural calm.
Each man was veiled against the cold by an assortment of furs and woollen layers. Nobody here wore simply the clothes which they had originally arrived in this land with. Nothing in their previous lives could have prepared the men for the cold bleakness of the northern landscape. They had salvaged what they could from those who no longer had need of the warmth – the dead and buried. A slight, handsome man with a tawny mane of hair pulled his own wool scarf tighter across his face. Hawk’s nose was already pink and his throat was aching from the bite of the frigid air.
“I don’t like this.” He complained in an undertone, his words as much directed to the temperature as to the silence. He glared at his swarthy companion who was one of the last northmen. His head was bared to the elements and yet there was not a trace of discomfort on his face. Raven had been born into the cold of perpetual winter, never knowing anything except the grey and white lace of the snow and ice. Whilst Hawk’s gilded features oftentimes lead to an underestimation of his ruthlessness, nobody could misjudge the threat inherent in Raven’s powerfully muscled frame.
“You Southerners’ are all the same.” Raven rasped with dry amusement. In truth though, they were all the same, even the northman. They had been stationed in the northern garrison some years before. It was a service they all had to complete before they could be rewarded with their freedom. Whilst the others dreamt of one day returning to loved ones in the prosperous south, the northman allowed his resentment of the rape of his homeland to fester. Only the comely southerner managed to deflect the northman’s bitterness. It was a bond forged by the necessity of survival, but respect had been grudgingly earned resulting in a kind of friendship. Neither knew the others true name, for when they came to the garrison they were assigned fresh identities. Great influence could be wrought from the knowledge of a man’s true name and they remained careful to address one another by their new monikers.
Raven came to attention suddenly, all humorous lightness deserting his features. His fingers tingled, and not with cold, as he reflexively gripped the pommel of his weapon. They were being watched. His eyes scanned their surroundings and he silently echoed his friend’s complaint. The cold stillness leant a permanence to the coiling smoke which would otherwise have been swept clean by the slightest breeze. The densely packed forest cast too many shadows, creating a hundred new places for an enemy to hide.
As if a blade had caught the sunlight something flashed bright in the smoke-filled depths. He kicked his horse forward, frowning darkly at the uneasy feeling that lay upon him like a shroud. It was then that he saw the figure standing opposite. It stared directly at him with the watchful, amber eyes of a wild animal. It was impossible that he had not seen its approach. The woman made no effort to conceal herself or the vibrant fire of her long, unkempt tresses.
“Raven?” His friend questioned from across the clearing. The northman realised that in his preoccupation he had been drawn away from the rest of the group. He drew breath in readiness to reply and bring their attention to the solitary figure. Except she had disappeared, as if she had been no more than a wraith or a shape conjured by his imagination from the smoke. Yet he felt certain that she had been real. As he turned back to the other men he could not help but rub his talisman, unsettled by the apparition. She had made no move towards them and could have been carved from stone if it were not for the movement of her lips. They had been repeatedly forming the same set of words again and again. Even from that distance he had known instinctively what she had been chanting.
She had been calling his true name.
Each man was veiled against the cold by an assortment of furs and woollen layers. Nobody here wore simply the clothes which they had originally arrived in this land with. Nothing in their previous lives could have prepared the men for the cold bleakness of the northern landscape. They had salvaged what they could from those who no longer had need of the warmth – the dead and buried. A slight, handsome man with a tawny mane of hair pulled his own wool scarf tighter across his face. Hawk’s nose was already pink and his throat was aching from the bite of the frigid air.
“I don’t like this.” He complained in an undertone, his words as much directed to the temperature as to the silence. He glared at his swarthy companion who was one of the last northmen. His head was bared to the elements and yet there was not a trace of discomfort on his face. Raven had been born into the cold of perpetual winter, never knowing anything except the grey and white lace of the snow and ice. Whilst Hawk’s gilded features oftentimes lead to an underestimation of his ruthlessness, nobody could misjudge the threat inherent in Raven’s powerfully muscled frame.
“You Southerners’ are all the same.” Raven rasped with dry amusement. In truth though, they were all the same, even the northman. They had been stationed in the northern garrison some years before. It was a service they all had to complete before they could be rewarded with their freedom. Whilst the others dreamt of one day returning to loved ones in the prosperous south, the northman allowed his resentment of the rape of his homeland to fester. Only the comely southerner managed to deflect the northman’s bitterness. It was a bond forged by the necessity of survival, but respect had been grudgingly earned resulting in a kind of friendship. Neither knew the others true name, for when they came to the garrison they were assigned fresh identities. Great influence could be wrought from the knowledge of a man’s true name and they remained careful to address one another by their new monikers.
Raven came to attention suddenly, all humorous lightness deserting his features. His fingers tingled, and not with cold, as he reflexively gripped the pommel of his weapon. They were being watched. His eyes scanned their surroundings and he silently echoed his friend’s complaint. The cold stillness leant a permanence to the coiling smoke which would otherwise have been swept clean by the slightest breeze. The densely packed forest cast too many shadows, creating a hundred new places for an enemy to hide.
As if a blade had caught the sunlight something flashed bright in the smoke-filled depths. He kicked his horse forward, frowning darkly at the uneasy feeling that lay upon him like a shroud. It was then that he saw the figure standing opposite. It stared directly at him with the watchful, amber eyes of a wild animal. It was impossible that he had not seen its approach. The woman made no effort to conceal herself or the vibrant fire of her long, unkempt tresses.
“Raven?” His friend questioned from across the clearing. The northman realised that in his preoccupation he had been drawn away from the rest of the group. He drew breath in readiness to reply and bring their attention to the solitary figure. Except she had disappeared, as if she had been no more than a wraith or a shape conjured by his imagination from the smoke. Yet he felt certain that she had been real. As he turned back to the other men he could not help but rub his talisman, unsettled by the apparition. She had made no move towards them and could have been carved from stone if it were not for the movement of her lips. They had been repeatedly forming the same set of words again and again. Even from that distance he had known instinctively what she had been chanting.
She had been calling his true name.
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