‘Historic cathedral city’ is an evocative epithet. There is something very English about it. It conjures up nostalgic images that extend
beyond the meaning of the words themselves, associating to mental landscapes of
a kind familiar from railway posters of the 1930s and dust-jackets of Batsford
Books. We know, or think we know, what
is, and is not, a ‘historic cathedral city’.
We mean places like Wells, Salisbury , Chichester,
Winchester , Canterbury ,
Hereford and Lichfield :
modest-sized towns with a medieval Cathedral at their heart. We expect the Cathedral to be surrounded by a
sward of immaculately tended green, a close lined with Georgian houses with (preferably)
a wall around it and a gate that is shut at night. We expect there to be a dense cluster of
historic buildings lining networks of narrow streets and lanes along which the
evensong bell echoes each day. We expect
urban sprawl to have been contained, and the depredations of industry and
commercial development to have been kept out of their historic core. We expect there to be interesting shops to
detain us, independents and not merely the generic high-street brands. We expect
a townscape with an individual, personal texture and a strong sense of place, not
a clone of somewhere else but a city that has personality, that is truly,
authentically itself. Those are some of
my criteria for a good historic cathedral city.
They may be difficult to state but I think we recognise it when we see
it.
There are many cities that are historic in the sense that
they have a history. Most have
cathedrals. But we do not think of them as
‘historic cathedral cities;. In the case
of the so-called large ‘core-cities’ like Bristol ,
Birmingham , Manchester ,
Sheffield and Newcastle ,
the cathedral is not magnet towards which visitors are first drawn. You do not go to these places solely for the
purpose of visiting their cathedrals, and indeed none of them had a cathedral
in the middle-ages. Bristol become a cathedral under Henry VIII while
the others have parish churches that acquired cathedral status in the 19th
or early 20th centuries. When
I went to Sheffield , some people were
surprised to learn that it even had a cathedral. Meanwhile, some of our largest cities do not
have cathedrals at all: Leeds, Hull , Plymouth , Nottingham, Southampton and closer to home, Sunderland .
Liverpool and Coventry (where I was a
canon before going to Sheffield) are perhaps the only large urban centres
outside London
whose cathedrals are destinations in their own right.
At the other end of the scale, there are towns that do have cathedrals
but are not cities: Southwell, Ripon and Bury St Edmunds, latecomers as
cathedrals go, for their monastic churches only gained cathedral status in the last
150 years. Truro , with its fine 19th century
cathedral, has successfully emulated the historic cathedral cities in some
respects. Guildford
has a 20th century cathedral but is not (yet) a city. Bath
is an interesting case because in the medieval period its Abbey was one of the
two cathedrals of its diocese, only becoming a secular parish church at the
dissolution. But it is still a city today.
And then there are those cities that have grown considerably beyond
their pre-modern city limits but whose centres still retain the character of a cathedral
city – some more so like York, Norwich and Chester, some less so, like Exeter, Carlisle
and Peterborough, this last city having been treated cruelly by developers ever
since the 16th century.
If I am right to say that we know intuitively what we mean
when we talk about ‘historic cathedral cities’, then it may be worth examining how
well it applies to Durham . I should like to do this by taking these
three words in turn, ‘historic’, ‘cathedral’ and ‘city’. We should imagine that they are hyphenated,
for they cannot ultimately be separated.
I hope to raise issues that Durham
perhaps needs to face if it is to cherish its identity as a ‘historic cathedral
city’.
In 2008 The Princess Royal unveiled Fenwick Lawson’s sculpture ‘The Journey’ in
What do we mean when we say that a place is ‘historic’? It is probably to do with what it evokes by
its essential character. ‘Historic’ in
the rhetoric of travel promotion tends to mean ‘pre-industrial’, a notion that
colludes with the nostalgic colouring certain places acquire in our minds. Our nearest city neighbours, Newcastle
and Sunderland speak of a more recent history
that does not quite qualify for the epithet ‘historic’: a proud industrial
past, great urban expansion, a centre of commerce and trade. Durham ,
by contrast, has a more or less intact core of pre-modern buildings that effectively
define its nature, at least as we remember it in the landscape of the
mind. There is more to Durham than this,
of course: its mining history and other local industries, its long lines of
Victorian terraces at Langley Moor or Pity Me that are so typical of the
north-east; its bland 20th century suburbs and retail parks that are
generic England and could be anywhere. But
we do not remember Durham
for these things. We remember it for a compact
townscape that wears its history visibly in its ancient street-patterns, its
medieval, Tudor and Georgian houses, its river banks, bridges and churches, its
castle and cathedral.
However, this seems to me to be a weak use of the word
‘historic’. It can so easily be debased into
meaning that it exudes an atmosphere of ‘oldness’ or ‘quaintness’. (The promotional rhetoric of travel literature
speaks of a ‘vibrant old town’ whose ‘winding’ narrow streets are ‘studded’ with
‘picturesque’ old houses ‘huddling together’ or ‘nestling’ under the shadow of
a ‘stunning’ or ‘iconic’ cathedral ‘perched’ on its hilltop. This is language inflation and if we care
about our heritage, we should take as much care over words we use to describe
it as we do over our buildings, monuments and landscapes. I do believe that Durham Cathedral is an ‘iconic’
and ‘stunning’ building in the sense that few others in the world can claim to
be. But I have resolved that we shall
stop using these words in our literature. We do not honour what is distinctive about
Durham or its
Cathedral by falling into cliché.)
The word ‘historic’ has to carry a stronger sense than merely
looking or feeling ‘old’. History has to
do with the narrative we relate and inhabit.
That story is not simply about the past.
It has to do with self-understanding, how we elicit meanings. So an historic town or city is one that has a
sense of its own origins, a defining myth that explains why it is what it is
and not something else, and why it is here
and not somewhere else. Douglas
Pocock speaks about the quality of ‘Durhamness’[1]. ‘Durham-ness’ is not only about what constitutes
our city’s unique setting and townscapes.
It is to do with how the built heritage relates to its cultural,
intellectual and spiritual heritage.
This historic sense alone enables us to read the townscape
intelligently. This brings me back to St
Cuthbert and ‘The Journey’. The image of
the monks tramping up the hill with their infinitely precious cargo is an
unforgettable image of our city’s origins.
It makes visible an aspect of the history we need to know if we are to grasp
what makes this an ‘historic’ cathedral city.
It is this strong sense of the word ‘historic’ that we
should do more to promote in Durham . In what ways is Durham unique or at least distinctive
historically? Here are some
suggestions. Durham
is the only Cathedral in England
that is almost entirely Romanesque. It
is the best-preserved monastic site in the country that is still in use for its
original religious purposes. It is the
oldest continuously inhabited place of learning in England . It has the best preserved monastic library
that is still in situ. It is the only cathedral to have intact
shrines not only of one, or even two, but of three saints. The Cathedral has held resonances for its
region in a way true only in a handful of other places. The Durham Palatinate with its counts
palatine or prince-bishops was a unique political arrangement in England of
which the Castle is the symbol. The
Castle is the oldest working university building in the world. Durham is one of the few cities to have
preserved its medieval walls. No doubt
you can add to this list.
Going back to St Cuthbert, in 2005 his name, removed by
Henry VIII from the Cathedral’s dedication, was reinstated in its legal title as
‘The Cathedral Church of Christ, Blessed Mary the Virgin and St Cuthbert of Durham ’. Cuthbert continues to inform our historic
sense. We are looking forward to receiving
into the Cathedral a contemporary replica of the Cuthbert Banner that once hung
in the south quire aisle, was carried into battle, and which was summarily
destroyed by a reforming dean’s wife (I am sorry to say). We have a great opportunity to build on this in
2013 when the British Library has
agreed in principle to loan the Lindisfarne Gospel Book and St Cuthbert’s
Gospel Book (newly acquired for the nation by the Library) to Durham for three
months. They will be exhibited in the
University’s new exhibition space on Palace Green. The Lindisfarne Gospel Book was written at the
turn of the 7th and 8th centuries ‘in honour of God and
St Cuthbert’ and brought here by his community along with his body; the
Cuthbert Gospel was interred with him in the 7th century. This close connection with Cuthbert is the
intellectual and spiritual reason for welcoming them into Cuthbert’s place, the
peninsula of Durham and displaying them close to his relics. In the medieval Cathedral Priory we can
assume that this intimate connection would have been regarded as a
symbol-system that was unbreakable. I would
discourage us from speaking about this as some romantic homecoming: I would
rather that we spoke instead about affirming our own history by bringing
together the ancient emblems that lie at the heart of our identity.
History has its dark side, and recognising this ought to be part
of branding a place ‘historic. This is
however often forgotten. For example, I
point out to visitors awed by the beauty of the Cathedral that it would not
have been read that way by the native Saxons who had suffered as a result of
the Norman Conquest. To them, its grey
towers stood for the harrying of the north and for brutal oppression. It was intended
to be a symbol of ruthless power. This
gives the building an ambiguity that is not always recognised: it is at once
built for the glory of God but also to establish the hegemony of a foreign invader.
Nor does the shadow stop there. The
inhuman treatment of Scottish prisoners of war by Cromwell in the bitter winter
of 1650-1651 when they were incarcerated in the cathedral after the Battle of
Dunbar is a part of our history that we are only now getting round to
commemorating in the building. The empty
niches of the Neville Screen, the levelling of Cuthbert’s shrine, the mutilated
Neville tombs are further visible aspects of the destructiveness the Cathedral
has seen since the 16th century.
This ‘shadow’ is caught for me by Mark Hudson in a memorable
book about the mining village
of Horden . He is speaking of the Miners’ Gala, and how
the banners of collieries where men had died in the year’s pit disasters would
be processed into the Cathedral lined with black crepe. He describes the links between the Cathedral
and the mining communities: the Haswell banner in the south transept and the
Miners’ Memorial in the south aisle. Here
is his introduction to them: ‘Anyone who wants to say that they have seen
Durham Cathedral, should see it not only in summer, the three great towers
rising hazy and visionlike through the balm of the great cloud of foliage, its
interior bathed in golden light, the majestic columns dappled with the
reflected hues of its stained glass, but also in the very dead of the year,
when the last leaves have departed the elms that cling to the great rock, its
gaunt winter face peering down through soot-encrusted eyelets into the black
dank water of the Wear, when the light seems hardly to penetrate much of the
interior, and the broad blank expanses of stone between the rows of upper and
lower arches rising from the submarine dimness towards the feeble light from
the upper windows have about them the clammy, irremediable chill of river mud.’[2]
It matters that we read a building and a place in its
totality, not selectively, editing out everything that does not charm or
elevate us. It is like Virgil leading
Dante around the circles of hell before Beatrice can lead him into
paradise. There should be integrity
about our treatment of historic places.
I felt this especially strongly when my wife and I visited Pompeii a few years ago. It was magnificent. But the interpretation lacked a sense that
these were disaster scenes where many human lives had been lost when the
volcano erupted in 79AD. At this mass
grave, the jokey commentary struck a false note. There was no recognition of loss nor was
there reverence for life. I found myself
wishing that history was not so susceptible of being popularised and thereby
trivialised. But I would be naïve not to
recognise that many readings of our historic cathedral city are just as
selective and superficial. This is the
inevitable down side of mass tourism. We
need to understand our role as an historic place, and pay attention to the
story we tell and how we tell it.
Why is
The phrase ‘historic cathedral city’ turns out to be about
more than it seems. Our city has
developed out of a founding myth that sacralises the physical geography. By that I mean that the history of the
Cathedral is inseparable from the history of the city, not because the city
would not exist without St Cuthbert, but because every chapter in the story right
up to the present day shows how dependent each is on the other. The history of the Cathedral has encapsulated,
embodied or even controlled the larger history of the city as the interplay of sacred
and secular power has changed down the centuries.
Once upon a time, a coffin was brought on to the peninsula,
a shrine was established there, and around it was the first Cathedral was built. It’s important to state it this way round:
our church is not a cathedral that has a shrine in it, but a shrine that has a
cathedral round it. This affects the way
we read the building as a succession of spaces that lead up to the sanctuary,
the high altar, the Neville Screen and the feretory beyond. Cuthbert’s shrine is the spiritual and
emotional climax of a building that functions as a long processional way that leads
up to a great climax. You cannot see it yet
from the west end, nor even from the crossing or quire; but you know it is
there. Like millions of pilgrims before
you, it may be the principal reason you have come: to make your own journey
between the mighty Romanesque piers like an avenue of trees, while above you,
as if to shelter your path, spreads a stone canopy of ribs and pointed arches
that constitute the pioneering stone vault.
St Cuthbert tells you what this church is for. When the Normans colonised the
cult of St Cuthbert and rebuilt the Cathedral in 1093, we can plausibly
conjecture that whoever designed this masterpiece knew exactly what he was
doing in creating architecture with the strongest sense of drama. The Cathedral is a theatre of the soul
because of the remembered power of Cuthbert to draw the eye and the imagination
ever eastwards towards the shrine.
This pattern is reproduced in the development of Durham City . At the beginning of its story, there was a cathedral. Around it a community settled: first
Cuthbert’s Saxon community who had at last found a home after the years of
wandering around the north of England . Then came the Normans , and with them, the city as we know
it began to take shape. Again we need to
tell the story the right way round. Like
the shrine enclosed by a Cathedral, the Cathedral was in turn enclosed by a city,
paroikiai, parishes, communities that
literally ‘lived around’. Durham is not a city that
has a Cathedral; it is a Cathedral around which a city has grown. Perhaps this is what we vaguely understand by
the phrase ‘historic cathedral city’ because many such cities turn out to have
grown out of and been formed around their cathedrals.
Take Salisbury . This was a new medieval city established in
the water meadows of the Wiltshire Avon when in the 13th century its
bishop and chapter abandoned the waterless chalky hill-top of Old Sarum with
its Romanesque cathedral, a site which they shared uneasily with a military
garrison. They built another cathedral by
the river to house the relics of St Osmund and a large close to house its
clergy. The footprint of the close
dictated the grid on which the chequers of the city were laid out. Like Durham , medieval Salisbury
is entirely the product of its cathedral. Bishop Richard Poore, who founded the
Cathedral of New Sarum and laid out the plan of the city, came here as Bishop
in 1228. Here he built the Chapel of the
Nine Altars, so reminiscent of the Early English of Salisbury. Poore would have recognised the symbiosis
between city and cathedral when he came to Durham , how the Cathedral and its college constituted
a ‘city within a city’ that shaped the evolution of the medieval town.
My point is that ‘historic cathedral cities’ are mostly those
in which the cathedral has decisively shaped the history of its city, and in
some has been the very reason for its existence. And ‘shaping’ is about more than simply the
physical development of a city. It has
to do with its ‘character’ and ‘personality’ as a lived community. That character has many dimensions. In the
case of Durham ,
these are particularly well documented.
For example, we know a great deal about the economic impact of the
Cathedral on the city and region in the era just before the convent’s
dissolution.[3] A city with an immensely powerful monastic
institution at its heart could not fail to feel the effects of its
gravitational pull at all levels of its political, social and economic
life.
In his fine account of Durham Priory in the first half of the 15th century under the long reign of Prior
Wessington, Barrie Dobson writes about Durham
‘The English Zion’. This well-known
epithet refers to Cuthbert’s personal choice of this rocky hill surrounded by
‘the sweet and delectable river of Were’ as his resting place. So it was claimed that God himself had
founded the city[4]. As Dobson points out, this is to assume that
there was no human settlement on the site prior to Cuthbert’s arrival, whereas
even Symeon of Durham knew that this was not the case. However, the myth expressed a conviction
about Durham ,
that it would not have become what it was without its saint and his
shrine. Durham ’s genius
loci is inextricably a consequence of a history shaped by the Priory as a
place of pilgrimage and prayer. Its
effect was to sacralise it as a holy city, an English Zion. Dobson writes: ‘if the monks of Durham owed everything to
Saint Cuthbert, the lay inhabitants of the city owed nearly everything to the
monastery which provided them with employment and reflected glory. Like the residents of a modern university
town, the inmates of fifteenth-century Durham may have sometimes looked askance
at the impressive corporate monster in their vicinity; but they were wise
enough to realise that it brought them less pain than profit.’[5]
We could trace this theme into the modern era. In subsequent centuries, despite the
weakening of the sacral ties between church and community, the Cathedral
nevertheless continued to wield significant power and influence in the city. This continued into the industrial era when
the Cathedral’s extensive coal interests in the neighbourhood were an important
factor in shaping its economy. At the
same time it was playing a decisive role in the founding and running of its
university. But I want to bring us up to the 21st century to suggest
how the same is still true in one aspect of the life of Durham , tourism.
Bill Bryson famously said in Notes from a Small Island : ‘I got off at Durham and fell in love with it
instantly… It’s wonderful – a perfect
little city. Take my car.’ In the same book he gives us the best
marketing strap line any dean and chapter could want: ‘the best Cathedral on
planet earth’; though the affirmation that means most to me is that he says:
‘Everything about it was perfect – not just its setting and execution but also…
the way it is run today…. no nagging for money, no “voluntary” admission fee…
no clutter, … no irksome bulletin boards… nothing… to detract from the
unutterable soaring majesty of the interior.’[6] On the strength of that, one couple enjoyed a
city break here and endorsed Bryson’s eulogy in the Guardian. They rhapsodised
about the ‘hushed cloisters’, the ‘vertiginous vaulted ceiling’, the ‘ancient
pillars’, this ‘mind-boggling feat of Norman engineering’. They have evidently dipped deep in the
travel-scribe’s armoury of words and phrases but it is well-meant.
The Cathedral receives more than 600000 visitors each year,
which makes it the biggest visitor attraction in the north-east. ‘Durham’, the city and county, is one of only fifteen ‘recognised destinations’
in England where the national tourism strategy is now being concentrated as financial
cuts curtail tourism promotion by the regions and local authorities. Clearly, as a ‘destination’, Durham relies heavily on the Cathedral. Its image appears everywhere: it is Durham ’s ‘brand’. Just as in the middle ages the city
benefitted from the benign invasion of pilgrims, so 21st century
visitors come here and bring business to the city. The economic impact of cathedral tourism has
been studied and it is possible to put a figure against it in terms of direct
and indirect spend. The Cathedral and the
city need each other, even if there are tensions in managing a site that is a
working church before it is a heritage site and tourist venue. I don’t believe that tourism erodes the
qualities in city or cathedral that visitors come to see: rather, the human
flow adds vitality to our streets, precinct and cathedral. Tourism reinforces
the sense of drama that a city like ours possesses because the throng changes
the way we experience it – the same can be said of our students. But beyond its economic benefit to the city, how
do you assess ‘value’ in a deeper way? How
does the Cathedral contribute to the city’s cultural, intellectual, social and
spiritual capital? What indeed are the city’s values – is it possible to name
them? For if our ‘values’ were merely
economic, we would be a poor place. They
are to do with how we understand ourselves, where we have come from, and what
we believe about ourselves, our communities, our places. They are to do with our aspirations for the
future: what kind of historic cathedral city we want to become, and why. These are important questions for Durham because
environment, buildings and townscape express our values for good or ill. So let me finally turn to that third word
‘city’.
I began by suggesting what the phrase ‘historic cathedral city’ evoked, and I have explored some of its aspects. In particular, I have drawn attention to what we might call the delicate ecology of this cathedral city: the relationships between the Cathedral and castle, the river banks, the medieval town. The first observation I want to make is that in Bill Bryson’s epithet ‘a perfect little city’, the word ‘little’ is not casually thrown in. It describes what he valued when he came here. He found a city in which things appeared to be in scale, where there was a sense of proportion about the way
Alain de Botton reflects on the power of architecture to
degrade its environment, to be less beautiful or useful than the green field on
which it was built. He is realistic
about the processes that lead to inappropriate development. ‘An investigation of the process by which
buildings rise reveals that unfortunate cases can in the end always be
attributed not to the hand of God, or to any immovable economic or political
necessities, or to the entrenched wishes of purchasers, or to some new depths
of human depravity, but to a pedestrian combination of low ambition, ignorance,
greed and accident.’[7] The ‘architecture of happiness’ means
buildings that disclose to us who and what we could become; our best aspirations
for ourselves and for our communities.
Such architecture can be grand or modest, sacred or secular, a castle or
a cathedral or a terraced house under a viaduct. We recognise its honesty and integrity when
we see it, and become more humane and more human by inhabiting it. Bad architecture is, by contrast, ‘a frozen
mistake writ large’. Unlike a bad book
or picture or play, mediocre architecture or town planning cannot be ignored. I am thinking of developments that are dissonant
or out of scale with their surroundings, or ugly in themselves, or merely bland
and compromise the strong sense of character and individuality that belongs to
cities.[8]
As a relative newcomer to Durham (I have lived and worked here
for 9 years), I have to say that what I now see compared to what I remember
from visits in the past is not all improvement.
It is true that the city centre is now a much cleaner, livelier, more
attractive place than it was in the 1960s.
I do not share the view of some that the reconfiguration of the market
square is a mistake (though however flawed the processes may have been, we need
to reserve judgment until the works are finished). Greater mistakes were made much longer ago
when high street names like Woolworths, Marks and Spencers and Boots were
allowed to create large shop frontages whose ugly expanses of glass violated
the intimate scale of the medieval town-centre, obscured the lines of the medieval
burgage plots, straightened out the natural movement of the streets and
subverted the role of those buildings that ought to have pride of place in a
town square, the parish church and the town hall. These frontages are not irreversible. It would be possible to respect the context
better by creating more varied, narrower, smaller scale frontages that still
allowed the footprint of the shop to extend to its full width behind.
In a ‘historic cathedral city’, scale and proportion are
everything. They matter because of the
delicate interplay between the massing of the Castle and Cathedral on their
acropolis and the intimate townscape below that acts as an essential foil to
them. This delicacy is at risk in Durham City . Inevitably, we all have our own list of
developments that we either like as genuine enhancements of an evolving working
city, or find incomprehensible, inappropriate or downright bad. The best developments in Durham are those that do not impinge on the
historic core or the irreplaceable views to and from the World Heritage Site,
or are courageous and innovative enough to hold their own in that setting. George Pace’s University library overlooking
the river behind Palace Green is one example.
Kingsgate Bridge may be another (though I wish I
could like it more). Perhaps even Dunelm
House is another: it certainly has hutzpah. Millennium Square has its virtues: its
striking contemporary forms, and the fact that it is invisible until you get
there. The High Street shopping
development is formulaic but is discreetly hidden away so it avoids my
hit-list. Like the rest of Durham , it would be much
better if there were more independent shops of the kind people like to find and
browse in when they come to cathedral cities.
In Chester or York , the shops are almost as good as the
cathedrals. But not in Durham , as visitors point out with a sense of
disappointment. If Durham
is to be an overnight destination, this aspect of its ‘visitor offer’ needs hard
work.
So far so satisfactory.
The same cannot be said for the cross-river (left bank) developments
downstream of Framwellgate
Bridge . Not only have unsurpassed river-front
opportunities been lost here, but the scale of these buildings, including the latest
of them, the Radisson Hotel, is too obtrusive when viewed from Prebends’
Bridge. From here, the modern
Milburngate road bridge was cunningly designed to be invisible so that all you
would see would be the Cathedral and Castle standing proud above the river
gorge and its tree canopy, and closing off the view, a medieval bridge. Now as you descend the incline from the
Cathedral towards Framwellgate
Bridge the skyline is spoiled
by the elevations of the large buildings that lie beyond. There is a lack of architectural humility and
respectfulness on the west bank of the Wear.
The same offence was committed on the other side of the peninsula with
the erection of the Prince Bishops car park and shopping centre. Here, the beautiful view of Elvet Bridge from
Kingsgate is compromised by the ungainly mass of Prince Bishops immediately
behind, looking like a monumental barn-conversion with a gratuitous green brick
fascia to pick out the stairwell externally.
Try photographing Elvet
Bridge looking upstream:
you cannot get the Prince Bishops out of the frame. This is homogenisation writ large with the
rhetoric of supermarket vernacular, and given what it is an emblem of, the
commoditisation of the towscape. Such things can perhaps be accepted at the
Arnison Centre or Dragonville. On the
edge of the medieval city-centre, the grandiose should have no place.
Questions of scale and proportion extend beyond buildings
and heritage to the larger issues of the future of Durham. Here I shall no doubt be controversial. Under the County’s development plan, it is proposed
to make Durham City the engine of the economic development of the County. This would entail significant population
growth, the construction of more than 5000 new houses, many of them on the
Green Belt, with all its consequences for road traffic and infrastructure. It is difficult to see how Durham would remain a ‘little’ city under the
Plan. It would lose much of its genius loci which is not simply the
value of the historic core in itself but the compactness of the city and the
sense of arrival as you cross the threshold from ‘country’ to ‘town’. The risk is that our historic cathedral city
could collapse into being simply the medieval heart of a large township whose
swathes of housing and out of town developments would spread across and obscure
the face of a city set in a bowl and surrounded by low green hills. Once lost, this double heritage of both a natural
and a built environment evolved over many centuries would never be recovered. 20th century developments in
cathedral cities like Exeter and Peterborough should worry us in case they portend the
future of Durham . As the Guardian
writers so eloquently said, it is precisely the littleness of Durham
that is part of its appeal. To my mind,
there is much to be said for policies that would re-populate the city centre,
get people living once more above the shops and offices, reinstate the human
texture and sense of community that belongs to small cities.
As guardians of our historic cathedral city, we want to be
good stewards of our heritage while also recognising what belongs to its
authentic evolution as a living working community. We do not want a chocolate box city that is merely
pleasant to look at. We want a city in
which human beings flourish because its institutions, temple, academy, market-
place, seat of government, are in a harmonious relationship with one another and
with its citizens. This is how a community
realises its best self and knows its city to be a ‘healthy city’, a good place
that fosters happiness. Citizenship means
believing in our city in this way and caring about its future, even if that
means defending it against the tyranny of the market and its love affair with the
grand projet.
Let me end by quoting a great artist on the experience of
living in another historic cathedral city.
Eric Gill moved from Brighton to Chichester
when he was a boy: not very far geographically, but spiritually a world
away. ‘Chichester, the human city, the
city of God, the place where life and work … were all in one and all in
harmony… a town, a city, a thing planned and ordered – no mere congeries of
more or less sordid streets, growing like a fungus… Chichester was what Brighton was not, an end…, a place, the product of reason
and love… Here was something as human as home and as lovely as heaven.’ It modelled ‘dignity and loveliness… a
civilised life… a way of living beautiful and spacious’.[9] That is my vision for this historic cathedral
city.
Durham, February 2011 (revised June 2012)
[1]
Pocock, Douglas, Durham : essays on a sense of place, Durham 1999, 6.
[2]
Hudson, Mark, Coming Back Brockens: a
year in a mining village, 1994, 121
[3]
Threlfall-Holmes, Miranda, Monks and
Markets: Durham
Cathedral Priory 1460-1520, 2006
[4]
Dobson, R. B., Durham Priory 1400-1450, Cambridge 1973, 33.
[5]
Ibid, 50.
[6]
Bryson, Bill, Notes from a Small Island ,
1995, 294-5.
[7]
De Botton, Alain, The Architecture of
Happiness, London ,
2006, 254.
[8]
Lefebvre, Henri, Writings on Cities, Oxford , 1996, 238.
[9]
Cited by Kenyon, Ruth, ‘The Town in Tomorrow’s Christendom’ in Reckitt, Maurice
B., Prospect for Christendom: essays in
catholic social reconstruction, London
1945, 127-8.