7. Gloucester City and The Hop Pole Inn in Bromsgrove

I awake to a pristine morning in Gloucester. Spring Sun and clear blue sky. I find breakfast in the Oasis Cafe which I was told about the night before by the girl on the Hotel desk. I take it away to sit in a quiet spot outside St. Mary's just off Southgate St.
The morning light on the stone of the church, the proximity of the yew trees and the perfectly situated bench, all reflected in the picture window of a modern recruitment centre opposite make it a memorable moment.
Though considerably messed up by the insensitive hand of progress there are reminders everywhere of one of the most beautiful cities that must have been. At the centre what is called 'The Cross' where north, south, east and west gate streets meet. Off from these, narrow alleys with mediaeval stone archways leading to yet another place of worship.

In awe I approach the Sun drenched Cathedral which beckons above where the throng busy themselves before the facades of the shop chains.
On entering I am warmly and excitedly accosted by a man who says "Sorry, I'm not a tour guide but you must go and see St Andrew's chapel which was painted by Thomas Gambier Parry. It's the most beautiful thing you will see."
I thank him and continue slowly, savouring each moment, being touched by magnificence.
There is a service going on, a ladies voice speaking quietly from the pulpit, yet I see only one person sitting in a congregation of over a hundred empty chairs and there is something in her voice....
she is not selling anything.
As I walk along the aisle through the centre of the chairs she begins the Lords Prayer. 
I come to a stop, standing just where I am.
St. Andrews chapel is stunning, though not the most beautiful thing here.
As I leave I meet the lady who was giving the service.
I say "good morning" and "nice place you've got here"
she say's
"Yes it's very peaceful"
I say "You can hear it in your voice"
she thanks me.
We smile and part.
I go then to The Lady Chapel, I perceive something subtle there I can't put my finger on it, something in the silence. I sit down on one of the chairs. The space is vast. I am alone there.
After a while of listening I sneeze.  It sets off layer upon layer of harmonics, the sound is incredible. I start to sing, long improvised notes and the stone sings back.

Walking through the cloister, the impression is one of being inside something organic and living. The relief work in the stone, executed with such love and care and I have to say devotion, is like veins and capillaries in an internal membrane.  The sunlight, entering through carefully chosen subtle shades of green and yellow glass, blends with, and reflects from, the pale stone in this space whose dimensions are ordered by some old knowledge of sacred geometry.
I am transported to another state.




I am also struck by a paradox. That what we learn about history, from historians and at school concerns events such as conflicts and suffering, of people rising to power and people usurping other people, of land being lost and won and of cities built and destroyed. Yet here, the stones speak quietly of another, quite different history.
 
I spend the afternoon upstairs in 'Peppers Cafe' sipping tea, secretly eating a rock cake that I bought at the Cathedral Cafe and writing the blog of the day before.
Lydia texts me that she will join me in Gloucester for the drive up to Bromsgrove.

We leave early evening taking the A38 all the way. We stop in Worcester to see the Cathedral.
Once again today, just as I set foot inside, it's the end of a service and I hear The Lords Prayer being said.
Such a feeling of contrast, to enter this vast, silent space from the busy road, for there to be a service with a congregation of three.

We are warmly and enthusiastically greeted by Pete at The Hop Pole Inn, which is a well established music venue for the town.
The musicians who play here are treated very well.
The crowd listen appreciatively and I give a good performance of an hour and a half with a break, feeling very at home.
Many people come up after to buy CDs and tell me how much they enjoyed the music.
It's a warm and happy atmosphere with several strong characters, one of whom cannot go without mention, a certain 'Pie Man' , an ex-traveller, a force of nature and certainly not someone to get on the wrong side of, who has settled here, and makes the most delicious pies, served here on 'Pie Nights'; two of which I swap for a Cd that go to make a perfect lunch the following day.
He is a harmonica player and wants to join me next time I'm playing up here.
We stay into the small hours after the pub has closed, chatting with Pete and the pie man, leaving to arrive back in Somerset around three-thirty friday morning.