Huff, puff, dash up; move carefully down. Over and over I’ve climbed three flights of stairs, from the attic to the basement and up again, here at Sunnybank.
I’m clearing out lots more ‘stuff.’
Question: What would my children do with it?
Answer: Sell it. Give it away.
So I will.
Rule: if it hasn’t been touched in two years, it’s outta here.
Plus, we’re going to insulate our wonderful old attic, at last. A less cluttered area is much easier to work in. As the rest of the house is appallingly dirty anyway, from repairs made after an SUV rammed it in December, Joe and I decided to go for it, then have everything cleaned.
Stairs provide a great way to keep fit. Plus, I can practice my balance- and my common sense. In other words, I don’t haul down too much at one time. (Did that once, arms full, misjudged the steps, nearly fell head over teakettle.) That near-disaster did the trick. Now I simply make lots more trips, but I always slow down, going down.
My stair-trek reminds me of our April climbing adventure at York’s York Minster Cathedral, in the north of England.
After breakfasting at our hotel we walked three blocks to reach it. There we'd devote a full morning to look closely at all the lovingly carved statues and gothic decorations on the exterior and interior of this exquisite cathedral. I sat on the grass and used my monocular to more closely examine delicate architectural details fashioned by barefoot illiterate geniuses 800 years ago. Viewing such an achievement always leaves me mute, and frequently moved to tears. The whole gigantic, hand-made thing is impossible. Yet, here it stands, rock-solid, the heart of the city.
As we passed through the enormous doors into the cathedral I noticed a line of life-sized statues of the twelve apostles nearby, standing in head-high niches that had been carved out for them. Every head was gone.
I paid for our ‘Trek to the Top’ tickets, and while the lady made change I gestured toward the headless saints. “Was religious civil war responsible for the loss of those statues’ heads?” I’d read that cannon balls had often sailed through the stained glass windows during services in the early 16th century.
She peered at their lovely remains, then shrugged dismissively. “ Oh, this place isn’t all that special. Those heads just fell off years ago, I’m sure. They were probably top-heavy and poorly made.” A sigh… “I can’t imagine what all the fuss is about...” She gestured toward the people in line who were marveling at the wonderful ceiling of the jewel that is York Minster.
She wasn’t joking. We found ourselves speechless.
She briskly dismissed us with a small wave. “Next, please!”
Quietly we sat down nearby to look about, and wait. In twenty minutes, at 9:30, a group of us would climb to the top of this building. I leaned back in the pew to look way up, and then far away toward the high altar, brushing away tears of awe. York Minster Cathedral, for me, defines gothic architectural perfection.
Our guide, a pleasant young woman, ushered a group of seven young Chinese visitors, and Joe and me, to an ancient little door. She unlocked it, took our tickets, and stepped aside after wishing us a good journey. I entered first and began the climb cheerfully enough, noting the steep, deeply worn stone steps, the very narrow, circular stone stairwell, perhaps elbow-wide, and a skinny iron railing (added 800 years later). Round and round. Up and tightly up. Twenty steps, fifty, eighty, 100… My smile drooped. I began to pant. Oh God, theremustbeaplacetorest… No. On and on, higher and higher, round and round…I clutched the railing and planted one foot in front of the other. Feeble light from an occasional slit window showed the way. 125, 140, 155…
Here’s the thing. Those twenty-something folks behind us were laughing and joking. Grrrr. First in line, I absolutely wouldn’t be a drag; I was determined to do this.
Gritting my teeth, I climbed on. 176, 190…Suddenly, a little arched exit appeared. Gratefully, Joe and I moved outside onto a narrow stone walkway along a thin roof edge. We needed to cross it to carry on. The view from here was wonderful, but we couldn’t linger too long, as the others were right on our heels.
I moved into the relative darkness and we continued to climb, round and round, higher and higher. I felt the cold stone, wondering, as I puffed along, what would happen if someone experienced a medical emergency in here. Easy answer: nothing would happen. Not for a long time. A doctor, assuming he was fit enough to climb, would have little room to examine the patient. There’s no room for a gurney. If the patient died, the body would have to be eased down to the cathedral’s nave, one spiral stone step at a time. It’s a very small space.
200, 236, 253- I climbed, climbed, prodded upward by distant, youthful laughter- and my own stubbornness. 260…Gasping, I clutched the little iron rail- a lifeline- and pulled my exhausted body upward, ever upward; 270, 275…
Suddenly, bright light! Vast space. Sky. Flatness. Hooray!
I had reached the pinnacle, and was still on my pins! Joe emerged, blinking. Then the rest staggered out, breathless, I noted with secret glee. There were general groans of relief; my calves threatened cramps. Walk, old girl. Walk them out. I stood up straight and looked around as I paced. York, and the vast, hilly Yorkshire countryside stretched to the horizon. This view, not only of the land, but also of the cathedral beneath us, from so high, was truly magnificent. Jaw-dropping. Certainly worth the climb.
We were inside an enormous, solid, permanent cage, or totally enclosed thickly meshed fence, ending two to three feet above the parapet, that covered all four sides of this highest tower. No suicides would ever be possible up here. No hats and scarves would blow off and away.
For at least 30 minutes we walked the edges, took photos, pointed, admired. The guard, ensconced in his postage-stamp booth, kindly pointed out the Dales. I noticed he had a phone, should he need to ring emergency services. But, he confirmed, it would be a long, slow business to manipulate a sick or dead person down to the ground.
Eventually we found ourselves shivering in the stiff breeze. It was time to leave.
I gulped, entered the relative darkness, and we began the descent. Down, down, round and round, our legs challenged in a different way. We managed all those stairs once again, and finally staggered through the tiny door onto the cathedral’s ground floor.
We’d managed 550 stairsteps, in total.
Imagine that!
Something cold would taste simply wonderful. There was a guy just outside the cathedral manning a booth full of sweets, who sold us Cornish ice cream cones- the perfect treat to mark the occasion. We had just experienced something rare and special that I’d waited half a lifetime to see.
For the next few hours we’d wander through this thriving town to admire the ancient closes (alleys) and half-timbered shops, and hunt for The Shambles, an intact mediaeval street. No maps allowed! Wheee!
Life was deliciously fun on this practically perfect day.