That’s what they ask you when you ask them if you may climb up the most excellent tower at Durham Cathedral. If you answer yes, then they ask you if you have five pounds. Surely you see where this is going.

Here’s the tower as contemplated from the cloister below:

And — cutting right to the chase — here’s the opposite view, from the top, looking down at the cloister:

Another view, this one of the cemetery:

Elsewhere in the cathedral are the remains of two well-known monks: the hermit Cuthbert and the historian Bede (mentioned here not that long ago). I did overhear a comment that the bones of these two men might not be resting where they’re advertised to be, but that one or the other may in fact be buried in the cemetery in an unmarked grave! I really don’t know just what to make of that sort of talk.

The tower also affords a fine view of the palace green and the castle beyond:

It was a certain academic function at the castle that brought me to Durham to begin with, one that signaled the winding down of my English sojourn, and that proved very much a “night” to the “day” of my usual and admittedly somewhat monkish activity in the archives. I was glad, though, to catch a glimpse of these scholars in full flight, and for their stories of manuscript heists and Parisian antiquities dealers. Also appreciated was their cautious optimism regarding future prospects for the determined and more-or-less young academic!

The phrase as offered here (on a nearby community building) seems adapted from one of historical significance, namely that given by Admiral Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar: “England expects that every man will do his duty.” There is, of course, a story behind the phrase. Originally, Nelson intended to signal ”England confides that every man will do his duty,” but his signal officer, Lieutenant John Pasco, suggested “expects” instead on account of it taking fewer signals to transmit. Nelson approved the change, and so issued “the most famous naval signal ever transmitted” (link).

(see http://www.aboutnelson.co.uk/england%20expcts.htm)

In the case of Trafalgar, it seems that the duty at hand was simple enough (although by no means easy): defeat the French and Spanish navies. How nice it is, then, when duty lies before us singular! But you and I both know that it is seldom so. Lately, at least, this notion of “duty” has certainly seemed a little more complicated. On one front, however, it proves clear enough, as the common cry among the folks at home is to “get out” and “take some pictures.”

That’s a view of the Old Bodleian Library, with the Radcliffe Camera (another library) behind me. And (believe it or not!) I did manage to depart from that comfortably well-worn bath between the two libraries. At the invitation of a friend (one with a student card — this permitting access), I spent today touring a few of Oxford’s many colleges.

The most wonderful place visited today is right here: the cloister at New College. The tree pictured above is said to be roughly 250 years old, and bears some signs of age — it’s shedding leaves at an alarming rate, and the gardener suspects “it might have something.” Still in the cloister, looking in another direction:

Look closely and you can see the gargoyles:

Open arcades surround the cloister. Sadly, there were no monks strolling through them today.

From New College we walked over to Magdalen College.

And no, I was not standing on the lawn while taking this picture. Now — and this is going back a few years — my very first job was as a grounds-keeper, and I wonder that if it had been in keeping these particular grounds, that job wouldn’t have been my very last one too!

Here is Bede’s account of an interesting sighting at Bercingum (modern-day Barking) outside the convent built for Ethelburga (ca. 675 AD). From Book IV, Chapter 9, of Ecclesiastical History of the English People (ca. 731):

For one night when they had finished singing the morning psalms of praise to God, these servants of Christ left the oratory to visit the graves of the brothers who had departed this life before them. And as they were singing their customary praises to our lord, a light from heaven like a great sheet suddenly appeared and shone over them all, so alarming them that they even broke off their singing in consternation. After a short while, this brilliant light, compared to which the noonday sun would appear dark, rose and traveled to the south side of the convent westward of the oratory and, having remained over that area for a time, withdrew heavenwards in the sight of them all.

(Penguin edition, p. 217).

Naturally the monks (Ethelburga’s convent had a section for men) attributed the phenomenon to divine causes, taking “this brilliant light” as a guide for souls recently departed to heaven. Sounds like a UFO to me, though.

This is just one of the many wonderful stories in the History. Other highlights include Bede’s account of the Chief Priest Coifi riding forth — armed with both sword and spear, and upon King Edwin’s own stallion — to smash the churches’ idols (II.13), and the sympathetic account of the same king (“a wise and prudent man, [who] often sat alone in silent converse with himself for long periods”) being eventually converted to Christianity (II.9-10).