The Lindisfarne Gospels and Saint Cuthbert

The highlight of this week for me has been a visit to an exhibition centred on the Lindisfarne Gospels. The Gospels were written on a monastery on the island of Lindisfarne (also known as Holy Island), just off the Northumberland coast in about 700AD. They consist of illuminated manuscripts  of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John bound together in a single volume to form one of the most important artistic, cultural and historic artefacts ever produced in the north east. Not only that but it's story is inextricably bound up with that of other pillars of regional Christianity, namely Saint Cuthbert and Durham Cathedral. It's only fitting therefore, that the exhibition should be based at Durham University library, literally a stones-throw from the Cathedral and the Shrine to Saint Cuthbert.

The story of the Lindisfarne Gospels goes back to 664AD and a crisis in the Christian community on the island of Lindisfarne. Prior to this time, English Christianity had been subjected to two different influences, those of the southern-based Roman church competing with the rival Irish tradition, stronger in the north and to which Lindisfarne belonged.
The biggest disagreement between the two churches was over the timetable of Easter, as each one used a different method to calculate the date. This dispute reached a head when the Bernician king Oswy, ruler of Northumbria and based at nearby Bamburgh, married Eanflaed who originally hailed from Kent. King Oswy, following the local Irish calender found he was celebrating Easter perhaps a week earlier or later than his wife, who favoured the Roman date. As a result, Oswy arranged a church council at Whitby in 664 to settle the debate once and for all, with himself as judge.

Durham Palace Green Library

The Roman church emerged victorious, perhaps suprisingly given that Oswy belonged to the Irish tradition. One reason may be that Saint Peter, who personally held the keys to heaven, was especially revered in the Roman church, and Oswy may have been reluctant to risk annoying him and thus jeopardising his own entry. Or perhaps Oswy simply wanted to keep his wife happy.

Whatever the reason, it was a severe blow to the Irish tradition that Lindisfarne belonged to. Its position within the Anglo-Saxon church was downgraded and many of its members, including the bishop, could not (or would not) compromise their beliefs and so returned to Ireland. The task of reforming and rebuilding Lindisfarne as a centre of Christian learning fell to a monk from the monastery at Melrose, now in Scotland but at that time part of Northumbria. His name was Cuthbert.

Despite being educated in the Irish tradition, Cuthbert accepted the  ruling of Oswy at Whitby and successfully overcame opposition to reform Lindisfarne, first as Prior and later as Bishop. He managed to combine his responsibilities with his own preference for an austere, hermit-like life and when he died in 687 it was not long before miracles were being reported at his grave.

It's at this point, around 700, that the Lindisfarne Gospels were produced and it may not be coincidence. The monks were advocating Cuthbert as a candidate for sainthood and producing a deluxe version of the most sacred books of the early church may well have been part of the effort. And some effort it was. It's believed the book was written by only one man over a period of five or six years. This man was probably Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne from 698 to 722. Around 960, a priest at Chester-le-Street called Aldred added an Old English (the language of the Anglo-Saxons) translation (called a gloss) written word-for-word above the latin original. How do we know this? Because Aldred tells us! He added a personal note (a colorphon) at the end. He wrote:

"...Eadfrith bishop of the church of Lindisfarne, in the beginning wrote this book for God and St Cuthbert and for all the holy ones who are on the island. And Aethilwald, bishop of the Lindisfarne-islanders, bound and covered it without, as he well knew how.

And Billfrith the anchorite forged the ornaments which are on the outside, and bedecked it with gold and with gems, and also with gilded silver - pure wealth.

And I, Aldred, unworthy and most wretched priest - born of Alfred, Aldred I am called, the outstanding son of a good woman, I speak - with the help of God and St Cuthbert wrote a gloss above it in English."

Durham Cathedral. A Resting Place Fit For A Saint

Cuthbert was buried on Lindisfarne and made a saint. The story may have ended there were it not for the arrival of those perennial bad-guys - the Vikings. Monasteries were a favourite target for Scandinavian raiders due to their wealth and lack of defences and Lindisfarne holds the distinction of being the first recorded victim of a Viking attack on England, in 793. Continued raids and invasions forced the monks to abandon Lindisfarne, temporarily at first but for good in 875. They took with them their prized possessions, including the body of Saint Cuthbert and the Lindisfarne Gospels. For the next seven years the monks and their precious cargo wandered around the north of England, before settling at Chester-le-Street in 883. They remained there for around one hundred years, before more Viking threats forced them to flee again, this time to Ripon in Yorkshire. They had intended to return to Chester-le-Street when the danger receded, but finally settled in Durham, thanks, if legend is to be believed, to a cow.

Shrine to St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral

The story goes that as the community of monks headed north from Ripon, the cart bearing the body of St Cuthbert came to a sudden halt and would not move. The monk's leader had a vision of Cuthbert demanding to be laid to rest at a place called 'Dunholme' which none of the monks had heard of. At that moment two young women passed by and the monks overheard one woman ask the other if she'd seen a lost dun (brown) cow. The second woman replied that she'd seen the cow heading towards Dunholme and when the monks set off in the direction she indicated, they found the wheels of the cart became miraculously unstuck. The road took them to Dunholme (Durham) and despite the inconvenience of Norman conquerors and protestant reformers, Saint Cuthbert has been there ever since. Having visited Durham Cathedral many times I can testify to what a fitting resting place it is for the north east's premier saint. As for the Lindisfarne Gospels, I'd love to say they also have a permanent home in the cathedral, or at least in the region. Sadly that's not the case and they are only here temporarily, on loan from the British Library, to give us locals a chance to see them. I heartily recommend you do.

The Blood Donor

For the first time ever I've been turned away from the blood donors. And it's nothing to do with having sex with men before you ask*. Far more mundanely, my blood failed on 'iron level' which sounds like a manfail if ever there was one. Why couldn't I fail a less butch test? "Sorry sir, but your blood wasn't pink and fluffy enough for us" never happens to me.
Naturally I was downcast. "I'm sorry" I flustered "This has never happened to me before. I've been under a lot of stress lately, with work n' that" Of course, the nurse was very understanding and insisted it wasn't my fault and we could always try again later, albeit in 3 months time. I enquired if it would help if I ate more bananas. No, she said, though red meat might improve things (RED MEAT?? I KNEW IT! MANFAIL!!!) and I slunk off home, head bowed. I did consider asking if  I could have the cup of tea and biscuits while I was here but thought that would be a bit cheeky so had a kitkat (mint) when I got home.

By my logic it's their fault anyway. If they didn't keep bringing in all these tests I wouldn't keep failing them. It was different when it all began, back when I was a callow youth of twenty-something (began for me I mean; I would imagine the blood donation service had been a thing for a while). There was no particular reason that prompted me to do it, no life-saving blood transfusion on a family member, I just simply decided I was going to be a nicer person and giving blood is what nice people did. So off I toddled to the local hall and gave the traditional pint (or armful if you prefer). It was a doddle, a fair trade I thought for a cup of tea and some bourbons, and the knowledge my blood might be helping save a life gave me that lovely warm glow you usually only see on porridge commercials.
It was also how I came to find out what blood group I am, having previously been in a state of blissful ignorance. Around Christmas-time every year I get a letter asking me to make that extra effort to donate because demand for my blood-type is so high. Is that because I have an incredibly rare type, due to my descent from Nordic Superheros? Sadly no, it's because any Tom, Dick or Chavvy can accept my disappointingly unexceptional blood. All I can say is at times like this I'm glad I'm not a Nazi or I'd be escorting myself to the gas chambers.

Anyway, over the years that followed I've given blood whenever I can, excepting illness, work commitments and that one time where the nurse missed my vein. Twice. During this time I've learned a great deal about the importance of drinking a glass of water beforehand, of squeezing and unsqueezing the fingers on your donating arm, and, of course, periodically clenching and unclenching your buttocks. But I've never failed the iron test until today. I wonder if it's an age thing, something that will occur more often as the grim hand of death gets ever closer. I suppose I'll get another clue in three months time...

*Disclaimer: There's nothing wrong with having sex with men if that's what you're into. It just so happens that I'm not, especially when I've just had my tea.

The White Queen. A Chance Missed

So I've been watching The White Queen on television, the BBC's adaption of the cousin's war (Wars of the Roses to you and me) series of books written by Phillipa Gregory. I wasn't sure whether I'd like it or not when I first sat down. After all, the period it's set in is one of my favourites in all history, with plenty of battles, political intrigue, double-dealing and larger-than-life characters. On the other hand I don't consider the books to be that great, not a patch on Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall or Bring Up The Bodies, even though the latter are set in the reign of (urgh) Henry VIII.

I came away slightly disappointed but not susprised. The Wars of the Roses is not something you can fit into a ten episode series without sacrificing a lot of the detail. They began the story, as Gregory's books do, with the meeting of Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville (the eponymous 'heroine', if that's the right word, of the title). This means ignoring all the events that had taken place beforehand but I don't suppose you can blame anyone for this. After all, when should you begin with the Wars of the Roses? The first battle in 1455? The loss of France which fuelled the discontent and rise of factionalism? Or perhaps we go back earlier to the usurpation of the throne by Henry IV, the first Lancastrian King? The more I think of it the more I feel you can only do it justice with the full Game Of Thrones style multi-episode, multi-series, mega-show.

My second gripe concerns the show's female-led focus. I have no problem with this in principle, historical women being too often ignored amidst the blood and guts as medieval history is boiled down to a succession of chainmail wearing thugs doing unspeakable things to each other. My issue is that the most formidable woman of them all, Margaret of Anjou, is a mere background character. For me, she should have been front and centre from episode one as the key Lancastrian. Much as I enjoyed mad Maggie Beaufort and her 'saint's knees' or Elizabeth Woodville's icy beauty (Anne Neville did little for me one way or another), none of them come close to Margaret of Anjou's iron will as she battles to secure the throne for her son, despite the disadvantages of her sex, her foreign birth and her ineffectual husband. She, not Margaret Beaufort, is the real Red Queen.

Then there's the biggest disappointment of all, the portrayal of the Battle of Bosworth. I see this as more than just a battle, and not just because there is one King at the start and a different King at the end. It's also the end of an era, as the medieval age gives way to the modern, and this is symbolised by the defining moment of the battle, the doomed cavalry charge led by Richard III as he vainly seeks to come to blows with Henry Tudor in person. He got suprisingly close, personally killing Tudor's standard bearer, William Brandon, and it's tempting to speculate how different history would have been had he succeeded. This episode should have been portrayed as a medieval version of the charge of the light brigade, Götterdämmerung, a romantic death ride of perhaps a thousand  knights on horseback, banners streaming and armoured helms gleaming in the sunlight. Perhaps budgetary restrictions meant this was always impossible but surely they could have done better than what we got, which was a brawl in the woods. Harrumph.

Despite these whinges I enjoyed it enough to sit through all ten episodes, and if they made a sequel or, even better, a prequel, I'd watch that too. Average medieval drama is still better than no medieval drama. Hell, I might even invest in the DVD if I see it for a reasonable price.

A Day At The Cricket, or When Opportunity Knocks...

A confession: I am a sociophobe. Or at least I think I am anyway. I've never actually been diagnosed with anything, unless you count the school/workplace diagnosis of 'a bit of a wierdo'. I am the sort of person who is generally happiest at home with a good book or a film or even a documentary on BBC Four about religious architecture. When I venture out it's usually for a solo jog or a lone wander to a local landmark or place of interest. For the most part I enjoy it, though I do wonder about the toll it takes on my mental health, especially in my current job which also involves spending a lot of my time on me tod.

"I love you Keith"

I've talked to myself for as long as I can remember so I have no worries on that front, but I'm a little  concerned about a more recent development which has seen me discussing potential grocery purchases with the items themselves. For instance, the other week I had a long conversation in the crisp aisle of Asda involving the McCoys ("you're too expensive this week, I'll wait 'til you're on special again"), Skips ("you don't last five minutes"), and Walker's Ridges ("your ridges are too big!"). Admittedly, none of the snacks talked back at me but it can't be long in coming.

Respect My Authority!

For this reason I decided a while ago that I was going to become more outgoing, I was going to say "Yes" to every opportunity where previously I had hesitated. In practice I haven't said "yes" so much as "What? Me?? Now???" but it has partly worked. As a result I now volunteer at a local group for people with learning difficulties and also do 'one-offs' such as being an 'ambassador-supporter' at last years Olympic football matches held at St James' Park in Newcastle. I still can't always actively enjoy the experience but I do come away with fond memories, which helps me to summon up the courage for the next opportunity.

The reason I mention all this is because last Friday an opportunity came my way that I wasn't expecting. A friend on Twitter (who I'd never actually met in real life) mentioned that she had a spare ticket for the Ashes on Saturday and did I fancy it? For the uninitiated, the Ashes is a series of five cricket test matches played between England and Australia and the match in question was being held, for the first time in history, at nearby Durham.

My view of the cricket, with Lumley castle on the right

As is my wont, my first reaction was to think of all the reasons why I couldn't possibly go: I have to get up for work on Monday (the day would have been finished by 18.30 on Saturday), I have plans on Saturday (the plan in question being to go for a sandwich and a coffee, possibly a jog later, same as I do pretty much every Saturday), I couldn't afford it (money is the least of my worries right now) and so on and so on. What swung it the other way was the knowledge that if I didn't go I'd regret it, now and forever, so I took the plunge and said yes.

Naturally I spent the rest of Friday and the early hours of Saturday worried sick. Anything that involves travelling, large crowds and people I don't know very well turns me into a quivering jelly but from the moment I found myself safely onboard a number 21 bus from Newcastle (I had planned to get the train but it was utterly utterly crammed) the day went remarkably well. The crowd was large enough to create a great atmosphere without ever feeling claustrophoic and the people I met turned out to be lovely. The cricket itself was as compelling as I was expecting and there wasn't any rain. I even engaged in a bit of celeb-spotting: Mike Gatting, Matthew Hoggard and Jeff Thomson (I had to google that last one as he's before my time) were all seen milling about. I managed to stand in queues without panicking and got a seat on the bus back with no trouble at all, largely thanks to a speedy exit and cunningly walking to an earlier bus stop so as to beat the crowds (no flies on me).

All in all my best weekend in ages, just ready for another week of twelve hour shifts at work...

A Waste Of Good Wee

Meh

I've been doing a lot of overtime this summer. I don't really need the money to be honest but I always feel I should fill me boots while it's on offer. Besides, it's not like I've got much else going on at the moment; I've been trying to mix long walks with pub lunches but it's not doing it for me lately. Not much is to be frank. My life's in a bit of a lull at the moment, as if I'm waiting for something to happen. No idea what though. The most exciting thing that happened this week was finding out they've made a mistake in stocking the vending machine at work, so M&M's are 40p instead of 70p. Hold the front page...

Ho hum

The other notable incident (small beer comapared to cheap sweets of course) is that I've been to the doctors. Not because there's anything wrong with me, on the contrary I'm fit as a violin at the moment. The reason I went, quite simply, is because they asked me to, and it would've been rude not to. Since I'm now 'getting on a bit' they asked me to go for a routine health check. I was flattered at first as I assumed it was just me but apparently this is quite common and they've asked other people as well. Humph. I haven't been for a while, so long in fact that they've built a whole new medical centre since last I went. Two whole storeys of it. And a chemist's shop built on to the side. More proof that mighty Crawcrook is on the grow.

Yawn

Anyway, I was told to bring a urine sample with me so I craftily procured a small sample bottle from our Quality department and did the business in it. When I got into the medical centre I proudly pulled it out of my jacket and brandished it aloft like it was Excalibur itself.

"Is that sterilised?" enquired the clearly unimpressed health woman as she took the bottle from my proffered hand.

"Eh?" said I.

 So the bottle went in the bin and that was the end of that. The rest of it was just a blur after that, a blood sample, weight and height measurement (very pleased to be 5'10" not 5'9", though I did have shoes on) and a chat about exercise and diet (good luck getting me to eat oily fish).  Now it's just a case of waiting for the results, assuming the 12 hour shifts haven't killed me in the meantime that is.