13-18 April 2006
Guisborough Priory
The first surprise here is an entry free of £1.10 that is charged by the resident Tourist Information Centre. This is seen to be discouraging thing. I spent more than an hour at the priory sitting on a bench in view of the entrance. In that time I counted not less than four couples come through the doorway, read the notice board and return without proceeding any further.
The ruins are sparse. There is little to challenge those of Fountains Abbey. Here there are no cloisters, long naves or aisles, crumbling walls or barely standing towers. What remains are some foundations which are little impressive. However, there is the magnificent window, empty and bare. Its arches are as graceful as ever, flying freely from their colossal supports, seeming to join at the centre but never do. The wonder of this window alone makes a visit worthwhile, but only if one happens to be in Guisborough.
There is some wildness that surrounds this window. Fallen stones lie in a neglected state in overgrown pathways. Mosses – smooth, wet and green – cover many of these stones. Ivy is seen to grow in profusion, binding in its invasive grip the last high purposes for which the stones were carved. Leaves of autumn decaying in the lengthening of days mirror the decay that is in the stones. These are ruins not meant to be seen by visitors. Therefore, I am thankful to have ventured farther and explored them in their true untidied state.
The final question remains to be asked: what is a priory and in what way is it different from an abbey? It is rather confusing to have so many variations in Christian buildings, monastic institutions, religious orders and organisations. We have abbeys, priories, churches and cathedrals. Of abbeys and priories, these variations are observed: Benedictine, Augustinian, Cistercian, Premonstratensian, Cluniac, Carthusian, and perhaps a few more. Of churches and cathedrals there is a subtle polytheism in their dedications not to Christ but to various saints. What about the symbolism of The Cross, The Holy Trinity, the eagle-headed lectern and the like that in some form mirror the idolatry of Hinduism? Variations in Christian preachings and emphasis also abound: Roman Catholic, Protestant, Anglican, United Church Reformist, Mormon, Seventh-day Adventist, Presbyterian, Methodist, and who knows how many more. Sometimes I meet Christians who view with contempt the paganism of ancient Rome or Greece and comment with abhorrence the polytheism of Hinduism. Let them acknowledge and understand the differences in their own camp before condemning others.
Discovering James Cook
Everyone knows and acknowledges the greatness of Captain James Cook, British navigator and explorer of the 18th century who bagged for the British Empire newer colonies and far-flung territories. He undertook journeys along uncharted routes and these were later used by other European explorers. In Middlesbrough, Yorkshire, there is the James Cook Birthplace Museum that enables one to discover his great exploits on the high seas. Yet another way to discover James Cook in some small way is to visit his monument that lies en route the Cleveland Way, a 108-mile National Trail. The Cleveland Way also passes Cook’s Cottage at Staithes and his statue at Whitby.
But today I find myself discovering James Cook in a different way, at the James Cook University Hospital at Middlesbrough. The pain has become unbearable. I can hardly stand let alone walk. True to recent suggestions made by the Prime Minister Mr Tony Blair, I have walked to the bus stop, taken a public bus and then walk to the Accident and Emergency Department. I am sure this will go a long way in keeping NHS expenses under control.
While waiting at the reception it soon becomes apparent that my pain is far less than those of others. There is a guy who has one eye patched up in black, almost like a pirate. He can’t even cry. There is another with a bleeding nose, the trail of blood following his footsteps on the floor. Then comes another with both arms plastered. Fortunately the doors here are automatic. There is a baby-in-arms crying, its left leg plastered. One wonders how a baby that has not yet learnt to walk can injure its leg. Hospitals are places where pain and suffering congregate, as if their personifications should meet regularly to discuss and exchange their theories, methods, roles and authorities.
No matter what they say about NHS, my brief experience has been without complaint. I waited for 25 minutes at the reception before a doctor attended to the foot. In minutes I was sent for an x-ray which was just as quick. X-ray images were immediately available on the computer system. The doctor confirmed that there was no fracture, just an inflammation. Pain killers were recommended. I was on my way back by bus again. The final step was for the doctor to record the case on his voice recorder. The hospital did not a charge a penny and why should they? I have been making my National Insurance contributions regularly. In all this drama, I even had time to chat with the radiographer, a Yorkshire woman who lived close to Charltons where I had pitched my tent. The Yorkshire accent is distinct from that of Southern England. It is easy to follow, not coarse but at the same time not as refined as in London. Londoners may make no difference between a Yorkshire accent and a Newcastle accent but to a Yorkshire woman they are worlds apart. So it is that people who live in their little worlds see big differences in little things. So it is that different perspectives exist for the same thing.
Of course, the doctor recommended no more walking for a few days. It is as if he should say “Your lungs are weak. Don’t breathe for a few days”.
Old Age and Dying
For four days and nights I have been sitting or lying down in my tent giving my foot a complete rest as recommended. The daily routine has been to take the pain killers and sleep; then to wake when the pain starts or when oppressed with the weariness of too much sleep. The worse punishment has been the imposed laziness when the whole countryside is bright and colourful under a splendid sunshine, when I am at the doorstep of the moors, when the forests are within sight yet far. The beauty and openness of the moors seem to call me out with their desire to enclose my mind and embellish my thoughts. Yet all these have been denied by a swollen foot. I have been physically invalid but mentally still aware and unhappy of my confinement. I have had to put up with the play of children freely kicking the football against my tent. One boy even dared to throw stones at my tent.
There comes a time in every person’s life when it is time to die. This could happen sooner than we think. We have come to cherish youth and adamantly deny aging and death. But death comes all the same and without appointment. Worse still is its prelude, the long-drawn years of old age. That will be the time when the body has failed. Will the mind then continue its struggle to attain what it cannot? Will it continue to yearn after earthly joys in denial of greater wonders? Or will the mind find its rightful course, rest in silent contentment and wait with patience for what is to come? Will it be a time of anxious grievance or calm comfort?
In these days I have felt something of what a dying man feels when age leaves him with an incapacity to even walk. The experience has been on the whole positive. The sooner we realise the great purposes of our lives, the better.
Epilogue
The return journey from Yorkshire to Luton has been a painful episode on its own. First there was the long wait at Middlesbrough bus station, then the long tiresome ride on the bus, a wait at Milton Keynes Coachway and then the final bus ride to Luton. Here, I must mention that the bus station at Middlesbrough is neat, clean and efficient. I had the chance to observe the coming and going of buses at peak hours in the evening. Everything moved like clockwork. It was almost a good representation of the immense organization of modern society, the interdependencies of the numerous systems that operate within it. It gave me a good impression of Middlesbrough on the whole which I believe is a much better city than Leeds.
Upon returning, the pain increased dramatically. I visited my local GP who referred me to Luton and Dunstable Hospital. After an hour of wait I was finally attended to with strong pain killers. Yet another x-ray was ordered along with blood tests. I was operated that night and left the hospital the next day after lunch. I am told that sometimes people wait for days for an operation. I must have been lucky or my situation more urgent.
In this country, in particular in hospitals, you will hear the sweetest expressions of address that you never imagined to be in your power either in looks or in words. I had not shaved for days. I had not bathed for a couple of days. I was positively looking like a vagabond. And I was not in any frame of mind for romantic talk. Yet that night in the hospital I was called variously by the nurses: sweetheart, darling, sweetie pie, love. With each sweet address I got a jab in the arm, a poke in the ear or a bitter pill to swallow. I should return to the ward with some flowers.
A week later I visited the hospital to change the dressing. Although I had an appointment I had to wait for 90 minutes and then another 60 minutes for the dressing. The aged nurse was not well-trained and had to wait for assistance from her colleagues. Another nurse, who had already finished her shift, went the extra mile to attend to me. The staff at the clinic had been working continuously since morning without rest or complaint. They were stretched to the limit of their resources. Certainly, there are many things that can be improved within the NHS but the nurses and doctors are all heroes in their own ways.
For nearly a fortnight I have been walking about in the house with crutches. Today I visited the local clinic to change the dressing. Then I went to Tesco to do some shopping. Despite a patient wait of more than ten minutes no one came forward to help. I didn’t make my purchase. Then I walked for five minutes to get to Marks & Spenser. I was served immediately by the staff. Based on my shopping list she planned the shortest route through the different sections and even packed the items neatly in my bag. As all the open tills were busy with long queues, she opened a till just for me. Now that’s service!
