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Lincoln Cathedral

Yesterday’s journey up to Lincoln restored my faith in British railways. We left Chelmsford precisely on time, had like-warm coffee at Kings Cross and the rolled out of the platform heading north, on an Inter City with wireless Internet in every carriage exactly when we should have done.

We flew through the increasingly lumpy countryside inplush, comfortable seats, the sun streaming in through the window, and getting brighter and warmer as the scenery through the window grew more and more rural.

We got delayed by some level crossing problem somewhere along the line, but none of us noticed, so it was a surprise when they held our connection at Newark North Gate - even though it was run by a different rail company.

All in all, a perfect journey.

Lincoln is a strange place. It’s built on a steep hill (the main road up the side of it is actually called ‘Steep Hill’) and while all the usual towny stuff is down at the bottom, by Lincoln Central station, all the pretty bits are at the top.

The result is a little chocolate box territory dominating the surrounding countryside, at the centre of which the cathedral, with three enormous gothic towers, casts a shadow over everything around it. Unfortunately it’s also very cold. The rest of Lincolnshire seems to be as flat as roadkill, so the wind sweeps across the planes and pulls at your hair and clothes as you stand at the top of the hill.

So, to cut a short story even shorter, we ended up hiding in Cafe Zoot where we ate spicy tomato soup, and then went back to the hotel to get warm.

Will and Becs cut the cake(s)

The ceremony was scheduled to kick off at five, so Gordon and I met Will in the pub across the road from the lunatic asylum (former) where it was all taking place and hour ahead of schedule, and went through the photo and video requirements. We’d been seconded to memory recording duties, so of course were keen to make sure we got everything in the right place at the right time.

As it turned out, it wasn’t nearly as difficult as it might have been, as the Lincolnites seem to have very strict rules about what you can and can’t do during a wedding ceremony. The registrats made it very clear that they would stop the ceremony if there was any more than one video camera recording the event, or if anyone took a picture during the ceremony itself.

In spite of their grumpiness, though, all went well. Becs arrived bang on time in a beautiful pink Rolls Royce and together they walked up the aisle about two minutes after five. There was the pre-requisite promises, and some blubbing from assorted relatives, and then they were married. Guests depart from tables dotted around the side of the room, and much eating and drinking commences forthwith.

Mark and a petal or two

BMH and Ursula

Vinnie, glamorous as ever

Now I have to admit to being somewhat sceptical about the idea of a diary room. I couldn’t really believe many people would want to go in and record a message for them, but as the evening went on, and more drinks had been drunk, they were fairly streaming in. One guy, who was apparently in charge of running the creche, came back several times just so he could dance in front of the camera to whatever noise happened to be spilling out from the dancefloor.

Of course, the camera was on a tripod at sitting-down height, so all it filmed was his gyrating groin, so I suspect he may come to regret that when it’s all edited into garish permanency.

The evening flew by and before we knew it we were drinking chocolate and banana vodka milkshakes (surprisingly good, although BMH insisted on sticking to Guinness on the basis that our drinks were girls’ drinks), the candles were dripping into the table cloths and the lights were starting to flicker back on.

This morning, then, there were some headaches, but everyone seemed surprisingly perky as we congregated for brunch in the community centre in Skellingthorpe, the next village to Lincoln. Lots of people drifting around looking slightly dazed, though.

Of course, being Lincoln, there were loads of sausages on the go, as there had been for the wedding dinner last night, and there had been yesterday lunchtime for most of us who had never been to Lincoln before so thought we ought to do the traditional thing and eat some sausages (vegetarian in my case). I think very few of us could ever look at a sausage again.

Still, Nicky did a sterling job of keeping us all topped up with tea, which was precisely what was needed by all.

Nicky and her tea pot

Skellingthorpe, it turns out, is a very small but quite cute place. The community hall was shrouded in WI needlework (a few of them depicting second world war bombers over Lincoln Cathedral) and a rather grumpy looking picture of the queen with one of her corgis.

Unfortunately, though, it’s also a bit of a place forgotten by time - or at least by the local cab companies, which have a distinct aversion to turning up there with less than an hour’s notice. So, after a couple of hours of sausage stuffing and tea drinking (and after Gordon had done a spot of book signing) we set off for a walk along the cycle track through the fields of unidentifyable vegetables.

Gordon signs his book

It was cold in the shade, but quite pleasant in the sun, and all the time we were walking we had a fantastic view of Lincoln Cathedral sitting on top of the hill of the city like an ornate Christmas hat on a very pointy head.

The journey home, though, destroyed that newly found faith in the British railway network.

We waited a good half hour on the platform, all the time the doors to our train locked as it sat there, belching out fumes from its diesel engine. So much for travelling by train being the environmentally friendly option. That first leg took us back to Newark North Gate where we swapped to the Inter City, which was about four carriages shorter than planned, so short on seats, and horribly crowded. Gordon and Nikki ended up sitting on single seats some way down the train, but Paul and I found places nearer the back, just in front of a very boring semi-posh man who interrogated some army woman all the way back to London.

Arriving in the capital we fought our way across the city in a crowded tube train only to find the overground trains to Chelmsford replaced by a bus service, so sneaked onto a Southend train and got a lift from Shenfield for the last leg.

What a shame. And it had done so well yesterday, too.

It was a fab weekend, though, and I’ve been able to cross off another city from my must-visit-one-day list. I’m not sure I’d go back to Lincoln. A few too many sausages for my liking, and unless we were going to go around the castle of Cathedral, there’s probably not so much to do there. It was good for a short, cold break, though. And, of course, to see two good friends marry.

Niall and Jason, the next morning

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 14th, 2004 at 8:33 pm and is filed under Journal, Picture story. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.