Sunday in York...

As I walked towards town this morning I could hear the Minster bells ringing. A peal and then a deep, sonorous single note. It hadn't occurred to me that I might go to a service at the Minster, but here was an invitation. I thought about Sunday sounds in centuries past when church bells must have competed for air space, calling the people to prayer. Most of those at the service seemed to be local.

As on previous visits I found myself marvelling at the beauty and audacity of such a structure. I thought about the workmen piling huge slabs of stone high in the sky and the many deaths that must have occurred.   And I failed to reconcile the simple message of the man from Nazareth with the splendour of the edifice and the ceremony of the service. In a place like York Minster one is keenly aware of the political behind the spiritual. I thought of Wolsey, who was Archbishop of York, and then of Hilary Mantell's Wolf Hall - that wonderful account of the life of Thomas Cromwell, politician par excellence.

At the end of the service I spoke with the lady sitting next to me and she invited me into the glorious Chapter House for a cup of tea. In just three days I have met with such warmth and kindness and an unanticipated sense of community.