East facing

Yorkshire, I’m told, is God’s own country. There’s a cartoon showing the Almighty, during COVID, leaning on a gate in the Dales. When a passing dog walker asks God what he’s doing, the reply is , “working from home.”

Yes, it’s very pretty; the sun is shining, but not so much as to make it hot, and some kind deity has arranged a comfortable tail wind. Relax.

Through Catterick Garrison, where there is a lot of razor wire, and forbidden looking things, and a series of boards about what’s hidden behind it all. They seem to suggest that the good people of Catterick single-handedly ousted the Romans from a country that didn’t belong to them. But I don’t think that can be true exactly.

Then the second scariest road sign I’ve ever seen: Caution – tank drivers under instruction. I pedal a bit faster to get out of range.

Through Masham, where you don’t pronounce the “h”, the site of my first, disastrous, stop on the way to Rome 3 years ago. A reminder I need to go carefully.

The Swinton Estate is vast, manicured, and opulent. I think perhaps the normal laws of England don’t apply here: there’s a sign pointing to “Swinton Park Birds of Prey Cookery School”. Yes really. I stopped to take a picture because I knew you wouldn’t believe me.

I even have time to stop for coffee before coasting into Ripon, where I’m really looking forward to playing. I’ve played in this cathedral before, and it’s so wonderful and welcoming. This is the only church I’ve played in facing East – so I’m looking up at the great East window, and the audience is ranged either side of me in the quire. I’m looking forward to that again.

I’ve just taken a wrong turning, when I hear someone excitedly calling my name. Stephanie and Farhad have driven half way across Yorkshire to be here, and I am so happy to see them.

A quick lunch in the Cathedral View Cafe nearly leads to a marriage proposal. But as I explain to Helen as I prepare to dash across the road back to the cathedral, there isn’t time for that now.

The three ladies in pole position in the front row declare themselves cellists – no pressure there, then – and Loretta, who rescued and fed me last time I was in Ripon shows me my signature in her copy of Highway Cello, and asks me to add today’s date to it as well.

Ripon is a special place, in the heart of God’s own country. As I play Amazing Grace, and look up at an enthroned and compassionate Christ in the glowing East window, I feel it.

Never mind that I have to say swift farewells in order to cycle along a potholed and busy road to York. I should have followed the advice and taken longer over the more meandering and quieter route.