A cathedral, but not a cathedral

There are five young cyclists at breakfast, a couple of days into the End-to-End, Lands End to John O’Groats. They have wafer-thin lightweight bikes, and a vehicle to carry all their stuff; but they look exhausted already, and they’re only just out of Cornwall.

Cornwall. Over the Old Tamar Bridge, which has conveyed wheeled traffic since 1427. And then almost immediately onto Luckett’s Hill. My beautiful Hartside ascends 1300ft in 4 miles, so I shouldn’t be fazed by 700. But this all has to be climbed in less than a mile, so it doesn’t take much to work out it must be twice as steep as the hill that defeats many Coast-to-Coasters.

The GPS colour-codes the slope: green if it’s easy, through yellow, orange, and red if it gets to about 13%. Above 20% and it just goes a frightened pale grey. There’s some of that today.

The strategy – since I simply can’t push 50kg up a hill like this – is to pedal about 100 turns (to the point of near collapse) wait a moment until I can breathe without sounding like a donkey, and repeat. And repeat.

By Callington the need for coffee is severe. I pedal all around the little town, but there’s nowhere. Eventually I find the only coffee shop, between the podiatrist and one of the dog groomers, opposite B&M’s huge carpark. The aproned person behind the machine opens the locked door to tell me kindly we’re closed today, and then locks it again quickly.

I pay a visit to St. Mary’s church, for solace instead of coffee. The weekend’s confetti is in heaps outside, and it looks as though it will repay a visit. I’m admiring the font – Cornish granite like the chapel altar and the pillars – when Damion approaches to tell me he was baptised in it just a few months go.

The bike is parked on the pavement. Returning to it I can see a purposeful Civil Enforcement Officer – what we used to call a Traffic Warden. A few moments later, the black and yellow notice is out of his pocket, and nearing the bike. Phil, I discover, plays the fiddle. He looks almost armed – very heavily fortified, and bristling with cameras and warning devices and tattoos.

His bagpipe- and whistle-playing friend Paul comes by, and between them they try to persuade me to stay until Friday, to join their local session. Three ladies waddle past, asking pointedly if they could please use the pavement, which between us we have thoroughly blocked.

After that it’s not far to St. Germans, where I collapse in Michael and Ulia’s sunny garden, and fall asleep.

Why am I in St. Germans? When is a cathedral not a cathedral? I had an email from Michael, the vicar of St Germans Priory. The Priory, he said, is the oldest cathedral in Cornwall; it hasn’t been a cathedral for about 1,000 years, and almost nothing remains of the actual cathedral building, but your pilgrimage wouldn’t be complete without a visit here, would it?

It takes a bit of organising, since the itinerary is set in stone, but somehow we’ve contrived it. I’m going to do a full evening performance – the Meditation, followed by some of the lighter stuff I haven’t played for a month.

The Priory is unlike anything I’ve seen before. There’s an octagonal tower – and a square one. There’s a South aisle – and a North one. But nothing in between. It has, they claim, the grandest and most important Norman arched entrance in the country. But nothing else is Norman. It’s higgledy-piggledy, a patchwork of ideas, eccentrically assembled into an awe-inspiring whole, tucked into a steep slope below the road.

There’s a big audience, and the best acoustic, and it’s altogether a wonderful evening. Because I’d fallen asleep in the garden I didn’t plan a proper programme, and suddenly I realised that outside the open West door it was nearly dark. It’s probably time to call it a day, and let the good people of St. Germans go home.