Bury My Feet

Today, I visited Bury St. Edmunds and Norwich. And my feet fell off. No joke, no hyperbole. . .they just had enough and walked away on their own. My plan today was to make a northeast run from Cambridge into Suffolk. The trip to both places was an easy triangle. But neither of these two sites seems to be a major tourist attraction, and the locals have no clue about the medieval heritage in their midst. I found the ruins of the Abbey in Bury St. Edmunds deeply sad. Much can be blamed on King Henry VIII as usual, but the abbey had been previously sacked twice by totally pissed off peasants in 1327 and again during the Revolt (or more PC “Rising”) of 1381. The Cathedral of St. James has a well-intended Normanicity but its “Millennium Tower” is not more than 50 years old. Also, it was quite impossible to get to the reconstruction of an Anglo-Saxon village in West Stow at this time of year. However, a happy surprise was the 15th-century angel roof of St. Mary’s Church.

Then, on to Norwich (pronounced “nor-itch”; just barely two syllables). My feet (who came home on their own) hate Norwich. The street plan was scribbled by a drunken four-year old. Everywhere else I’ve been, the medieval sites are quite near to one another. But in Norwich there at the four corners of a hustling, prosperous burg. The tourist pamphlets try to convince you that the (19th-century) castle and (19th-century) cathedral are all ooh-ah. . .well, they are in their way. But on almost every other block of the town there’s an astonishing church made out of flint. And the church of Dame Julian is tucked away in a totally ignored nowhere. England is wasted on the English.