Grey Skies and Long Roads

As I stepped off of my lofty eight o’clock bus out of Burwell, lazily rubbing my sunken eyes, I glimpsed the Ancient Ely Cathedral just above a passing train. She loomed over the many quaint houses and pubs as a nebulous shadow.

I had no map, no concept of England’s sporadic roadways, no idea where I was, and the worst sense of direction that any aspiring vagabond could have. Guided only by her dark, outstretched towers, the trek to Ely’s summit was like following a distant star.

As my luck would have it, a violent hailstorm interrupted my search, scouring my exposed face and hands. I broke into a zealous sprint, chasing the promise of shelter just up ahead. The first enormous stone arch I flew under concentrated all of the winds force in an effort to expunge my laughter.

Drenched and jubilant, I finally peeled open the gently eroded door. I was instantly overcome with an eerily hollow and unfamiliar silence. The thunderous storm outside was but a muffled hum.

Mighty ceilings hundreds of feet tall curved seamlessly around the expanse of Ely’s grey halls. Natural light transcended daedal stained glass windows in peach and yellow blotches, and an altruistic blue shone through the Virgin Mary’s resolute eyes. The air was stale and motionless. An alien spiritual stillness lifted my chest.

Beneath my conscious steps, various encrypted corpses lay dormant. On stone plaques, their lives were chronicled in a beautiful, florid print, painted delicately in Latin. These people’s earnest devotion to their God kept Ely and her legacy alive through multiple invasions, architectural collapses, three restorations, and a thousand damaging years.

Her elaborate interior precisely mirrors England and her people’s vast, pious history.

Such holy saints also inspired many modern worshipers, lighting candles under their chins in prayer. A man draped in a ruby chasuble sat stiffly at the base of an intricate wooden organ, bouncing the keys on his fingertips, blanketing Ely’s corridors with a solemn melody. Some visitors were quickly trotting through, snapping blurred photos. Others lingered.

For no photo could capture such a dimensional, complex purity.

Hours later as I emerged back into the wind, the stench of age was swept clear from my nose. I clambered to the top floor of a shanty tea house and sat with good company. I ate homemade tuna and corn, pondered the multitude of histories that still remained buried, and as my luck would have it, missed the last bus home.