As peace finally descends upon the St Calixtus Chapel, I carefully light the tealight candle. Solemnly, I bow my head, wipe away a tear from my left eye, and pray.
I come to Wells not as a tourist, or even a student writer, but as a pilgrim. My purpose is to pay respects to my dear Mother, who is no longer with us.
The west face of the grand cathedral, with its three giant, aggressive-looking towers, reveals itself. Well-protected by the surrounding expanse of lush green grass, its presence brings colour to an otherwise dull October morning. Unlike other English cathedrals, it does not loom or over-dominate; it rests peacefully instead, enticing me to inspect closer.
Approaching quietly, I am greeted by an ornate sea of sculptures depicting kings, archbishops, and disciples – like a religious theatre production in statue form. These offer a perfect home for the chattering jackdaws and cooing pigeons, who are having a conversation amongst themselves. The three tall central windows remind me of three fingers, politely beckoning me to take a closer look inside.
Entering the nave, I am enveloped in a kaleidoscopic light show. Soft sunlight filters through the multi-coloured stained glass, illuminating the space with a grandeur that feels symbolic of God's presence.
I take a moment to try and sit in quiet reflection. I notice at least fourteen stone gargoyles looking down on me from the arches, like a form of medieval CCTV keeping watch. The peace is continually disturbed by the sound of distant footsteps echoing up the nave and the click of tourist cameras. The air is thick with the scent of old prayer books.
I meet an elderly gentleman called Gervase, who agrees to show me and others around the rest of the cathedral. He is a knowledgeable man, with fifteen years of volunteer service. He begins by keenly highlighting the row of pointed gothic arches that decorate the nave. These remind me more of the mosques of Istanbul than an English church, drawing my eyes further down the building and compelling me to explore.
My eyes are transfixed on a helix-shaped structure right in the middle of the church. "That's the scissor arch," Gervase explains, "a stone hourglass with circular supports, built under structural panic to prevent the central tower of the cathedral from crashing to the ground. It doesn't belong here, but it's become part of the cathedral's character."
I follow our wise guide to the high altar, where I am greeted by a warm, orange glow shining through the windows, as if the sun were only just rising. My gaze is drawn to the Purbeck marble pillars, rising high into the vaulted roof. My neck cranes as I look upward. "All deliberate," Gervase adds, reminding me that we need to look up to see God.
My tour ends looking up into the corner of the north transept, at a cheerful-looking fellow carved in solid wood, dressed as if he were an extra in Camberwick Green. Gervase concludes, "This is the quarter jack. He has mini bells in his heels that clink like pint glasses every fifteen minutes."
Seeking solitude, I head to the Chapter House, an octagonal building with striking white walls like freshly bleached teeth. A central column, like a grand old tree, fans its branches onto the roof. It is linked to the main cathedral building by a grooved staircase, softened by the knees and feet of fellow pilgrims for centuries.
Finally, I step into the intimate St Calixtus Chapel, with its eight wooden pews and a depiction of King Arthur looking down on me from the chapel window. Here, at last, I find true peace and quiet – and feel for a moment as though my mother is with me once more.
