We fumbled our way into Exeter cathedral. It was so bitterly cold that we didn't even pause to admire the exterior. Inside we negotiated the concept of a compulsory voluntary donation, collected our free pocket diaries and learnt the library was closed. No chance of seeing the Exeter Book. Where was Richard and his camera when I needed him? No point in bleating -"but I came all the way from Australia". We could have been returning damaged goods or unwanted christmas presents.
Then I looked up and the ceiling rocked me back on my heels. There are times when "wow" is the only appropriate response. The lady at the counter, enjoying my reaction as much as i was, offered facts about the building.
The organist began to practice.
This is what I want as a reader of poetry. An encounter with something that will always be one step futher than I can ever go.
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