Occasionally one is disappointed. Everyone has his favourite cathedral, and mine, without doubt, is Wells – as beautiful inside as out, and set in a matchless close. I learnt to love it by singing there many years ago, but my visit this summer was a disaster! It was as vile a day as could be imagined and every school in Somerset seemed to be making an “educational” visit. There were wet children everywhere, their worksheets soaked and their teachers apparently powerless to control them. “Suffer the little children?” I think not!

And there was Southwell, normally the quietest Cathedral in the country, as well as one of the loveliest. Alas, I arrived on Easter Monday afternoon, right at the end of a happy clappy pilgrimage, complete with guitars and synthesizers – all very sincere and enthusiastic I’m sure, but not for me. Luckily, next morning, all was peaceful again, and Pat and I could share the beauty of the Minster’s famous carvings with just a solitary friendly verger.

My first-timer was Lichfield, set in an attractive close in a thriving little town, which remains surprisingly rural. The building is all of a piece, the three spires dominating from afar and the interior reaching a climax with the beautiful Decorated Lady Chapel, with its glorious 16th century Flemish glass. St. Chad’s Shrine stood here before the Reformation, decorated with colourful statues and adorned with precious jewels. Today a simple modern structure takes its place, much criticised in the visitors’ book, yet to me seeming wholly appropriate.

St. Werburgh’s Shrine still remains at Chester, a focus of Christian pilgrimage in our own day. The cathedral, like the city, shows every sign of affluence, down to television monitors in the aisles to give the congregation a clear view of the altar. Yet despite the impressive modern windows in the nave I find it difficult to love, and an ultra-modern version of the Lord’s Prayer put me off even more! Nonetheless, the richly carved choir stalls are some of the finest in the land.

York and Lincoln have much in common – they both completely dominate their surroundings, York by its sheer size and Lincoln by its position at the top of a hill. The splendour of York Minster is undeniable, reaching a peak with the great East Window, painted by John Thornton in just three years (1405-8) and big enough to cover a tennis court. It cost £58, and Thornton received a £10 bonus for finishing the job on time! The downside is the number of tourists, even in March. All I have against Lincoln – a glorious building in every sense, with a lovely atmosphere inside, full of holiness and wonder – is that you have to pay to get in, a moot point, I know, and one on which many words have been written.

Not as bad as Canterbury though, where you have to pay even to enter the close! And it’s not as if it a particularly beautiful or spacious close either, teeming as it is with visitors. Once in the cathedral you follow a prescribed route: in at the west end and out from the south transept, that’s it. Canterbury was one of those I hadn’t visited for forty years, and, frankly, I’ve no wish to go again. I know the authorities must have trouble with the sheer volume of tourists, but it seems to me that they are just cashing in.

In contrast, Worcester and Norwich, though not without a good number of visitors, are havens of peace and tranquillity. Worcester Cathedral, standing above the River Severn, must be one of the most photographed of them all. It contains the tomb of King John, and in 1502 saw the funeral of Prince Arthur, elder brother of King Henry VIII. His wonderful chantry is a potent reminder of what might have happened to the history of the Church in England had he lived. As well as its mediaeval heritage, Worcester is rightly proud of its Victorian additions, the ornamental pulpit, seen all the better for the absence of chairs in the nave, the fine choir screen and Hardman’s West Window.

At Norwich the choir were rehearsing for a Choral Evensong broadcast later in the day, I was able to sit in the choir stalls with them and quietly enjoy the singing. In some cathedrals you aren’t allowed in the chancel, and the stalls are frequently roped off, making it impossible to look at the much vaunted misericords. The sun streaming in the great perpendicular windows makes the eastern arm of Norwich Cathedral special, and the city, with its great civic pride, is reflected in the life of the cathedral.

The Abbey Church of St. Albans did not become a cathedral until 1877, yet in its heyday had been one of the largest and most powerful monasteries in the land, as well as a great centre of pilgrimage. Substantial portions of St. Alban’s Shrine remain, and revenue gained from pilgrims ensured that the Abbey church was sumptuously decorated. Although but a shadow of its former self, the cathedral, set in beautiful parkland on the edge of the city, still contains remarkable paintings and sculpture.

Chichester, set amid the bustle of busy streets, is a fine Norman building, unique in having double aisles. It also has a priceless collection of modern art – a painting by Graham Sutherland, a window by Chagall, and above all, a dramatic reredos in the form of a tapestry designed by John Piper.

Lastly, to dear little Rochester. Nestling in the shadow of the massive Norman keep, the cathedral’s Norman nave and 13th century choir, both reminiscent of Chichester, must have witnessed great turmoil over the centuries, a physical testament to the glory of God and the focus of a living community.

I must mention four other great churches which I managed to squeeze in during my journeys. The mighty Abbey at Tewkesbury, as massive as any cathedral, with a glittering array of mediaeval tombs; the exquisite Minster at Beverley, set like a Queen in the heart of East Yorkshire and full of wonderful carving; Selby Abbey, where the nave owes so much to Durham, and which must be a terrible drain on a small community; and Christchurch Priory, only fifty miles from home and possibly the least known of all these great churches.

Like Norwich, the sunlight streaming in through the great windows in the chancel onto the mediaeval reredos and choir stalls turns all our personal little hells into heavens.

Tom Muckley, February 2002   First published in The Rock, the Magazine of St. Peter’s, Petersfield , St. Mary Magdalen, Sheet and St. Mary’s, Buriton tommuckley.co.uk