Durham

I can't begin to describe Durham Cathedral. Think of an Oxford College or any cathedral with towers and imagine it as bigger, more grand, more perfectly proportioned, more intricately decorated, rising up over a river. Imagine pushing open the massive wooden door and finding a great wide, high space held up by massive round stone columns and resounding with prayer. Everywhere there are rows of arches in perfect geometric patterns. Sunlight falls through stained glass. Candles glow. The east window is glorious above the Chapel of the Nine Altars. And you still haven't seen it.

When I was a child we went to Durham a lot. I took it for granted, as you do. Over the years, I woke up to how beautiful it is. Many years ago, we'd had a family day there seeing the town and cathedral in all their Christmas glory, and Tony had taken the children back to the car while I finished the shopping and walked down to meet them. There was snow on the ground, and it fell again as I was walking down through the town in the dark at about half past four.

Through the narrow lane with its pretty stone terraces goes Mrs Woman with her shopping, and on down to the cobblestones. Prebend's Bridge is ahead of her. The snow falls on the trees at the riverside and around the lamppost with its soft glow. Mrs Woman gasps, and thinks that round the next bend she will meet a faun with an umbrella.

We were in Durham again today with Mum and Dad, and what a day. In the clear skies, the Cathedral looked at her best and Mum remembered her first visit there when she was tiny. We walked along the river from Prebend's Bridge and watched the rowing teams training. As we left, the Christmas lights were coming in and the skies above Durham rang with glory.