Leicester Cathedral
People often assume that Cathedrals are static entities, frozen in time. That, at some undefined point in the past they just… stopped. That they became ‘historic’ and therefore untouchable and untouched. But this is the opposite of the truth. These buildings are constantly changing and evolving, altering to suit the needs of the communities they serve, and the people that call them home. Yes, there is much less change now - we’re past the point of demolishing the east end of an ancient cathedral because we want to build it anew in the latest fashionable style - but these places still change.
I live in Leicester, a city with one of the smallest, poorest, least remarkable Cathedrals in England. As an architecture nerd I often say “Leicester Cathedral is, architecturally, ugh - but the people are amazing”, and it’s true. I am very lucky to have an good relationship with the people who keep Leicester Cathedral going, and that means I have had an incredibly privileged view of a Cathedral evolving, over the past few years.
If you’re reading this on the day it comes out, Leicester Cathedral will have, only yesterday, opened it’s new extension to the public, the culmination of a series of physical works that started in 2021 - with planning, fundraising, and other preliminary works, starting as far back as 2016.
So, for today’s issue of Church Climbing I want to take you, not on one climb, but many, as we watch a Cathedral change before our very eyes.
Let us begin a decade ago, in 2015. The reinterment of King Richard III catapults a tiny Cathedral in a small city in the middle of England into the national spotlight. Suddenly people come specifically to visit to see the Cathedral, instead of just drifting by while heading somewhere else. It becomes an attraction in its own right. That means visitors, money, and, unfortunately for the Cathedral, expectations that they cannot quite live up to. Leicester Cathedral was never meant to be a Cathedral, after all. Built as a parish church, it sat happily beside the Guildhall for centuries, until, in 1926, the Diocese of Leicester was recreated after a Viking-induced hiatus of 1200 years or so. In 1927 St Martin’s Church became Leicester Cathedral, and a new set of expectations emerged.
With a small building, and an even smaller pot of money, the Cathedral muddled along well enough until the internment, and then, with the vigour only a small, scrappy, minimally listed (Grade II*), building could - it seized the opportunity it had been presented, and set to work changing its fortunes.
I stumble into this story in 2020. Covid is rampant in Leicester and we’re locked down for over a year. The Cathedral are still plugging away getting planning consents, but the project seems almost ready to go, waiting for when the city re-opens. At this time the Cathedral still has its old parquet floor, a holdover from the Victorian era. Some of the blocks of wood are loose, most are stained, it was always going to get the axe during the renovations. So, when the Cathedral light thousands of candles, one for every person who died in Leicester and Leicestershire during Covid, it’s not a problem when the sheer heat of so many gathered together burns dark circles into to the floor. A stigmata, of sorts.
Eventually reopening properly in 2021, the cathedral shudders onwards - aesthetic works that would normally be carried out are left undone, awaiting the big renovation, and so, shabbily, but earnestly, it continues to function as a Cathedral. That winter the Dean spends a memorable afternoon in the building, walking in circles, endlessly bleeding the malfunctioning radiators. The paint peels from the walls. The floor clacks if you step in the wrong place. The toilets are closed. Visitors complain. Worship happens.
Out the back, away from public eyes, in the 1930’s song school and vestry, water pours in through the roof, and damp creeps up the walls. Eventually the Cathedral Vergers rig up a shelter of plastic sheeting over the computers, with a funnel running down into the sink. It’s the only way to keep them dry. Everything else continues to get damper. Greener. Crumblier.
Finally, the time comes. The renovation can begin. The plan looks something like this:
Demolish the 1930’s song school.
Build a new multi-purpose extension where it once stood.
Renovate the main body of the cathedral, inside and out, while you’re at it.
They call the project “Leicester Cathedral Revealed”.
In January 2022 the Cathedral vacate the building for good. One rainy afternoon, under a cluster of Cathedral-branded golf umbrellas, the clergy solemnly process the reserved sacrament out of the building, across the ring road, and over to the aumbry in St Nicholas Church - Leicester’s oldest church, and set to be home to the Cathedral on weekdays (it’s too small to take the Sunday congregation) for, allegedly, the next eighteen months, max.
The work can finally begin. And I set about persuading people to let me take a look. Over the next few years, I visit, often in hi-vis and hard hat, to take a little peek at the goings on.
February 2022
(One Month After Closing)
In February 2022 I make my first trip to the closed Cathedral. The south side is covered in scaffolding, surrounded by high metal fences. But I have a hard hat, a hi-vis, and a guide. So let’s go on a climb!
Up the steps we go, right to the top!
The external stonework of the Great South Aisle is in serious need of repair, the gargoyles worn down almost to stubs (can you work out what they once were?).
You can see, in the background, a previous section of repairs, with two new grotesques, a fox and a tiger (both symbols of the city), protruding from smooth reddish stone.
The neat straight lines of these older repairs stand in contrast to the rest of the south aisle with it’s once-straight parapet wobbling away into the distance.
While we’re up here, it’d be rude not to go on the roof, right? So over the parapet we go, up the slanting ridge of the roof, and straight over to peer through the windows.
The clerestory windows are painted Victorian glass, their whirls and patterns sweeping across the Cathedral on a sunny day.
Let’s peer in… closer… closer… until we can catch a glimpse through the flowers that cover the glass…
Above us, the Victorian tower and spire spike up into the sky, taller and taller the closer you get.
But we need to descend, I’ve glimpsed the inside of the closed Cathedral… and I need to know what’s going on down there!
So it’s back onto the scaffolding, past the Vaughn Porch, added in the 1890’s. There’s a row of statues below, but up here, above the window, I am most taken by this impressively vulvic “flame”. I spotted it, years before, and turned to a priest. “Look.” I said, pointing, “It’s a vulva.” “…thanks…” she said, looking at her palce of work, “I’ll never unsee that now.”
Here’s one statue, peeking up through the floor, shall we go down a level, and see the rest?
Down down we go, past the swirling tracery of the south windows, the sun washing the stone a honey-gold.
Peering down at the diggers, breaking ground on the new construction…
Along little mid-air corridors of blue netting…
Ah! Here is our friend from earlier! Which must mean that around the corner from her we’ll find the rows of statues lining up along the well-known south face of the porch!
From here we continue downwards, to the ground, and the main body of the Cathedral. Here, work is beginning with the removal of asbestos. Airtight tunnels and chambers run around the room as old heating pipes are dug out, and every single fibre cleaned out of the trenches they once occupied.
Elsewhere, the Cathedral is coated in plastic sheeting, plywood, and foam - to protect it from damage in the months ahead.
Even Richard III’s grave was safely boxed in, surrounded by warnings, but no notice about what was inside.
On the day I visited, a test pit had just been chiselled in the old parquet floor, the builders checking what lies beneath.
Nearby, beneath the east window in the south aisle, the rubble wall was exposed - here is where they’ll be cutting in the new doorway, for the extension beyond.
As you can tell, in February 2022 the works were only just beginning - so let’s skip forward a few months…
June 2022
(six months after closing)
I return at the end of June 2022. The months have made their mark and the floor is being dug out, the entire Cathedral a scene of chaos.
It’s so chaotic, in fact, that once I reach the end of the plywood planks creating a small gangway around the south door, I cannot go any further. So we head outside, instead. Here, the archaeologists have begun their work, digging down beneath the old song school, the raw walls where it once stood forming a shattered background for the long dig ahead.
Leicester is a Roman city, founded in about 60AD, and any dig in the city centre is bound to turn up some Roman stuff. At this point the dig has barely begun, and already lots of broken shards of Roman pottery have been found.
From below the ground, to above it, I head up the scaffolding again, to see the changes since my last visit.
New grotesques have been installed, a Leicester Longwool sheep (this is my favourite because it is doing a blep and has adorable little feets), a wyvern (a heraldic symbol of Leicester), a white boar (for Richard III), and a Peregrine Falcon (because they nest on the Cathedral tower).
The stonemasons have been hard at work up here for months now, and where once the south aisle seemed like a jagged rockface, clean smooth stones now proliferate. For example, remember that wobbly parapet? A straight new one is being installed.
New stones are being added at a rapid pace, speckling the old walls - but crosses across stone after stone show how much work still needs to be done. Each cross makes a stone destined for removal. They’re everywhere.
As we descend, I spot, by the stairs, some of the old gargoyles, gently lowered to the ground and replaced by those shiny new grotesques.
This was only a little look around, though, a little invite up the scaffolding to see the grotesques. In December I got a better look.
December 2022
(twelve months after closing)
The thing about December in England is that the weather is bad. “oh no!” you may be thinking “does that mean you couldn’t climb the scaffolding?” you may be thinking. And please, do not worry. I may have been kept off the outdoor scaffolding. But instead, I got to climb the indoor scaffolding!
“Indoor scaffolding?” you may be thinking “Like? A scaffolding tower?” you may be thinking. And no. I mean like an entire Cathedral filled with scaffolding. An adult jungle gym of scaffolding giving the workers (and troublemakers like myself) access to every inch of wall and window and ceiling in the Cathedral.
Come with me, my friends, on the strangest Cathedral climb I will probably ever do!
Walking into a Cathedral full of scaffolding is an absolutely surreal experience. Everything is low, rough, and close. There’s the echo of workmen high above, and then, cutting through the dust and grime and raw stripped walls, a glimpse of a stained glass window, winking, jewel-bright, in the winter sun.
Beneath our feet the floor is in flux. The old parquet has been ripped out, new underfloor heating is being put in, but that’s not the real work. In Churches and Cathedrals the east end is usually built higher than the rest of the church, the elevation marking the importance of the chancel and altar space. This isn’t exactly accessible, however, so as part of this work the entire Cathedral is being levelled, the floor turned into a gentle gradient, sloping almost imperceptibly, to create step free access for all. As this work is undertaken the floor is dotted with pits, ducting, and pallets of new stone ready to be laid down.
In the middle of this, right in the centre of the nave, a huge metal staircase reaches up and up, and so we climb it. First, to the tops of the archways.
It’s strange to be here. I know, in my gut, that I shouldn’t be able to walk here. To touch the archways, duck under them, like they’re at ground level.
Through the arches, along the walls, the bottoms of the clerestory windows peek through the scaffolding, calling us up to take a look.
And so off we go, up another ‘floor’, to the clerestory. These are the windows we saw from the roof, that we peered through, months ago. From this side they’re so bright and vibrant. The tired stone around them in the process of receiving a new coat of whitewash.
Opposite, to the north, the glass is plain - diamond quarries in a whitewashed frame, the northern aspect and surrounding buildings limit the light too much to dim it further by filtering it through coloured glass. Still, the red brick beyond, reflecting what is left of the low winter sun, gives them a glow, like a smouldering fire.
Heading east, the capitals at the top of the pillars that hold up the crossing, normally so high out of reach, are there within touching distance, the painters beyond at work on the ceiling of the crossing and chancel.
To the west the plain glass window floods the space with light, flanked by the organ in it’s dust-proof sheeting.
It’s time to head up further, to the ceiling. The stairs have run out now, leaving only a single ladder leading into the space above the tops of the clerestory windows.
Up here wooden angels process, rank by rank, each holding a shield depicting an instrument of Christ’s passion.
The paint up here is being renewed and refreshed, the greens and reds re-done in more appropriate tones, the mustard yellow changed to white. And each angel is being painstakingly regilded.
The angels - about the size of my torso - are beautifully carved, and gleaming gold - but above, on their backs, and the tops of their wings - where nobody is ever supposed to see - where almost nobody ever has seen - the rough work of the wood carvers is obvious.
To the west, the sun continues to pour through that great west window, a wall of glass that lights the angels up in shining gold.
Below us, the clerestory windows continue pouring light into the space, looking down they glitter up from below - an odd perspective, to be sure.
Above, there is a ladder, just one, leading up, even further, above the angels, into the darkness sheltered by the ceiling itself. I turn from the bright west window, and climb.
It’s dark up here, even with the trail of electric lights. I set my shutter speed long, stand very still. Through the rough wooden boards the light from below trickles up, like shafts of light underwater. It’s quiet here, too, somehow. The wood all around absorbing the reflected clatter from the stones below. I stand back for a moment, up against the crossing tower, and then move westward, like a moth, drawn to the light.
I loiter here for a while - it’s peaceful, more peaceful than you’d expect from an active building site. The dark wood, with its streaks of colour, running away along the walls (Or? The ceiling? I guess?), holds you. They say the name “nave” comes from “navis” or “ship”, because the roofs reminded people of the upturned hull of a ship. I don’t hold to that folk etymology, but here, it felt like I was encased in the nautical, though, perhaps, between the ribs of a great wooden while, rather than the bowels of a ship.
Soon it’s time to swing onto the ladder, and descend.
We reach the level of the archways again, and my guide asks… “would you like to see the Great South Aisle?” - now, the thing you need to know about Leicester Cathedral is that it’s got two south aisles. This is, to put it in formal architecture terms, ‘Incredibly Weird’ for a British Cathedral. Double aisles are, firstly, normally on both sides, and secondly, far more of a European thing. They never really caught on over here, with only a few places having them. So - of course, I said yes! Let’s gooo! (editorial note here to say that the man in the below picture is much taller than I am, and I did not, in fact, have to do anything but bow my head to go under the archways)
The Great South Aisle is the external one, and, weirdly, taller (and wider) than the one that borders the nave. But that means there’s a whole new world of scaffolding in here.
The fact the aisle faces south means it also catches most of the sunlight here in the northern hemisphere, and so this is where you find most of the stained glass. Stained glass that, thanks to the scaffolding, I was able to get very very close to.
I was drawn to the east window of this aisle, the bottom section boarded up to keep it safe from the construction of the new extension. From this vantage point details invisible from the ground become clear. Each feather on an angel’s wing, each strand of hair, each decorative flourish on a robe; all coming into fullest view.
Along the south wall, ranks and ranks of other windows, full of saints and stories and symbolism.
I spent a while up here, circling these mid-air corridors, admiring all the things people never see up close. Crossing back and forth through this tiny Cathedral.
Finally it was time to leave, and we slipped down that nave staircase, down to the ground. Here, for a moment, I paused to admire the sedilia. These were seats, once. Now they stand testament to just how high the floor has been raised to ensure step free access across the building.
But descending to the ground floor isn’t enough. Let’s go lower, into the plant room beneath the Cathedral, where huge ducting opens up into space, waiting for all the systems that control the new underfloor heating system. A replacement for the constantly leaking radiators that divided the nave.
Speaking of things below the ground, there’s a new hole being dug outside the Cathedral. The new building will extend two floors underground, reducing it’s footprint on the surface while maximising it’s square footage. At this point they’ve already found thousands of skeletons, which I won’t be sharing photos of, and oodles of other stuff. Here’s some of the other stuff that the archaeologist let me hold as I passed by on my way out of the building site. A brooch. A coin from the reign of Emperor Constans I. And a fragment of Roman pottery with a makers mark so clear it could have been stamped yesterday.
July 2023
(nineteen months after closing)
Let’s jump forward significantly, From December 2022, to July 2023. The internal renovations are continuing at pace. The scaffolding is out, the high-level work all completed, and it’s looking… pretty good!
The Cathedral floor, once a series of levels reached by wobbly portable ramps is now at a very gentle slope, and full of useful plug sockets, microphone connection points, and underfloor heating pipes. Though the slope is gentle, the actual raising of level is significant, and towards the east end some of the columns have had new feet carved and installed, as the originals are now far below floor level.
The stonemasons are still at work, in fact. Previously the burial of Richard III had revealed a problem. The choir screen was moved backwards to frame the area in which he was reburied, and in doing so it was discovered that when they had put the screen in, instead of cutting the wood to fit around the stone carving, they’d just hacked the stone off instead. This has left damaged carvings and whole sections of missing stone. Now a mason was at work in the crossing, carving lumps of rock in-situ, to ensure the work matched up seamlessly with the now-mangled original.
Above his head a span of bright blue. The crossing had been repainted, from the dark brown it was before, to a glistening blue. Just look at the difference!
Further to the east, the Cathedral was beginning to look almost ready. On one altar a set of angels waited for reinstallation with the rest of the removed woodwork.
Elsewhere things were less polished. The floor was still unfinished in places, the font still needed plumbing into the space that was set aside for it, raw stone walls were still waiting for the reinstallation of wooden panelling, plastic draped almost every surface, and the hole in the wall that would, one day, lead to the new building, had only just been cut into the old stone wall.
With the new doorway (and new build) still fairly non-existent, we took the opportunity to slip into the tiny remains of the old song school. Here, evidence of why it needed to be demolished loomed everywhere. Even in the summer, and surrounded by construction dust, you could taste the damp in the air - it had penetrated deep into everything, even here, in the one part of the structure they’d decided to keep. What they knocked down was so much worse - trust me.
We got out of there fast. But the thing is… due to the lack of scaffolding I’d not actually climbed anything this visit.
There are two ‘hidden upper spaces’ in Leicester Cathedral. I know this. I have known this for a long time. I asked, very nicely and Bev (the Head Verger and all-round living legend) pulled out her big ring of keys.
First, up the central tower.
Up here is the high chamber where the ringers gather to ring the twelve cathedral bells.
From here, a rarely-opened external door gives us views over the south roofs, and the ongoing works outside. Shall we have a peek?
Back inside, there’s another staircase, this one up higher into the tower. It leads to a low dark room filled with spare bell ropes, old framed documents, the odd image. Even a chair.
There’s also a ladder here, reaching up and up and up, past the bells, into the hollow spire itself.
This is a very strange space, reaching higher and higher, getting dimmer the further up it goes, with little beams of light breaking through at intervals.
But there’s a second hidden space to explore… so down we go, down down down, to the ground floor. Then, crossing over to the south, we head into the porch. The Vaughn porch, with it’s ranks of external statues. Bev opens a small door, to reveal an even smaller spiral staircase, leading up to the room above the porch. This used to be the Muniments Room, where the Cathedral stored their records and their valuables. The good stuff has all been moved elsewhere now, but what remains is a treasure trove of Cathedral detritus; the life of the place on display, scatted across shelves.
It’s a small room, but on a table, off to the side, is a cardboard box, filled with tiny little Bibles, Psalters, and prayer books - each beautifully bound.
I looked up from my rummaging, my ooh-ing, and ahhh-ing, and spotted something strange, on the one small windowsill.
“Why do you have a… torso?… up here?” I asked.
“Oh!” Said Bev “That’s Sir Ian McKellen.”
As if that’s a normal thing to say.
“Bev,” I said, “you’re gonna have to elaborate.”
She then told me that, back when they buried Richard III Sir Ian McKellen, famous for playing Richard III many times in his career, donated this cast of his torso to the Cathedral. It was made when he was playing Richard in the early 1990’s, for some wardrobe or makeup reason or other.
And so, unable to resist, I reached out my arm, and in that dusty room, hidden away above the Cathedral, I touched Sir Ian McKellen’s left nipple.
With that done I descended the spiral staircase, walked through the Cathedral, past the pit-with-lift-shaft that comprised the entirety of the new extension, and out into the streets of the city to contemplate how I keep getting myself into these ridiculous situations.
December 2023
The Cathedral reopens!
The Cathedral community processed, singing, back into the Cathedral in December 2023 - after delays left them for almost two years without a stable home.
One evening, after a carol service, I spotted the Precentor, unaware I was still there after the congregation had left, taking a moment and looking out over the Cathedral.
Let’s see what she sees, shall we?
The Cathedral feels bigger, brighter. The clean repainted walls, light stone floor, warm light from the chandeliers (and actual warmth from the underfloor heating) make it so much more welcoming than before. Overhead, the golden angels glisten in the light.
In the east corner of the great south aisle, the sedilia show how high the floor was raised. Where once my feet could barely touch the floor, now… well…
The Cathedral are so happy to be open. So happy that they get an enormous Christmas tree - and only when it arrives do they realise they don’t have any way to get the baubles on it - so they stop halfway up, as high as the tallest volunteer can stretch. I love this silly little Cathedral so much.
There’s still a lot unfinished. Construction outside, and finishing touches inside keep going, but still… they’re home. Just in time for Christmas.
June 2025
They did it! The new Cathedral Heritage and Learning Centre opens on July 14th. Or will… open… has? opened? Okay, look, we all accept that I write Church Climbing the present tense to make it feel fun and immediate and like you’re there with me but that does create some weird time effects for this bit. If you’re reading this on the day it comes out (shout out to you, nerds!), then it opened yesterday. But I visited about a week before the opening, to get these pics ready for you all, so there were still finishing touches to be completed and stuff like that. Just go with it.
The new build is controversial. Of course it is. But for the record, I like it. My favourite part are the glazed terracotta fins which pick up and continue the vertical lines of the window tracery and buttresses across the south elevation of the Cathedral. And, yes. It’s a cube. I know its a cube. And cubes are boring. I agree. But, knowing the restrictions they faced, both as regards space, archaeology, and architecture - they really did an amazing job, and the building is much much bigger inside than you would imagine.
As we look round, I also want you to remember where the Cathedral started. The old Song School, which was demolished to make way for this comprised of a large rehearsal room with the roof falling in; a set of three or four toilets that were in such bad disrepair they couldn’t be opened to the public; a tiny office space which had such bad leaks that the computers had to be sheltered under plastic sheeting; and a vestry in which the air literally tasted green.
Now… this:
The main hallway is bright and wide, with the exhibition space and stairwell on one side, and a small servery (for the obligatory post-service cup of tea), and some accessible all-gender toilets on the other.
When I visited they’d not put everything in the new exhibition space yet - but it’s already an enormous improvement to the sea of random informational signs that littered the Cathedral after Richard III’s reburial.
At the back there’s the verger’s office, complete with tonnes of storage, as well as controls and ducting for all the building’s systems. Elsewhere in the building there’s also a large washing machine, fabric press, and dishwasher - all of which the vergers have been talking excitedly about since before construction even began.
The real showstopper, for me, was the stairwell. The panelling! The lighting! The green! (Green is my favourite colour)
First we went down - here there’s more toilets, for visitors to use during big services and events. And a break room of sorts, with a little kichenette, for employees and volunteers to come and rest.
You will remember that they dug a big hole here, and at the bottom of it there’s a second basement. It’s not open to the public, because here is where the Cathedral store all of their stuff. And they have… So. Much. Stuff.
In one corner a set of spare fins caught my eye. I asked Bev if I could steal one, because the lustre and colour is so gorgeous. She said no. And that even if I could, she’d get first dibs.
In another corner the Cathedral nativity set peered out from beside a control panel.
And stacked absolutely everywhere: Mounds and mounds of chairs.
We headed back up. Once we got above ground, windows began to pour natural light into the stairwell, and I stopped at each one to remark on the view. The wood panelling inside, and the greenery of the Cathedral Gardens outside made it feel like we were far from the centre of a city.
Up on the top floor there’s a multi-purpose space, with hidden tv, kitchenette, and accessible toilet.
The north window faces the Cathedral, so, of course, I opened the blind to have a little look…
There’s also an office space up here. I’d love to tell you about it in detail but to be honest I immediately stopped paying attention when I discovered it had access to a hidden roof.
I just… I just love climbing churches, you guys. It’s almost like I’ve got a whole blog about it.
This has been a long one, I know. Long in that this is the longest span of time I’ve continuously explored a Cathedral for - and in that it is, by now, a very long read (so long that it crashed my aging computer a total of six times, though I only lost a lot of content one of those times). But there is one thing I wish to say, before I go.
These Churches and Cathedrals are not museums. They all live in the tense realm between heritage asset and living space. The thing that makes them incredible is not simply the architecture, but the reason the architecture is there. The constancy. The continuation of humanity in a single place, for a single purpose, over centuries, or even over a millennium.
None of these buildings were built to remain the same, to be frozen in time. They were built to be used, and changed if the need arose. Leicester Cathedral has been radically changed over centuries. In the timescales we are speaking of when it comes to these places, the tower and spire are as much of a new build, as the Heritage and Learning Centre. The old parquet floor was as much of an incongruity as the new sloped floor and underfloor heating. When I find people criticizing one, but not the other, I wonder at their motives, and their reflexive response to change.
Now, I am not privy to the finances of Leicester Cathedral - nor would I understand them if I were. But I do know it’s one of the poorest, if not the poorest, Cathedral in the country. That this project was only possible through generous grants and donations, and that, even then, it was a close call. I know that without it, the Cathedral would cease to function in five, ten, twenty years time. That the needs of the Cathedral, and the communities that use it, include the need for accessibility throughout the building. The need for heating that actually works. For lighting that can be adjusted. For storage. Office spaces. A rehearsal space for the Choristers that isn’t filled with mould. And I know that this work, no matter what people may think of it, has provided all of that for them.
I do not think that we should knock down ancient buildings without thought - but I do think that, when appropriate, we should change them - and celebrate that change. Because change allows them to continue functioning. Without change these places become static, creaking, historic sites. But when they are allowed to change to meet the needs of their communities - just as they changed in centuries past - then they can continue to live, and thrive. And it is that life, that human life, and human love, for a space, for a community, for God, and for each other, that makes these places so special.