St Mary Le Wigford, Lincoln
Before we begin, let me say that there are fewer images in this edition that I would like, mostly due to me spending most of the climb clinging on for dear life, and therefore not having free hands with which to snap a quick pic.
This is the final church of three that I visited on one little adventure in Lincoln in the summer of 2020, so, having seen St Peter at Gowts, and St Benedicts, let’s climb the final one of this crumbling old trinity.
St Mary Le Wigford is right next to Lincoln Railway station, the Victorians doing a similar thing here as they did to the Castle in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, just… plonking the line in, and giving little thought to the thousand year old buildings around it.
She was built in the 1000’s, added to in the 1100’s and 1200’s, massively messed around with by the Victorians, and currently contains some horrible plywood and plasterboard rooms inserted into the south aisle that I refuse to take photos of because they hurt my heart.
I arrived, and was introduced to the Priest, what you need to know about him is that, after I climbed this church I tweeted “Today I met a mad priest who let me do some extremely unsafe church exploration” and half a dozen people, with no other information or context, immediately guessed who it was. He showed me the bells in the north aisle, that he’d procured by some means or other, and planned to try and hang in the tower, to add to the number of bells in the church. He liked bells, you see, and had a lot to say on that subject. (so far as I can tell, he has not, in the years since this exploration, been successful in hanging any extra bells in the tower).
It is easy to move from the topic of bells, to bell towers, and how much I like to climb them. The priest looked down at himself, his black cassock immaculate, and ill-suited for climbing ladders, and said he’d love to go with me, but couldn’t - not in that outfit. Then he opened the first door to the tower, said, “Climb as high as you like”, and, ominously, followed that up with: “If I hear screaming, I’ll call for an ambulance.”
So up I went.
The first stage of the climb is a short and narrow wooden staircase, this takes you to a wrought iron spiral staircase, which leads to the bell ringing chamber, dusty, but decorated with hangings, and old notices, standard stuff you’d expect to find in such a place.
Here, too, is the small opening into the nave, typical of many old churches - it allows the ringers to see what was going on down below.
But we came to go up, not to look down. So, onwards! Now we reach the climb proper, with a wooden ladder, strapped vertically to the wall of the ringing chamber. Above this, the clock room. So far as ladders go, this was a pleasure to climb, the wooden rungs spun, slightly, under my hands, but it was securely fastened to the wall, and the wood was clearly in good condition. The fact that I mention this should give you a hint of what kind of ladders are to come. This is called ‘foreshadowing’.
So! The clock room!
Like many clock rooms in churches of this era, it’s small, and cramped, inserted as a half-floor between the bells and the ringing chamber. The roof here was about 5ft from the floor, and even I had to keep my head down and scurry. Here the clock mechanism sat, shining in the gloom.
From here, things get sketchy.
To get from the clock room to the bell chamber, there is a short unsecured wooden ladder. Not too bad, all things considered, as the drop is only 5ft or so, thanks to the low ceiling.
Up we go, into the bell chamber.
It was there, beside the gleaming bells, that I began to have some serious concerns. The next part of the climb involved two short wooden ladders, one after the other, attached to the wall by brackets with about an inch of give in them; at the top of them, a wooden beam jutted out, diagonally, cutting through the air above my head. Exactly in line with the top of that final wooden ladder, but a few feet away, to my right, was a small wooden platform, and on that sat the final ladder, metal, rusted, and long. How long? Too long.
I came down the tower, entered the nave and spotted the priest. He said “that was quick” I said, “It didn’t look very safe, I assume when you said I could go as high as I want, you didn’t mean all the way, your insurance…” he said “I meant what I said, climb up to the top! The view is incredible!”
And, well, I’m an idiot. So back up I went, dashing, frenzied, up the staircase, the spiral staircase, the first ladder, the second ladder, and there, again, I stopped.
How, I thought, am I going to do this?
It was bright in the tower, the day sunny, and the old louvres let in so much light. there, overhead, the forest of ancient wood beckoned. And so I set off, upwards.
First I got to that final wooden ladder, and had to work out how to progress from here. with nowhere to hold on to as I reached the top, I flung my arms around the protruding wooden beam, and shuffled along it, feet still, just, on the top ring of the ladder. Below me, the bell fame, with its great wheels, glistened, huge, and metal; hard and jagged enough to easily break a spine.
I inched my arms up the filthy wooden beam, and swung my legs out, over the gap between the ladder and the platform, the distance too far for my legs to span in a simple step. For a brief moment I hung there, before my feet scuffed the edge of the platform, boots scrabbling at the wood, I made the most of the sideways momentum, and flung my torso across the gap too, letting go of the great beam, and reaching out for the ladder, rust cutting at my hands as I grabbed at it.
So there I was, at the foot of this great climb. No going back now. The rusting metal ladder bounced with each step, too long, really, for its purpose. At some point it had been braced, part way up, by a short stretch of ladder, laid down, and lashed to two wooden beams. You can see this in the photo below, and also, almost lost in the darkness of the bottom right hand corner of the image, that diagonal beam to which I had so recently clung. There are bells down there, too, of course, but by this point I was too high up for the light to reach them.
Up I climbed, through these long-felled trees, some possibly almost a thousand years old, and put in place when the tower was first built. Above my head, nothing but more wood, and more climbing to go.
Up and up, to the top.
Here, an old trapdoor, heavy with lead. I pushed at it, feet baced on the rusting rungs below. It didin’t budge. Another try. Then another. Finally, taking both hands off the top rung, determined this climb wasn’t going to be for nothing, I got it to lift, up, up, and, reaching the apex it crashed open, and daylight streamed through, blinding white.
I crawled out of the hole and lay, for a moment, beside it, sprawled upon the hot lead, eyes adjusting to the sun. Then I stood up, and took in the view.
The city unfurled before me, spire and steeple and tumbling rooftop, gathered together like a great urban sea, and there, at the top of the hill, on the crest of a wave, borne towards me by the shimmering heat haze that flitted above the chimneys in the blazing sun: Lincoln Cathedral, that great and fantastical Gothic confection.
Oh, the priest was right. It was worth the climb. So worth the climb.
Behind me, trains pulled into the railway station, at great intervals, the tracks slicing through the city.
And below, the church sat, ancient and intransigent amidst the urban development.
After a long while, I began to consider the climb down. The open trapdoor squatted on the roof like a gaping maw, the square of darkness within vanishing and impenetrable to eyes now accustomed to the brightness of the glaring sun.
I turned, and stepped backwards into the darkness, then realised I couldn’t close the hatch like that. Climbed back out, stepped in again, sideways, this time, then hefted the trapdoor, the sheer weight of it making me worry for the rusted rungs below. Then stepped lower, rested the trapdoor on my head, neck braced for the weight, and my hands free to hold on to the ladder. Moved lower, lower, until, there! The hatch fell into place.
With the hatch closed the darkness gathered like a momentary tomb, and I stood, on that old rusting ladder, alone and high up in the darkness, until my eyes adjusted. Then I began the climb down. Back onto that dusty wooden platform, grasping for that overhanging beam, then down, down, through the claustrophobic clock room, the tall whitewashed ringing chamber, down to the ground.
Do I recommend you do this? Absolutely not.
Do I think I should have been allowed to do this? Absolutely not.
Was the view worth it? It absolutely was.