Peterborough: Katherine of Aragon, Bog-Snorkelling and the Wangling Cassock Snoop

My first port of call was a rather odd town (or city rather) in north Cambridgeshire. Peterborough is of course a city but lacks the cosmopolitan air one would expect from that particular epithet; in fact it feels, psychologically at least, rather closed in. The “city” is situated on (and virtually split by) the Nene River, from which the indigenous population feed on the local fish, swans and occasional bike frame lurking beneath the surface. I discovered after some preliminary research that the area derives its name from the 10th century abbots who melded the words “Petros” (adj: meaning firm, or rigid) and “Burgh” (adj: passage or conduit). In fact the whole region was once christened “Gildenburgh” (n: Anglo Saxon: crimson or tanned buttocks) by the monk Hugh Candidus and his contemporaries, who appear to have developed a dislike for the local people and customs: customs which included bog-snorkelling, sack-bobbing and crack-wrestling.

       For the abbots, life was also drawn in large from the river Nene, and legend has it that they kept an enormous troll called the Wangling (v: to whistle or wassail freely) Cassock Snoop. Apparently the troll used to live under the bridges to guard the city from marauding hoards, primarily emanating from the neighbouring low-lands of Northamptonshire. However despite protection from the aforementioned mythological beastie, Peterborough was still subject to several attacks from the neighbouring shires. These intruders would cavort around the city chanting obscenities and exposing their tender portions to all and sundry until, feeling bored and “psychologically closed in,” would eventually depart.

       The main source of employment from the middle ages onwards was agriculture and the manipulation of worzles and grain until the industrial revolution provided the opportunity for numerous mills to churn out cardies and gum boots to the populace. In one fell swoop the population of Peterborough went from working the land to sitting on unrelenting production lines manufacturing cogs, sprockets and the little rubbery bits that go into snack-pots and breakfast cereals.  In fact much of the city's elderly population still suffer from the sallow complexions and square posteriors from years of freeze-drying wongles and stuffing hydrogenated pilchards into plastic containers. Today the industries are long gone, replaced with the modern equivalent of the Satanic Mill – the modern Call Centre. These have unfortunately prospered amid the funk of post-Thatcher inertia: (Thatcher: (n) a parasitical and Regonomic life form that originally mutated from the Friedmaniacal Gamma complex and squatted over the UK for an Earth generation).

        The Cathedral is its most significant and central landmark and boasts numerous luminaries which attract the permanently cagouled with their flasks, flim-flam and mobile devices. Apparently, Katherine of Aragon, Henry VIII’s first wife, was exiled to the wilds of the Fens for her persistently asserting that she was virgo intacta prior to Henry’s fumbling. She was eventually deposited in then Abby Church, a gesture which openly proclaimed his rejection of his former Queen and the “old faith” that she represented. This all occurred during a period of history known as Henry’s Reformation (a glorious period of English history marked by religious piety, tolerance and much renovation of the country’s abbeys and monasteries). Henry decided that it would be befitting for his former Queen to lie in perpetuity as far away from civilisation as possible and Peterborough seemed the natural choice. However, not all was plain sailing as Katherine’s love of paella and cream teas, combined with a tendency to comfort eat when banished from the Tudor court, resulted in her ballooning to titanic proportions.  In fact the roof of the Abby had to be removed so she could be lowered into the building by rope and pulley, no doubt resembling an enormous piñata.

        The prospect of an eternity in Peterborough, however, was not one that James 1^st was willing to contemplate for his mother, Mary Queen of Scots, who already suffered the indignation of being turned into a toast rack at nearby Fotheringhay. He quickly had her disinterred and moved down to London where she now moulders not far from good Queen Bess in Westminster Abbey. Katherine of Aragon on the other hand still foams beneath the boards of Peterborough Cathedral’s west aisle.

       Peterborough is essentially a small market town, although it has expanded thoughtlessly over the last thirty years or so with the change of industries and the incessant demands of immigration.  One sprawling roundabout after another connects all the numerous shopping areas, which are piled on top of one another like enormous concrete turds. However, many of the city’s districts still  resonate from its ancient heritage with names such as Werrington, from the Old French meaning “Warson” (n: to pass) and “tonee” (n: piles or heaps) or Dogsthorpe, which is just one old English word “Dogeshorpees” (n: hound’s wattle). Welland is apparently derived from the middle-English word “Wallesond” (n: weasel's scrotum) and a little further afield is the town of Wisbech which claims it meaning from the Scandinavian verb “Wissee Beck” (v: to cross or pass water). Its historical centre however is still host to many traditional past-times like cheese-tossing, underwater knitting and synchronised gurning.  Of an evening a visitor might enjoy one of the city’s many organised ghost walks, where countless ghoulish and grisly sights can be beheld usually stumbling en-masse towards the city’s many kebab vans.   

      Not too far from Peterborough however is Burghley House. A grand establishment constructed by William Cecil, Lord High Treasurer to Queen Elizabeth Ist between 1555 and 1587 just on the outskirts of Stamford, in Lincolnshire. And like most establishments of this kind, one can be expected to remortgage their house for a perusal of its surroundings and grounds followed by the traditional cuppa in the teashop, adjacent to the souvenir shop. Stamford is a charming little enclave, although be warned it is so painfully middle-class, one is almost overwhelmed by the oceanic expanse of tweed, the aroma of liniment and the endless array of shops selling antiques, postcards or balls of yarn.

       Peterborough is a pretty non-descript dwelling and summarised perfectly by the snoozing old gentleman sat opposite me as “the place where the trains stop” albeit briefly....