Heading into Lincolnshire is like a
frame-by-frame presentation of John Boorman’s Deliverance, replete with webbed-toed, dungareed types who salivate
endlessly about crops, local history and their cousin “Mary-Lou.” Legend has it that the god of feng shui decided that in order for the world to harvest all
the positive energy available, Lincolnshire needed to be tucked away beneath
the squeaky commode that is Nottinghamshire. And if Nottinghamshire could
be personified as that vociferous old aunt that embarrasses everyone by
fingering the macaroons and breaking wind unashamedly, then Lincolnshire is the
estranged uncle in a sowester with almanacs on diesel locomotives and exotic
fauna.
Lincoln is undoubtedly a strange cobbled dwelling, apparently situated almost
one hundred meters above sea level. This would no doubt account for the
constant feeling of nausea one experiences on a stroll past the numerous
toffee- shops, trinket pedlars and Ye
Olde Spam Burger Bar. Interestingly though, the etymology and
formation of its place name makes for compelling reading. It is allegedly
derived from its Celtic inhabitants (who were the earliest recorded settlers in
the area) who left various clues as to how they lived prior to the Roman
invasion. Apparently, due to the sterling work of local archaeologists, they
actually located remnants from its Celtic past, such as arrow heads, pottery,
cans of premium-strength lager and discarded deep-fried confectionary. We
now know that the city’s name actually originates from the Brythonic word Lindon (meaning bog or marshy place).
However the Romans later embellished it by adding Colonia (v: to obstruct) due to the difficulties they had in
getting to the dwelling because of the numerous fortifications as well as the
marshlands. So, Lindon Colonia
(literally bog blocker) became a
prosperous Roman settlement, establishing many of the cobbled walkways that
still serpentine through the city to this day.
The
Normans, who decided to advertise their presence by erecting castles and
cathedrals across the country, (as well as indiscriminately filleting the
locals), established Lincoln as the region’s ecclesiastical capital. Although
the Norman Cathedral (completed in 1092) was destroyed by fire when some monks,
drunk on mead and communal wine, carelessly tossed a half-lit cheroot, which
ignited some nearby straw bales. Nevertheless, undeterred, the blessed thing
was erected once more, only to be levelled by a freakish earthquake a few years
later. Many of the city’s denizens attributed the disaster to God flexing his
muscles and showing his displeasure at the gratuitous gambling, whoring and
ethnic knitting that was allegedly going on within the precincts. Although,
there is an interesting aside in one of the contemporary records that ascribes
the earthquake to the folly of a visiting Italian bishop named Crassus Asino. Apparently, Crassus (prompted by some local hooch left
over from the Roman occupation) believed he could fly and subsequently leapt
from the cathedral’s tallest tower. He actually covered quite a bit of
ground simply by the vigorous flapping of his cassock, and, as a matter of
fact, made it to the neighbouring shires. His success at the time was
ascribed to a favourable tail wind, a large bowl of sprouts and a smidgeon of
divine intervention. Unfortunately, however, he eventually ran out of steam,
and, unable to keep himself aloft, plummeted to his death just outside Worksop.
The impact left a deep fissure or chasm in the landscape (now known as Bishop’s
Crack) that has since been turned into a local skate park.
However, despite all the setbacks, the cathedral was eventually constructed and
now dominates the city’s skyline. It was also (for at least three hundred
years) the tallest building in the world. This was due to its impressive spire
which was undoubtedly seen by the bishops as a statement of diocesan power, as
well as being a convenient structure on which to air their ecclesiastical
socks.
The early
bishops of Lincoln were essentially a portly lot who exercised considerable
influence over Medieval England. In fact Hugh of Wells was supposed to have
been present at the signing of Magna Carta. However, he is reported to have
whistled and made silly farty noises throughout, until King John and the local
barons, thoroughly annoyed at his presence, were reputed to have
inflicted a near fatal wedgy. The bishops were also famed for tobogganing in
Lincoln during the winter and synchronised swimming in the river Witham in the
warmer months. Rumour has it that they also experimented with psychotropic and
hallucinogenic substances. And, indeed, the early marginalia are littered
with illustrations of psychedelic toads, weasels, suspicious-looking
salamanders and the odd nonsensical flourish. It is said that the
partaking of exotic herbs actually lead to bouts of irrepressible giggling
during the Mass, and the subsequent hunger pangs are reputed to have caused the
great famine of 1353.
The
roll call of Lincoln’s bishops reads like an ecclesiastical who’s who. There
was Robert Bloet (or Bloeter) named due to his love of hog-roasts, warm ale and
plum duff. Hugh of Avalon, (a vibrant presence around the city) described
as a firm-buttocked, rosy-cheeked sort-of-a-fellow who delighted in teaching
Albanian yodelling and hankie waving to Edward II. There was also the famous St
Hugh of Lincoln who was martyred by being drowned in his own porridge.
And lastly Robert Grossetestes who enjoyed terrorising the local children; or
at least until he was pummelled to death by a group of washer-women. But
perhaps the most famous bishop was Thomas Wolsey who served as the King’s almoner
under Henry VIII. It is said the Wolsey’s time at Lincoln was marred by
dubious, nocturnal goings on, and there was indeed a scandal involving some
dwarfs, a soaked camel and several sticks of celery. Wolsey was also famed for
lifting his vestment or cassock in the town square in order to perform his
impersonation of the King of France, aided by a couple of plums and a stuffed
badger.
During the Medieval period Lincoln flourished, especially in terms of
trade. Exports of items such as wool, cloth and pork scratchings to the
Netherlands and other regions generated a lot of commerce and revenue.
Consequently the city was considered a rich source of income worth mining by
anybody with an entrepreneurial bent. Markets began to spring up unchecked and
unfettered by the local authorities, as did numerous disputes and fracas over
plots and trading rights. In fact, the famous battle of 1141 between King
Stephen and the Empress Matilda, was actually over the contents and positioning
of a market stall during the city’s famous Christmas fair. It is said that
during the hostilities many noses were tweaked and ears pulled in the violence
that spilt over onto the Cathedral green. In fact contemporary accounts speak
of a battle of apocalyptic proportions amongst the stallholders with flailing
French sticks, prune chutney and lobbed pilchards.
Lincoln never really recovered from the skirmishes of the late medieval period,
which consequently saw trade decline. The city’s woes were further
exacerbated by various natural disasters like flooding, plague and downpours of
frogs in 1389 making the cobbles even oiler than usual. With the Tudor
reign came the Dissolution of the Monasteries which effectively stripped
Lincoln of its diocesan thrust and influence. In fact in 1549 the cathedral's
great spire actually perished and fell from its positioning, apparently
impaling a couple of winkle-sellers “winkling” on the river bank. However
the metaphorical resonances were evident, and seized upon by soothsayers as a
symbol of the city’s political and economic downfall.
Lincoln of course recouped, although suffered grievously during the civil war
being sandwiched between parliamentary and royalist incursions. However, with
the onset of the Industrial Revolution it came into the fore once more in terms
of production, and manufacturing, which eventually gave way in the proceeding
centuries to heavy industry. During the 20th century they had
a thriving industrial infrastructure, until the Thatcher invasion of the 1980s
saw the influx of the mulleted “upwardly-mobile.” The ensuing political
zeitgeist resulted in industry and manufacturing effectively relocating abroad,
leaving tourism and tea shops as the main legitimate source of income.
The famous
Christmas market, however, still draws people into the city, with huge strings
of sausages, pickled conkers, and homemade fudge. However, it is mainly
students, pensioners and Americans in loud shirts which prop everything up
these days. The Cathedral, like most establishments of this kind, now
charges an entry fee (God has become rather expensive of late), in order to
prevent its hallowed structure going the same way as the once great spire.
No doubt to the relief of the numerous fishy purveyors that thrust and parry
upon the banks below.
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