Sometimes it is the thought of imminent fear, not fear itself, that stops us in our tracks. To think of this possibility is one thing, to experience it is another. Two hundred and seventy five stairs didn’t seem bad , I wanted to take a chance.
The guide lady had said fitness was required to climb up the cathedral’s tower. Fitness, not only strong bones but a strong heart too. I had been warned but as usual I didn’t listen. When silly questions shot out of me without permission, our middle aged guide answered. She told me against climbing under fear’s influence.
If there’s one downside to being young and stubborn it is this; you don’t know better until you are in the deep or until you find yourself cooped up, hyperventilating on a loop staircase going upwards, latching to sanity by the rail’s metal.
I blame my curiosity and gothic architecture for my unfortunate halt. It was March, rain was thrashing the streets and the York Minster tempted my senses. The gargoyles and sculptures, staring down at the passersby’s bobbing dark umbrellas lured me inside. I had to see to believe their stares were meant to ward off devil, legends claimed. Once inside, warm candle light and a circular stained glass window made me pause. The window was much like the postcards my late grandfather sent me when he visited the Notre Dame in Paris, an odd familiarity. It was reverence coupled with human enthusiasm for recreating beauty, the fumbling of the past against the present.
The ticketing officer brought me out from my childhood when he asked if I was interested in touring the central tower. It was meters above earth, promising an unforgettable view of York and the north cities off the horizon. Fearless, I had agreed.
An hour later I was silently cursing myself, my bravery and stupidity. There I was then, halfway between heaven and earth rationalizing with myself the need to finish the climb. Despite the vertigo that settled comfortably in my limbs first, despite stalling the line of movers, climbers, fearless beings. I sat on a window vault, heaving. The circular walls around me closed in. On them was ink and carvings. Initials, promises and assertions of visits. Dates and names to those who passed before me. We leave our legacy in stone, with stone we cannot erode. I thought of pulling out a pen, I couldn’t yet move my fingers.
‘I am scared too, you are not alone.’ called a lady who stopped by my feet, heaving.
I nodded hysterically. ‘I’ll stay with you,’ she added.
One step, two steps, three steps, breath.
Four steps, five steps, a gentler heart beat then wind.
‘I can see light,’ I said.
‘I know,’ the lady panted.
I’ve climbed many towers since then but I can never forget the wind fondling my hair and the intense, epileptic rush in my legs. The rooftops donned in red bricks. There were other cities off the horizon, there were treetops and people as small as ants. There were bell chimes from the adjunct tower sending waves down my spine. There was a photograph of my face whiter than the clouds.
If there’s one downside to being young and stubborn it is this; you don’t know better until you are on top of the tower, breathing a lungful of midday mist and midday chimes. Fearless.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Inspiration Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
