Wells

Most people go to Wells, some 35 km from Bristol, for the majestic Cathedral.

I go for the wells.

Not that the Cathedral isn’t beautiful, it is, architecturally, aesthetically, historically. The carvings at the front of the building draw throngs from all over Europe, the windows are marvels and are among the best still remaining 14th century stained glass windows in Europe, The Great Clock of Wells, in operation as well since the 14^th century, is one of the oldest mechanical clocks in Europe. My son-in-law adores architecture and design and he loves pointing out the parts of the Cathedral where a redesign 300 or 500 years ago resulted in the replacement of one architectural feature with another, where the progress and evolution and redesign of a living building clearly shows in its stone bones.

And the City of Wells itself is beautiful, with a war memorial in the centre of the walled city, and the dramatic Bishop’s Palace, by the Cathedral, with its lawns and coruscaded parapets also drawing tourists of all stripes. Last time I was there I had just missed, to my dismay, an Aston Martin Meet, with Aston Martins of all vintages descending on Wells in glorious parade, to park in front of the Bishop’s Palace for everyone who loves these sublime motorized sculptures to admire.

Wells is easy to get to from Bristol. A few hundred years ago, roads were named for their destinations. Kingston Road, in Toronto, once meandered eastwards all the way along the north shore of Lake Ontario to Kingston, the home port for the British North American Fleet. Just so, as you cruise south from the centre of Bristol you come to a fork in the road marked by a tall ornate Victorian cast iron post, with two iron arms, each bearing white relief lettering against the black iron: to the right is Wells Road, which leads to Wells. To the left is Bath Road. I’m sure you’ve guessed where that goes.

Wells is a small medieval town with a population of just over 10,000 people, but which has City status and is consequently often referred to as England’s smallest City.

And once you get there, beyond the Town Square, beyond the Bishop’s Palace, beyond the Cathedral at Wells, are the wells that give this place its name, freshwater springs that bubble up from the earth, and have done so for thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of years.

There is nothing contrived or grand or majestic about the wells in the Bishop’s Palace Garden but there is something indefinable, barely perceptible, a glimmering at the very edge of your field of vision, a wisp of thought at the very periphery of consciousness: perhaps it’s just the sense of ten thousand footfalls, of the countless humans, from Neolithic nomads to digital refugees, who have come by here, sat as I have for a few moments rest, perhaps refreshed themselves, and moved on.

It’s ironic that, in the 21^st century, we are suddenly becoming so keenly aware that, without clean air to breathe and clean water to drink, we are doomed, a truth our “primitive” ancestors who gathered by the springs at Wells, perhaps as long as 10,000 years ago, knew instinctively. That’s why Wells, and most other water sources, were a spiritual locus thousands of years before Cathedrals and Bishop’s Palaces and Bishops and medieval towns and Kings were even dreamt of.

It’s a satisfying place to visit, and by all means see all the sites; but make sure you sample the evanescent magic of sitting by a spring that countless humans have sat beside for millennia, and hear their voices, feel them breathe, sense their thoughts in the soft sigh of the ancient waters gently rising to the surface from deep within the quiet earth below your feet.

It’s humbling.