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St Mary Redcliffe

Proud, stately, yet lopsided athwart the crumbling Red Cliff itself, tunnelled-under, bypassed. In I go, the great vaulted cross bathed in light. Down into the strong room, a Victorian bowel sealed by a giant safe door; then up I go, circling the rising newel, then out and down, into the dark, dry, crouch-high roof space above the aisles, where secrets lie in wait: abandoned chunks of lost vaults, worked stones of preceding churches in the murk. And up again, until I float above Bristol, an epiphanous frost-heavy Gormenghast, walking among the pointed geometry of the pinnacles, high above the city, only the spire, high on entitlement, for company.

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