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From the place under the bridge that could be the scene of a murder or the rib cage of a land-locked leviathan, away from the lurksome tidal mud banks, through Hook and past Mad Dog Lane and the great crooked elbow of the Ouse, where the ulna and the radius gap around the small island, along all the roads straight through the rape bursting an overenthusiastic shade of plastic mackintosh yellow, between the hedges of haw looking like untidy remnants of Christmas with blossom dog-eared and dragging, rising gently to ride along escarpments that look out over the great outpouring under the morning mist and then to the Minster, separated by centuries and technologies but not magnificence.