I’d be lying if I claimed that I was ecstatic to hear that this summer’s family holiday included a 4-day visit to Durham. Set in the North of England, I immediately envisioned empty farming land stretching out for miles to see and bleak grey clouds dripping with rain as they slogged across the sky. A quick Google search confirmed my disappointment; a seemingly endless and extremely unappealing list of churches, museums and parks which were supposedly “the most popular local attractions” in the area.  

Needless to say, I was less than excited to learn that drifting around numerous churches was indeed on the agenda for the trip. Being a firm atheist, I have little time for places of religious significance; they can certainly be pretty at times but over half a week spent in old, grey, candlelit buildings which whisper tales of something that I don’t believe in is definitely not, in my opinion, time well spent.

I spent the six hour drive (braving the M25 in the holidays is always guaranteed to be a hellish experience) scouring social media and mourning over photos of my friends sprawled across golden sands and basking in tropical weather, and I couldn’t help but wish that I was bronzing on a beach in the Mediterranean sipping on iced cocktails, as opposed to venturing to an even colder part of England to look at crumbling architecture and patches of grass.

Durham boasts one of the oldest and “most spectacular” cathedrals in the country, and so of course my parents insisted on paying it a visit. I was reluctant at first, however upon traipsing through its huge wooden doors and feasting my eyes upon its interior, there was no denying its magnificence. Brimming with stained glass windows, the ancient building was illuminated by a captivating kaleidoscope of colour, with sunlight casting rays of emerald, amber, sapphire and ruby as it filtered through the exquisitely crafted Biblical images sunken into their stone surroundings. The atmosphere verged on euphoric; it was so peaceful, almost silent aside from the slow, pensive tap of shoes upon the ground, each and every visitor spellbound by the beauty of the cathedral. I was eager to see more and we were advised by a local that the view from the top of the cathedral was “something we didn’t want to miss”. Thanks to a hearty breakfast, I was buzzing with (probably a bit too much) enthusiasm, hence why we found ourselves purchasing tickets for the escapade.

It’s safe to say that enthusiasm is often quickly suppressed when faced with a 325-step upwards climb. The extent of this painful ordeal was neatly summed up by the presence of a defibrillator around halfway up the (claustrophobically narrow) staircase, presumably stationed there after someone had a close encounter with death whilst trying to reach the top of the tower. If it hadn’t been for the almost shameful number of croissants that I’d consumed that morning, my heart probably would have needed a helping hand as well. 

Glistening with sweat and panting as though we’d just completed a marathon, we were eventually greeted by a cool, crisp gust of air as we staggered out onto the roof of the tower. All of Durham and its neighbouring towns were displayed in a breath-taking microcosm right before me, with the locals and tourists scattered across the grounds nothing but tiny insects 217-feet below where I stood. It was picture-perfect – the sort of image that you’d find on a postcard.

We remained where we were for almost an hour; of course to take photos and admire the views, but primarily because I don’t think any of us had neither the energy nor the courage to face the stairs again.

The experience was definitely worthwhile and one which I would thoroughly recommend; I just wish that they’d consider installing an elevator.