Courting ritual

THE day previously had been the Big Meeting; last Sunday in Durham Cathedral it was Her Majesty’s judges’ turn to hold court.

The city seemed wholly to have recovered from the Gala, the Queen’s peace little breached, though one or two looked like they might never have made it home.

Had Durham been boarded, it was boarded no longer. Had it been bacchanalian, it was Sabbath sober now.

The bells rang in celebration.

Officially it was Matins for Her Majesty’s Courts of Justice, bigwigs and others, in the four North-Eastern counties – an annual occasion of splendoured ceremony, great pomp and rich tradition.

“A red-letter day in the summer calendar of the region,” said the Very Reverend Michael Sadgrove, Durham’s dean.

The city, after all, has a long judicial heritage and may still have more prison inmates per head of population than anywhere else in the land.

It’s possible, nonetheless, that the flags across Silver Street are a residue of the Miners’ Gala; that the no-waiting orders on the lampposts must be delayed another year.

Full fig, full wig, the judiciary processes from the ancient castle across Palace Green to the cathedral, a breezy morning on which it is advisable to hang on to the hats – and what hats they are, like Royal Ascot without the cuddies.

The Chancellor of the High Court is there, the presiding judge is there, a Lord of Appeal and High Court judges, the district judges, the High Sheriffs, the Under Sheriffs, the Chief Crown Prosecutor, the leader of the bar, the magistrates, the Queen’s Remembrancer….

INTERESTING chap, the Queen’s Remembrancer, the oldest judicial office in continuous existence since the Middle Ages, the chap who still presides over the Rendering of the Quit Rents to the Crown and at the Trial of the Pyx.

He also wears a black cap atop his full-bottomed wig. No matter that it is three-cornered, it offers a slightly unnerving reminder of altogether darker days.

Only two have train bearers, both uniformed women. They wear what might be called a demi-top hat, but a garment for which milliners no doubt have a different name altogether.

They’ve been preceded into the cathedral by all manner of other dignitaries – the pro-Vice Chancellor of the university, who looks barely old enough to be a fresher, the Lord Lieutenant magnificently attired, the Mayor of Durham and her ceremonial bodyguard, halberds sloped across the right shoulder.

They’re preceded by a chap who uses a pace stick for the purpose for which, presumably, it was originally intended – tap-tapping down the centre aisle. It’s a bit like blind Pew, and you know the fear which his approach instilled, or possibly like Peter Pan’s crocodile.

Perhaps they once expected Guy Fawkes, or his Dunelmian equivalent, to have concealed himself beneath the pavement. Whatever the reason, the effect is immediate.

The order of service advises that the congregation remains seated for the Mayor’s entrance. Everyone rises, nonetheless. You don’t argue with a dozen blokes with halberds.

It’s also World Cup final day. A verger appears to be carrying a vuvuzela, but that may just be one of those unfortunate myopic misunderstandings to which columns like this are so prone.

The bodyguard, it should be said, processes altogether more impressively than the judiciary. While the judges’ presence is imposing, as doubtless it is meant to be, they seem surprisingly self-conscious, almost looking over their shoulders as if expecting someone to shout “tig”.

One appears almost to be capering, but perhaps it’s just a limp.

The clergy know precisely how to walk the walk, of course, the Dean most polished of all. Dr Sadgrove processes seamlessly, as if on castors, like a Dalek hurrying home for his dinner.

The great cathedral is well filled, the music and the occasion magnificent, the opening hymn Hail to the Lord’s Anointed.

It’s only slightly disconcerting that I’m sitting behind a chap who’s the pot model of Oor Wullie’s pa.

The liturgy has been carefully chosen.

Bernard Robinson, High Sheriff of the County Palatine of Durham, reads the passage from Galatians about the fruits of the spirit; there are prayers for those who administer justice, those who suffer from crime and for offenders – “that their lives may be reformed”.

The Roman Catholic Bishop of Middlesbrough delivers the sermon, probably the first time, says the Right Reverend Terry Drainey, that a holder of his office has preached in Durham Cathedral.

In the 16th Century, he recalls, men could be hanged – and all the gruesome concomitants – just for practising as Catholic priests. Now here he was.

Bishop Terry also recalls being advised in the seminary that the wise man spoke for a minute and the absolute fool rambled on for hours.

“We’ll give you seven minutes,” they said and seven minutes it proves.

We also sing 'All People That on Earth Do Dwell', with the couplet: O enter then his gates with praise

Approach with joy his courts unto

A few minds may wander at that one. It’s not always thus. As procession becomes recession, as two bewigged ladies chat on leaving the cathedral – perhaps wondering what’s for lunch – it’s still possible wholly to suppose that this was a joyful morning, too.