The Loneliness of Shap Abbey

The longest driving day of the trip, which had started at the Westminster Hotel in Nottingham at about 7 in the morning, had pretty well taken its toll on both of us.

I had been cautious not to feel too cocky in advance about the England-by-car thing; it was our third trip, and yeah, the cadences and weird sightline geometry of most roundabouts had started to feel familiar, and the drive on the left thing was second nature, and I had stopped worrying about driving 9% below the limit more less everywhere, it felt like Britain had forgiven me with a sigh and shrug for my timidity.

But driving through Bradford sucked, as did the frantic had-to-pee fiasco in Watford the day before, and I was tired and grouchy as we started to ease into the countryside of Cumbria. But one stop was left.

Shapp Abbey, and sheep

Shap Abbey was one of those "if we have time" sites we had identified on this, the longest single leg of The Journey, and while I probably would have felt fine enough to push onto the hotel in Tirril, I was also eager enough to squirm out of the car for some fresh air and renewed bloodflow to my lower extremities. It was also close - less than twenty miles from the hotel - so, why not? We were losing our light but probably had time, and the glowering skies were withholding of rain.

Founded about 1200 as a Premonstratensian mission, Shap isn't the kind of monastic ruin that's likely to end up on any tourist's "must see" list. English Heritage doesn't even bother collecting an entrance fee. Cumbria is best known as the county of the Lake District, an expanse of rolling mountains (or, perhaps better described by a Coloradoan, very broad and steep rocky hills), punctuated in the valleys by tight and picturesque villages. The English come up here for holiday recreation, boating and camping and hiking; the tourists come for postcard-y photo ops of shimmering lakes and 16th century villages.

The Church tower, c. 1500 - Shap Abbey

The abbey is located at the bottom of yet another steep country lane, barely a car's-width wide, and the ruin itself is a fenced off parcel largely contained within a private farm.

South aisle of the church - Shap Abbey

Chapter house and clergy grave - Shap Abbey

We strolled through the ruin quietly, an occasional sheep breaking the hush. Some abbey ruins gently insist on a hushed reverence, but Shap did so passively, exuding a sullen melancholy that I think took us both a little by surprise. By monastic ruin standards, there's little left of the place; its notable feature being the cracked and gently listing tower, dating to about 1500. And while Heritage dutifully describes the site's original layout, not much is written about the monastery itself, save an obscure little tome written in 1963 and published by Her Majesty's Stationary Office. It was always small, modestly profitable in its day, and was barely missed when Henry's commissioners came for it in 1540. The abbot and his canons were given pensions - bought off, as was common for abbey clergy who surrendered to Cromwell's platoons without a fuss. (Those who resisted usually got the Worst Haircut Ever.)

We had the place to ourselves, shot some pictures. Sat awhile in the chilling late afternoon air. Alone in a place that was used to loneliness. And we went back to the car, and drove away.

We were both glad we stopped here, knowing we'd probably never see the place again.