Bury St. Edmunds’ tutti quanti: p. 1 “Bury as it is”

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his loquacious discourse. “Is this Bury St. Edmunds?”

“It is,” replied Mr. Pickwick.

The coach rattled through the well paved streets of a handsome little town, of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn situated in a wide open street, nearly facing the old abbey.

“And this,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking up, “is the Angel! We alight here, Sam.”

(Charles Dickens, “The Pickwick Papers”)

If someone would ask me to describe my impressions of Bury, my very first word would be “joyful,” and, I guess, it might wrap up all my feelings towards the city well enough.

To put it simply, Bury is fabulous: it’s cosy, it’s very neat and pristine, it’s mediaeval with a fine range of modern architectural elements, which are perfectly established and don’t irritate your eye. It also embodies the best of East Anglia, and I mean it: its flatness serves the purpose of turning all the landscapes into panoramic views, and the Abbey ruins are covered in flickering flint, which is a gem of its own.

It’s also the city of one of the most tragic and heroic stories about its legendary king, St. Edmund the Martyr, whose life and, especially, whose mythological death shaped the very existence of Bury. As the old chronicles go, “King Edmund met his death at an unidentified place known as Haegelisdun, after he refused the Danes’ demand that he renounce Christ: the Danes beat him, shot him with arrows and then beheaded him.” St Edmund was the very first English saint who, as I found out, was also recognised by Eastern Orthodox Church, and this makes the place even closer to home as I could ever imagine.

Bury is bright, and multi-coloured, and radiant, and in my mind it will be forever linked to my first days on the English land, right after I got married and we started travelling around.