Historical Setting: Northumbria, 793 C.E.
Here is this stout little fellow coming down from the village just now with a traveler’s pack over his shoulder. He’s wearing a loose linen tunic, just long enough to reach his bare knees, hiked up with a sash that his belly hangs over. His calves aren’t wrapped, I would suppose, so he can wade into the shallow water and push his boat away from the shore. This is surely that fellow Cloothar.
He sees me waiting here.
“Aye, and there you are! I was told an ill-fitted monk was waiting for me to bring him a better habit.”
“I was hoping to trade this robe for a layman’s tunic. But it looks like the selection is limited.”
“Only temporarily, my man. No one is entering Lindisfarne anymore. But I’ll be going on to Jarrow where postulates are still abandoning their garb for the monk’s robe.”
“To Jarrow? I’ve heard they have an excellent library there.”
“Yeh, but the market for books is slim. Only them that writes, reads, so anyone who wants a book would already have written one.”
“Do you need someone to help with the rowing on your journey to Jarrow?”
“To Jarrow you would be faster walking there. It’ll take me a while to get there because as soon as we have a day with sun and fresh winds, I’ll be stopping off to air these wools on the rocks. They need freshening before market.”
“I can help you launder them if you wish.”
“Launder? You mean soak all this wool in a tub of lye? I think not. It would shrink them to felt and they’d be forever damp and moldy. No, a good airing will do.”
“Whatever, I’d be glad to help you with it since I have to wait for you in Jarrow anyway to trade layman’s clothes for this robe.”
So, it is a few days rowing the Jarrow. The mouth of the Tyne offers a harbor from the surf of the sea for this little boat. Up this river a short way is a flimsy little dock set over the sandy riverbank, apparently all familiar to Cloothar, where we unload the market goods. He sets up his booth as I’m sent up to the monastery to find his potential customers.
The sun shines today, brightening a shoreline said to be so often veiled in fog. From the high view by the buildings, it seems the distant Sea is flat out drunk on the sweet azure of sky.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 