In February 1322, the church’s Romanesque crossing tower crashed to the ground with such “thunderous noise” that many believed the cause to be an earthquake. An exemplar of such invention from catastrophe was Ely Cathedral’s Octagon. What resulted was often an extraordinary mix of calamity, evolution and revolution. Invention was commonly restricted by what had gone before, requiring mor creative adaptation. Relatively few medieval masons had the opportunity to design religious buildings from scratch. History can therefore offer hope, as tragedy frequently leads to triumph. Out of this catastrophe, one of the most important ever archaeological discoveries pertaining to the previous building was made. In a great streak of luck, excavations revealed the remains of the Romanesque choir and crypt. But during clearance of rubble from the 1829 disaster, the Clerk of Works, John Browne, realised that the columns of the nave extended far beneath the ruined floor of the choir. Infernos struck a handful of times throughout the medieval period, while the current structure faced further blazes in 1753, 1840 and most recently in 1984. York owes much of its origins to several disastrous fires. The culprit, Jonathan Martin, was sent to Bedlam for the rest of his life. Even before the fire was extinguished, authorities suspected arson. Long into the night, the people of York strove to save the rest of the structure, but the pulpit, organ and much irreplaceable music were destroyed. As debris, molten lead and blazing timbers began to rain down, firefighters were forced to evacuate the choir. As choristers made their way across the Minster yard, they noticed sparks rising from the cathedral’s medieval timber roof. On a gloomy February morning in 1829, a zealous non-conformist did his very best to burn York Minster to the ground.
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