Of all English cities, I think it is fair to say that Exeter is my favourite. It is true that a great conglomeration of buildings have spread out far beyond the confines of the old Roman wall. Yet the pace of life remains, in general, calm and unhurried, more like a rural town that a city, and quite unlike what might be expected from a city of this size, as for instance can be noted in Gloucester.
The road network through Exeter helps by removing cars from many of the main streets. These are restricted to buses only, which makes a very swift and convenient transport system. Occasionally I noticed a vast, lumbering double decker-bus, belching out fumes as it rumbled by. But on the whole, I found only a fleet of minibuses, which quietly trundle along with great frequency, able to stop at any point upon their route to pick up passengers. This is a most efficient system with which I found only one main drawback; they are almost too quiet, so that the pedestrian must take care to look before crossing the road, rather than being content merely to listen for the warning roar of a diesel engine.
The cathedral close makes an attractive centre to the city. In its serene and peaceful lawns, the statue of Richard Hooker gazes benevolently at a busker, who is twanging away on his guitar as he croons a ballad. Elsewhere there is a juggler, and there is a general feeling that here the mediaeval is mingling with the modern.
The cathedral is, of course, well worth a visit. Inside, grand gothic arches soar upwards, conveying a sensation of vast grandeur. But it has a simplicity in design unlike many other English cathedrals; it is, for the most part, uncluttered by the myriad small chapel and sarcophagi that one finds elsewhere. Those chapels that do branch away are few in number, and fit in so well that they look as if they were part of the designer's original plan.
The inscriptions on the wall are worth noting, if only to see that the Indian army suffered more than twice as many losses through climate than through battle. But there is also the poignant reminder of a life cut short - an only daughter, who died in 1828 when only 27. Above the dedication is no great symbol of piety, such as adorn the other monuments, but a simple picture of the heartfelt sense of loss; a scythe sweeps across a rose. That speaks, where words fail.