City view through the eyes of a pilgrim; COVENTRY: THE MAKING OF A CITY.

IT isn't difficult to imagine one's self as being a mediaeval pilgrim heading towards Coventry down a quiet country lane, huddled by massive oaks and elms, part of the Forest of Arden, interspersed occasionally by open heathland. As one climbs a rise, before you stands the city's spires reaching high above the greenness of England, Coventry.

We pass a wayside cross and cross a stream. The water turns a reddish colour. We cross the grass to an ancient spring marked by a huge boulder and drink the warm but fresh water. There is a scatter of small timbered buildings here - they call it Radford.

We pass a hazel grove and cross through the middle of Shuckmoor. As we climb Barrs or Luds Hill, we see an ancient church on the left dedicated to St Nicholas. Crossing the brow the full splendour of Coventry comes into view, spires and towers soar forth amid wooden tiled, timbered houses all surrounded by a magnificent wall, interspersed with huge gates and small squares and round towers. The city lies in a green bowl with trees and fields all around.

Down the hill towards Bishops Gate a huge square gateway, decorated with - what's that? - oh! a head on a pole. It's nice to know we are now in a civilised place. As we approach, the daybell tolls and the huge oak studded doors of the Bishop's Gate swing slowly open.

We walk through the gate and again a wonderful sight greets the eyes in the morning sunlight. The land sweeps down then up, buildings, timbered and stone, huddle the land and are crowned by the magnificent churches on the hilltop, Coventry Priory, Holy Trinity and St Michael.

Down the hill and by Swines Cross gather men with beasts for sale. They stand idly by talking slowly, leaning on their staffs, their green hoods pulled down to their eyes. On the left is a fine building, half timber half stone, and attached to it a fine chapel with large stained glass window. This is the hospital of St John, where men who once fought in the Holy Land tend to those such as myself, poor travellers, or the sick.Onwards up the hill over a small stone bridge, then another, timbered buildings line either side, some richly carved, others poorer, plain, older properties huddled around courtyards. Then left in a narrow lane and by a three storeyed timber and stone building the guest house of Coventry Priory. A splendid building adorned with saints, beasts and hunting scenes. Coventry's old Bishops love the sport of the field, we saw their moated hunting garage through the gates of Whitmore Park before we reached Radford.

From here down the narrowness of the lane we can now see the great priory church rising high above us. We walk up to the Bullring, where a beast stands tied waiting to be baited by dogs. Then through the small square gatehouse and into the cobbled yard. Here the building rises forth into the sky, the height of 100 men. Saints look down on us above the massive archway which leads into the heart of the building.

Here we are stopped by a man who appears to be a brother of the church. He has bones around his neck, holy relics he tells us - St Bartholomew's middle finger, St Cecily's little finger and from under his cloak, a rib he tells us in a whisper, no ordinary rib this but a rib of Adam. A great rarity and very valuable but he would give us the honour of purchasing such a gift for a groat. As my companion considers the offer, another brother walks from the church and strikes the man with a stick and drives him away.

He warns us of sellers and vagabonds, then offers me a real relic, a toe nail of St Andrew and only a penny, I bought two.

Onward we go into the grand cathedral of our lady, soaring arches like trees in a forest lead us through the heart of the building, a bell chimes and monks can be heard singing in the silence, their prayers to God drift through the building and up to heaven. On one side in the choir among the wooden seats and rushes two huge stone slabs mark the last resting place of the church's founders, Earl Leofric and his wife, the Lady Godgifu.In the opposing chapel stands a small but decorative shrine in which the bones of the Virgin Saint Osburga are displayed. We are informed by an old man that this Saxon saint used to perform miracles, but nothing has happened for years.

We walk under the central tower, a great hollow vault, with huge triple columns on one side and more ancient columns on the other. On one is carved the letters, Ich Hacit Artoris (Here lies Arthur). Well, we are told, it worked in Glastonbury.

We approach the great rood, a huge oak carved screen on top of which is the image of our lord on the cross with a skull at his feet. From here we could go no further, rules are that beyond this point only the brothers may pass, it is not for such as us.

From here we can see the high altar backed by glass in a curved wall, the bishop's throne decorated with an elephant and lions attached to the choir stalls. A brother in his black habit scuttles across and lights a candle on the altar itself, crosses himself and leaves.

He passes us and goes into a vaulted room leaving the door open. We look inside, the young man sits amid dozens of vellum sheets and begins to mix colours in an oyster shell. Around him are dozens and dozens of huge thick leather-bound books attached to chains. He invites us in and tells us that in this chained library are books going back to the beginning of recorded time. All knowledge is found here he says, scripts from the Holy Land to the scripts of Saint Osburga herself.

After some time we bid him farewell, make our prayers to God and leave. Back through the gateway we are suddenly among a vast huddled circle of people, cheering as dogs set their teeth into the flesh of a bull. We stop and struggle to watch as one dog is tossed into the air, yelping in pain - my, we did cheer. Soon the bull could fight no longer and was efficiently poleaxed by one of the street butchers, for here gathered in the Great Butchery are most of the city's butchers.

The street is indeed a busy place. Sheep and beasts wonder around as screaming pigs are butchered and their excess blood tipped into the gully which runs down the middle of the lane. We walk on, above the timbered buildings on the left we see another building rising up, the church of the Holy Trinity.

Right down the Spicerstoke and into the junction of Cross Cheaping and Broadgate, a wide road compared to many others in the street, the heart of Coventry. Here stands a cross a plain thing on four columns, perhaps one day they will get a better one. Above it stands the conduit with water constantly pouring forth through lead pipes, we drink and refresh ourselves, wash the grime from our faces.Today is market day. Many have set out their goods for sale, vegetables, meat, craftsmen sell metal bowls, decorations, pins and buckles all made in the city. Amid the bustle children are having fun spinning a cage in which a thief has been locked. This is nothing, we are told, compared with the recent execution of Heire and Lingham who robbed St Mary's Guildhall - "That was great," the children cried.

The children also inform us of a recent affray which took place here in the Broadgate in which three were horribly murdered. There was blood everywhere we were informed, after Sir Humphrey had his head split apart.

We stop at the White Bear for refreshment, ale and meat, before walking down Earl Street, past the tower and rubble which was once Coventry Castle, beyond which stands the hall of the merchant guild and council. Down Little Park Street, past a fine stone merchant's house and the entrance to the monastery of the Whitefriars. Onwards and through New Gate, which looks much like Bishop Gate except it has a little tower on top.

We pass a round tower set within the city wall and note that passing travellers are saluting it. We enter through a small door and a find a dark painted chamber, within, surrounded by the glow of candles, stands an image of Our Lady, this is the famed tower of Our Lady of which we have been told. The image is draped with rosaries and scattered below it are offerings and prayers for healing written on vellum and slate, even small clay images of body parts that have troubled visitors through sickness.

We make our prayers and move on, onwards to St Frideswide's shrine at Oxford.