I clawed my way to the top of a chilly York Minster this morning. It was like being a chimney sweep, squirming up the narrow spiralling pipe that passes for the stirway. My heart straining the way a pump might do at a flooded camp-site, gurgling, wheezing - and I count myself as fit as well. But I got there, tumbling out of the door-way and on to the walkway of the tower, and an exhilarating view.

Thirteen or so hours later, my legs feel like plasticine or two pipe cleaners.