I pass the Blean, a large clearing in the woods that slopes up and to the right of me. It looks like nothing now, but two thousand years ago there was a Roman encampment and wooden fortification here. It is believed that it was erected by Caesar's legions as they made their way to the Thames. Interesting.
We enter the outskirts of Canterbury and, though we have not walked the entirety of the Pilgrim's Way, I insist on entering on that route, avoiding several shorter alternatives. As we come to a crossroads where we must turn right, I am intrigued by the sight of a very old graveyard and church. I wander in and discover a treasure.
Exiting the church, a block or two ahead of me, a twin-towered fortified gate marks the entrance to Canterbury high street. Minus the modern infrastructure and it isn't hard to see what Chaucer's pilgrims might have seen. Vendor's stands fill the street, obscuring many of the building fronts. Street performers and hawkers, crowds of people sampling wares create a sense of hectic activity. The Wife of Bath would have been in her element.
It is St. Dunstan's, where in 1174 Henry II removed his shoes, put on a rough woolen pilgrim's shirt, and walked barefoot to Canterbury cathedral in atonement for the murder of Thomas Becket, and where In 1577 Margaret Roper, daughter of Sir Thomas More, was interred along with the head of her father which she had rescued forty-two years before from a pike on which it was impaled outside the Tower of London on orders of Henry VIII. I've read about these events, seen dramas about them. As I stand in the Roper chapel, I see it peopled, not empty. I am ready to experience Canterbury.
I've seen sights like this before but in Canterbury, today, it was special.
A left turn takes me to the cathedral precinct where, after waiting on a line to gain paid admission, I explain that I am only seeking a pilgrim's stamp for my credentials.
The magic words have been uttered. Patrick and I are whisked to a welcome center, no admission required. A young woman, Sarah, notes our packs. "I can tell you've been walking. Where did you start?" I show her our stamped credentials. "And how far are you going?" Holding my forearms out and perpendicular to my body, raising and lowering them slightly, "all the way," I say. Sarah squeals in an exclamative question, "To Rome?!" We nod.
Moments later, our credentials stamped, new ones bearing "peligrino francigeno" are issued, we are invited to attend Evensong, whisked to the cathedral for an admission-free tour, and introduced to a chaplain for a blessing. We wait for the reverend to climb down from the pulpit. He is a slight man but his grey hair, black robes and calm demeanor give him stature beyond the physical.
The magic words have been uttered. Patrick and I are whisked to a welcome center, no admission required. A young woman, Sarah, notes our packs. "I can tell you've been walking. Where did you start?" I show her our stamped credentials. "And how far are you going?" Holding my forearms out and perpendicular to my body, raising and lowering them slightly, "all the way," I say. Sarah squeals in an exclamative question, "To Rome?!" We nod.
"Reverend," I say, "I am not of your faith but I would appreciate your good wishes." He asks me what my faith is and what I believe. We speak for a while, and I tell him why I walk these millennia old paths, what I get out of them. He begins his blessing. He speaks of ancient covenants and promises fulfilled in modern times, of survival in the face of adversity, and of personal understandings yet to be gained. He speaks to me in English and in Hebrew, and I am touched by these accommodations.
What I find constant in Canterbury is its history and its sincere welcome. In the face of that, what are a few miles one way or the other?
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