Canterbury Tales
It took us three trains and three hours to make our pilgrimage from Brighton to Canterbury. These are our tales. If you’re expecting something bawdy, you’ll need to read Chaucer.
The Mexican Food Lover’s Tale
One of the things we miss from the States is Mexican food. So when our friends from London suggested that we have lunch at a Mexican place, we said yes eagerly. Never mind that the restaurant is called “Le Café des amis.” (Um, do they know that’s French?) We enjoyed not only the food but also the location: catty cornered to the West Gate that leads into the center of Canterbury.
The Clambering Kid’s Tale
Sam climbed over a low stone wall to frolic and dance by the Stour River while we took pictures and watched the punters.
But when clambering back over, a sharp stone clawed her hand. There was blood. There were tears. Thankfully our pilgrimage did not need to detour to the hospital.
The British History Lover’s Tale
This is a gorgeous Cathedral, and it has been at this site in Canterbury in one form or another since the 7th century, although much of what we see now was built between the 12th and 15th centuries. The ChristChurch Gate was erected in 1517.
Almost immediately upon entering the Cathedral, Sam and I got sucked into a current of tourists and became separated from both AC and our friends. But thanks to the current, we were among the last allowed into the deeper recesses of the church just before the docents closed them off for choir practice. Was I happy that we made the cut! As Sam put it later, “It’s a graveyard church.” Canterbury cathedral is the final resting place for dozens and dozens, if not hundreds, of people. Most of the tombs are crowned with bronze or stone effigies, like this one for Prince Edward Plantagenet, who was also known as The Black Prince:
Edward’s nephew, Henry IV, is entombed just across the way, along with his wife, Queen Jeanne de Navarre. Henry IV is the only king of England to be buried in Canterbury Cathedral. These royal tombs were placed as close as possible to the site of the original shrine to St. Thomas Beckett. Thomas Beckett is the reason all those pilgrims flocked (and still flock) to Canterbury. Here is where the shrine used to be:
And here is, more or less, the spot where the Archbishop turned Saint met his end. The story goes that Henry II was fairly cheesed off at the Archbishop of Canterbury, because the latter insisted on excommunicating anyone who disagreed with the Church. The king is purported to have said something like, “Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?” Four knights took his remark as command, went to Canterbury Cathedral, confronted the Archbishop, and then murdered him with swords, while the man was on his way to vespers.
Here, Sam and I met up with AC, who reported having heard a tour guide claim that the discoloration on this stone is St. Thomas’s blood. However, this strikes us as a tall Canterbury tale.
The Thwarted Tourist’s Tale
Reunited with our fellow travelers, we leave the Cathedral and walk to the ruin of Canterbury Castle, erected shortly after the Norman conquest in 1066.
The sign said the castle was open to the public, but the locked gate said otherwise. We briefly considered climbing over the stone wall, but remembered the cautionary tale of the clambering kid. No Norman Castle for us.
The Hiker’s Tale
We hiked roughly west, following the river, and along the way we crossed an interesting variety of flora and fauna: along with the usual cows, horses, and sheep, there were pigs, swans, deer, and even reindeer!
We passed through orchards, berry patches, and fields of beans.
The forest was lovely.
Except for the stinging nettles (sorry, honey).
The Tired Traveler’s Tale
We were tired. We’d hiked between 4 and 5 miles and it was getting late. It was time to either turn around and hoof it back to Canterbury in time for the next train out, or to take a bus or taxi back. We decided to seek out the nearest village pub, have a drink, and see about a taxi.
The closest village was Chartham Hatch. The closest pub was… closed.
There was no sign of a bus stop nor could we gather any info about local taxis. We took a load off anyway in the pub’s garden, and plotted our next move. No drink for us.
The Fortunate Wayfarer’s Tale
After some map consultation, we determined that if we walked about a mile more, we’d come to a rail station on the Canterbury-London line. Lo and behold we did. And we ended up catching the very train we’d meant to take from Canterbury. Three trains. Three hours back to Brighton. Three tired travelers. But we got one final treat on our pilgrimage:
