A Canterbury Tale

On the road to Canterbury

The train ride from Dover to Canterbury is direct and quick, but when I get to Canterbury itself, I have no idea of where to go. But, just as in Dover when I'd headed in the direction of what I assumed was a castle, I walk toward where I think I have seen a cathedral's spires. I find that my path is along the old city wall, which brings memories of York. Again, I walk through mist and am glad for my raincoat.

The cathedral is well worth the price of admission, and I further recognize how stupid I was to skip the cathedral in York because of the cost. Perhaps my scant knowledge of Canterbury's history is what sways me. Thomas Beckett was slain here, and the spot is marked with an understated subtleness that fits a cathedral. The Black Prince is entombed here, as are assorted archbishops. A distraction here is the large group of school kids--maybe the same French kids I saw in the Dickens museum--taking pictures with their cell phones as they chatter and squeal. If they would look down, they would see how gray stone has been worn smooth by pilgrims and supplicants.

Amazing: stone this hard worn smooth by countless people moving on soft feet or even their knees.

I spend a good amount of time in the cathedral, and I pause at a small shrine to martyrs--a touching display surrounded by small candles that visitors have ignited. I also walk around the cathedral grounds, which are extensive and include the ruins of an ancient church, then head toward the city center that reminds me of York in its layout. During a lunch of fish & chips and beer, I ponder my travels so far and think that if I return, I would like to return to Canterbury. Dover? I probably would not go there again--other than castle there, I did not see much of interest.

I am eager for London again, and I am perhaps a bit trip-weary. I have moved in one way or another for over a week, and I think I need a rest.