The Pilgrims' Way: a short walk to Canterbury
Priscilla White
| The following article first appeared in our Bulletin no. 64 in December 1998, and is included here by permission of the author and the editor. You may quote reasonable extracts without permission, though we would appreciate an acknowledgement. For more substantial use, please contact the Secretary. |
I have walked a thousand miles along the Way of St James, from Le Puy- en-Velay to Santiago de Compostela, but here on my doorstep is the great medieval pilgrim's road to Canterbury constantly travelled over the centuries. Once you leave the urban sprawl of Greater London, you can envisage how the countryside must have looked. Here is the ancient track, broad and well trodden, winding through the beech trees and sheltered from the wind as it hugs the base of the North Downs. No knights or millers of course, just the continuous roar of the motorway, sounding like the sea as it drags back over the shingle.
The ups and downs of long-distance walking, of trudging through the rain, of losing your way and cursing your rucksack, only to come across a rare plant or a sudden sweep of sunlight on the hills ahead, create a strong bond of camaraderie between fellow walkers. To me, this is one of the most important aspects of any pilgrimage, the friendships lasting long after the journey has been completed, links forged out of shared experience.
We left London on a warm October morning, with just a hint of mist on the fields, stopping at Otford for a glass of beer before climbing up on to the North Downs Way. The Weald of Kent stretched out below us, dotted with small farms and oast houses bathed in the early autumn sun. We stopped to eat our picnic lunch on a bench, thoughtfully placed at the top of the hill--by a fellow walker I would like to think.
The Pilgrims' Way is not well marked at this point and we made slow progress, unsure of the correct route. It was dusk before we reached Snodland on the Medway, and the damp from the river chilled us to the bone. In times past, pilgrims arriving here could take a boat across the river, but nowadays you have to divert seven miles up or downstream before you can find a bridge to cross. Faced with fading light and nowhere to stay, we took a taxi to Aylesford where the 13th-century Friary still welcomes pilgrims. I liked the idea of arriving by the medieval bridge, as Chaucer's pilgrims might have done, and the Friary appealed as well, but sadly no room. We found a bed-and-breakfast overlooking the river with an old pub next door, both of which were perfect for our needs. A bowl of soup, a bottle of wine and a hot bath seemed reward enough for our endeavours of the day. We sat chatting contentedly about past times and other journeys.
The following morning was chilly and overcast and my new boots pinched my toes as we left Aylesford behind us, walking stiffly after yesterday's exertions. We met an old man cycling along in the guise of the ancient mariner. "Rain before mid-day", he muttered with lugubrious satisfaction as he passed us, and how right he was.
There were no other pilgrims that we met, just a few horse-riders. One of them pointed out some pre-Christian dolmens standing in a wheat field, unnoticed by the people surging down the motorway. It started to drizzle as we headed towards Hollingbourne, the rain turning into a steady downpour, trickling into pockets and down the back of your neck. The track, which yesterday had been firm and dry underfoot, was now a quagmire of white mud. I blessed my stick and cursed my boots with equal vigour. I noticed the shell of St James, so familiar to me on my journey to Santiago, painted on to some of the signs along the Pilgrims' Way, and that symbol of medieval pilgrimage was rather comforting in the downpour.
There are pubs all along the Pilgrims' Way, but few of the publicans know anything of its history and they looked askance at our muddy boots and dripping jackets. The temptation to linger in the warmth is very strong, but the road always beckons you on, whatever the weather. Near Lenham we passed a huge cross cut into the hillside, commemorating the dead of the two World Wars. It is just a few minutes in the car from this landmark to Charing, but of course on foot, it was a further weary hour before we arrived at the lane which leads down to the village. Like three wet abominable snowmen, we descended the hill, praying to find somewhere to stay. There in front of us was a restaurant called the "Pelerins" and, cheered by the sign of three smiling pilgrims above the door, we rang the bell. The owner appeared and eyed us dubiously when we asked for a table for dinner. He relented when we told him we were pilgrims and pointed us to a pub close by where he said we could get a room for the night.
The publican spent a full three minutes peering at an empty reservations book before deciding that he could accommodate us, and with that we comandeered the radiators, draping our sodden clothes along the corridors. On returning to the "Pelerins" an hour later, we were not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed when the owner failed to recognise us without our pilgrim's camouflage of muddy jackets and boots. Clean hair and a bit of make-up dramatically change one's appearance!
Our final day was a distance of some seventeen miles and we set off on one of those magical mornings of warm sunshine and soft light. We passed the local vicar who wished us Godspeed, as his predecessors would have done throughout the ages. The sea was glinting in the distance and the trees were turning to gold as we climbed through the woods towards Chilham. They are planted with chestnut trees, used as poles to train up the hops, and our feet crunched on the nuts as we walked along. This really is the garden of England abounding with fruit trees of all kinds, which led us into petty larceny. We could not resist munching on the odd apple as we walked through the orchards.
The sun was dipping behind us in flames of glory, when there rose ahead the great limestone Cathedral of Canterbury, standing majestic above the city. Weariness and aching muscles were quite forgotten. There it stood, its massive Norman structure dominating the surrounding buildings in the fading light. We quickened our pace, threading our way through the narrow streets until we reached the Cathedral Close, stepping through the archway as darkness fell. The towers loomed foursquare above us, unchanged and unchanging in the beams of the floodlights.
We had arrived, and I felt a mixture of elation and achievement at reaching my journey's end. The reasons for pilgrimage are complex, but the impact of seeing that great symbol of Christianity, with all its historical and religious implications, rising out of the darkness, is in no way diminished by the incursions of the late twentieth century.
I can feel the urge to put on my boots again and walk.....
Source: Confraternity of St James Bulletin Nº 64
pp. 17-19..