In Canterbury, the bus parked on the edge of the town’s center in an area that was cluttered with litter and seedy-looking buildings. This was the official “coach” (bus) parking lot and I was surprised that the area wasn’t more attractive, seeing as it was a major point of entry for tourists visiting the area. No matter. A paved path followed an attractive canal into the city’s heart and in minutes we’d left the ugly urban scenery behind us and were surrounded by city cottages with lace curtains, lovely little shops, and winding sidewalks and alleys.
No matter where you are in Canterbury, Canterbury Cathedral is visible, its ancient spires rising above the town and blessing it. Established in 597 A.D. by St. Augustine, the first bishop of Canterbury, the cathedral was built on what had been a Roman place of worship before the birth of Christ. Most of the current building dates to the 12th and 13th centuries.
The architecture is stunning and ancient—the cathedral and its grounds telling the complex story of the rise and fall of the Catholic and Anglican churches and the political turmoil and wars that framed their histories. That the cathedral has stood firm as the sociopolitical climate has churned around it for thousands of years encourages me. Faith can stand as the world falls apart. Faith can rise from the ashes of destruction. Faith can change your view.
The Cathedral at Canterbury is associated with eight saints—Augustine, Theodore, Odo, Dunstan, Alphelge, Anselm, Thomas, and Edmund, all former Archbishops of Canterbury. The current archbishop, Rowan Williams, is 104th in the line of succession—and the world leader of the Anglican church that I belong to as an Episcopalian.
Those who have studied English history and literature know that Canterbury’s most famous saint is the martyr Thomas Becket, who was slain on the cathedral floor for asserting the right of the church to be independent of the wishes of the monarchy. Geoffrey Chaucer’s famous “Canterbury Tales” are told by pilgrims, traveling to Canterbury to visit the shrine of Thomas à Becket. Today, a large candle burns at the site of his slaying on the stone floor.
Kings, saints, and knights are interred in the crypt, military heroes from hundreds of years of British history remembered with plaques and memorials, ancient tattered battle flags flown, and portions of the armor of Edward the Black Prince displayed—surviving from the 11th century.
In the town itself, you can see large portions of the original city walls and gatehouses and just as you’re reeling with the medieval history of this place, you can enter a museum under the city and see Roman artifacts (tools, pottery, swords, nails, fasteners, hairclips, jewelry) that were unearthed in the Canterbury area and predate the birth of Christ. The museum includes a preserved archeological dig that reveals the foundation and floors of a Roman home, including the original ornate mosaics that show the wealth of the home’s owner. Displays describe Roman heating and plumbing systems, markets, diet, clothing, and the history of the cities that rose and fell on the site before Canterbury became established. Amazing. I’m not into history, but even I was seduced by all the history that was under my feet.
Upstairs from the Roman museum the modern streets of Canterbury pulsed with shoppers. The weather was fine—slightly overcast, not too cold and not rainy—which constitutes a good day in England in January! The stores were full of bargains and we wandered into shop after shop but didn’t bring much home. I bought tea, a porcelain cup, and a tea tidy. I searched in vain for impressive English woolens. I swooned in the Crabtree and Evelyn store but resisted the temptation to buy Jojoba oil soaps since I received a collection of other high-end soaps for Christmas. I poked about in pottery and gift shops and lingered in English-language bookstores, a real treat. We had fish and chips for lunch and stopped for tea and cake in the afternoon.
It was the first time in almost a year I was operating in a place where I could speak the language, read the signs and menus, and approach interactions with the natives with full confidence. The rolling hills reminded me of the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia and though I was exhausted and eager for home by day’s end, I was enthralled with England and eager to go back. Spring break. I’ll be there. The travel guides have already been checked out the library.
Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.
January 18, 2006