Pilgrimage is not ever so common in twenty-first century Britain. Henry VIII’s reforms, banning religious ostentation, did not sanctify commoners’ pilgrimage in the new English Church. Indeed, vagrancy became a criminal offence, and pilgrims without testimoniales, letters of permission, were arrested. This paper-based right to roam led to our modern Passports.
But the myth of pilgrimage still lingers with surprising strength. One night, too few miles above the M20, making supper on a little fire, we heard the unmistakeable shuffle of humans in the darkness.
We brought boots to feet and staffs to hand, trying not to expect the worst, but keen to be ready if it came. We’ve watched horror films too.
Then into the fire’s dome of light a huge man stepped, all clad in Barbour green, a low hat hiding his eyes.
“What’re you doing?” he growled.
This was reassuring. Dialogue was usually missing in Crimewatch reconstructions.
“We’re pilgrims, on our way to Canterbury” I answered, calmly as I could.
A pause, as stew bubbled from the pot, rattling the lid and hissing in the embers.
“O, pilgrims, well that’s alright then,” he grinned, “we thought you might be troublemakers from the village. They’ve been up here burning out cars. Good night then, and good luck on the road to Canterbury.”
The green protector disappeared in darkness, and we were left to our supper.
I was amazed by this, pondering while I ate how the password ‘pilgrimage’ changed the reality we encountered.
“Information judo” Ed muttered into his carrot and bean stew.
The Way
The Pilgrim’s Way from Winchester to Canterbury runs between the summit and foot of the North Downs.
The Downs were caused by an Alpine shimmy some fifteen million years back. The result was an uplifted fold of chalk, which eroded in the middle, leaving only two small nubbled hill-lines - the North and South Downs. Downs are from Dun, an old Celtic word meaning hill, height or fort.
Not long ago in Southern England, between the downs grew the clay-thick forests of legend, known as the Andredsweald. The hillsides, of lighter chalky soil, were more easily cleared and naturally drained, so these became the ancient British superhighway away from the wet, boggy and dangerous wild lands, where robbers and wild folk dwelt in wooded darkness.
The Old Forest can still be seen in village names: those ending in ‘-den’ mean ‘in a wooded valley’, and those with ‘-hurst’ mean ‘on wooded high ground’. Though largely tamed, walking the lowlands is still trouble in the wet, and the chalk hills still offer a distinctly more pragmatic pathway.
Left foot always higher than right, we followed the green hillside tracks eastward. The going was harder than we predicted, but our youthful illusions of invulnerability endured the suffering. Aches were translated as new accumulated strength, while blisters promised tougher feet.
We carried no tents, mainly on philosophical grounds. Nightly identical nylon walls would limit immersion. But having no conception of foul weather outdoor living, we slept in clearings, trusting the clear skies to hold. This was wonderful and easy, till we woke soaked. My bivi bag had no cover at the hood, so water poured in.
In abrupt little lessons, a technical appreciation of shelter was learned. A tree or wall is better than no roof at all. Predict the wind’s direction with a handful of grass, to work out where the rain might fall.
To guess the sky’s moods, my eyes began to not only look upward. Closer to earth, cows huddled with their tails to the wind, and chickweed flowers closed, when rain was coming. I also began to trust my inbuilt weather radar, these skin and bones we wear.
Moments of sunshine we’d grab, rigging clothes lines from fences to trees. Damp turning to steam was joyful physics to witness. The same sky that soaked us soon dried us too.
The open road support system was a surprise. Houses gave water when doors were knocked upon, and strangers offered encouragement and constant luck. But not all was simple welcome. Ed’s mania for fixing wayside twigs, feathers and pinecones to his walking staff, and his long dreadlocks, were not easy for middle England to digest.
In one Sussex village we saw posters for ‘country-garden tea’. Eagerly we found the house and introduced ourselves, but a worried-looking gentleman said the event wasn’t yet open. Consulting his wife, he offered us refreshments “before the other guests arrive”. We were grateful, but unsure - was this welcome or segregation?
Such an uncertain reception recurred. On our first evening in a pub, we cleared the threshold to meet a united front of mild aggression. We were bad news, unwanted. Though we determined to undo suspicion with politeness and cheer, this won few converts, till an eighty year old girl called Betty sat us down for three hours talk of politics and sex.
Despite our petty protests, Betty bought all the beer. But each time we took her cash to the bar, a villager would mutter: “Don’t take advantage of Betty’s generosity...”
This hurt us. Why was our friendship perceived as false? That the old shared their wealth, and the young their dreams, we imagined to be a truth long-known.
No solutions emerged, but this was fine. To befuddle our understanding, and get lost in our land, was much of what we hoped to find. Scoffing at maps (“Aragorn never had them”) we carried a 1930s guidebook, so our directions came in prose, not just topography.
“Turn left at the great Chestnut” remained faithful instruction. But hours were spent seeking the promised Medway ferryman. Industrial complexes hugged the riverbank, terraces tucked behind, and BMX boys had “dunno” to share. Eventually, a man emerging from his lunchtime pint laughed:
“There’s been no ferryman here, since what, forty years? I can’t even remember his name…was it old Jack? No, that’s long gone.”
We considered swimming, but walked instead to the busy road bridge, muttering darkly about progress.
Nearing Canterbury, one soggy Tuesday, we took shelter in Chilham. The pub boasted an inglenook fire, so we ordered soup, and hung our clothes on iron hooks in the fireplace. But the irate Scottish landlord bristled:
“D’ye ken this a Chinese washing house, boys? Put yer clothes awee, noo!”
This upset us, but we did as demanded, feeling the tradition of public house welcome was being wounded.
I see it now as clever armour we wore, to couch our rejections in grander social contexts, to soften and spread their immediate sharpness. Be nasty to us, and you offend an entire imagined tradition.
“I hope the public-house or the inn will never cease to be a place in which the solitary traveller may find a fire and someone with whom to talk, but its real significance is lost; it is no longer the institution by which all those who set out on a journey depend, the institution which for centuries has mixed all classes together under one roof. The innkeeper has ceased to depend on the traveller, just as the traveller has ceased to depend on the inn.”
(Patrick McEvoy – The Gorse and the Briar)
Onward, through skeletal orchards of Harbledown, we walked the same path as King Henry II when making his barefoot penance for Archbishop Tom Becket’s death.
Crossing the Stour, we dodged buses to enter Canterbury through its medieval West Gate. Becket’s tomb, previously so meaningless to us, had become the city’s beacon reality, pulsing with the journey-mana of all pilgrims gone before. Our peregrine eyes blinkered out the coffee-drunk shoe-shoppers. We saw only marks of pilgrimage previous, the hostels, the stone hoops where badges and indulgences were sold, the small churches orbiting the main shrine.
In fine spirits we followed Bell Harry tower up the high street. Stepping beneath the blue Jesus statue, we entered the Cathedral precincts, slowly stepping toward the side door, tingling with the tensions of pilgrimage.
To be told: “No, you can’t come in.”
A concert was due to start in half an hour. Fur-coated ladies in fuzzy little gangs supported our cause; but their noises were brief and futile, and the way remained barred.
We knew our journey was not sensational, but such low valuation seemed woeful.
“Maybe even criminal” Ed guessed sorrowfully.
Canterbury grew to power and wealth by grace of pilgrimage. Today, the walls were draped with glossy appeals for fifty million pounds, saying “Save Canterbury Cathedral”.
“While turning away honest Pilgrims...” Ed pronounced indignantly.
“They should save themselves” I spat.
But Canterbury Cathedral, despite my brief and mild vitriol, is still dear to my heart. Once the coach-tripping Eurokids leave, it offers a rare breath of urban silence. In the monastic herb garden, each plant is labelled and ready to meet. The choristers sing Evensong every night at 5:30 pm, a free concert of world-class choir music. And from this hub, deeds and words flow out to Britain and the world, the great ancient channels centred here in Canterbury, the seat of the Church of England. It’s still quite an event. Even when they won’t let you in.
Back at home, my essay got finished, though it did little to change the world’s view of Chaucer. It was read by perhaps four people, two of whom were me and Ed (and he only skimmed it).
But the rewards of our journey were far from student essayhood. We felt we’d discovered a fresh and uplifting reality, a living land of footpaths, forests, churches and villages. Somehow, we’d looked through an ancient British mask, crafted from the dream of wandering freedom, and found it kind, sustainable and exciting.
For us, this was a clear step closer to ultimate human potential.
And if you wonder what that means, at the time we were listening to the Doors, Donovan and the Incredible String Band.
