Our walk from Oxford to Glastonbury was made to get to a gig. We started in Oxford, as Will was heading there to visit his girl. It was early December, good crisp weather for walking.

The adventure was a rum affair, plagued by small injuries looked to maybe stop everyone. We made it to Glastonbury eventually, after some 2 weeks.

This is some of what happened:

On the second day of walking, we met a lady who remembered us from Pilsdon Manor 12 months earlier. She put us on her mobile phone, and we were soon chatting with the people we had met there. It was an odd blessing from an earlier journey, a small reminder that we were on track.

We busked in Abingdon, near Oxford, and the teenage girls in the shopping centre were amazed. “People don’t come here. We don’t get this stuff in our town.” The older generation were soon promenading past, in giggling gangs, half-stepping half-dancing to the tunes.

Walking beside the Thames, we peeked over a nice old stone wall, and spotted a roundhouse in the garden of a great mansion. Intrigued, we walked around the property, till we saw people at work. We stepped forward, asked a few questions about the place.

The lady who talked to us admired our woolly clothing. We were then given permission to look around the roundhouse, and we were invited to stay the night. The man who owned the place invented the spinning magnets used in CAT scans, and was running a feudal house, feeding and housing a great workforce of skilled people. In the morning, after breakfast, we were escorted to the edge of the territory.

We met a 17 year old roundabout labourer, and spent many hours talking with him. He left mid-chat, to rendezvous with his girlfriend of two years. The relationship, he admitted, was slightly hazardous. When he returns, he tells us “It’s all over. She’s dumped me.” We stay and talk for another hour, and he gives us his Swiss Army knife, a fat one with all the functions.

We met a gang of Wallingford anarchists, who told us all about Stephen and Matilda, and their civil war for dynastic succession. They advise us to “breed breed breed.”

The Ridgeway is said to be the oldest path in Europe, used for thousands of years for trade and pilgrimage. It took us all the way to Avebury, passing many stunning ancient sites. The White Horse in Uffington is on the path, next to Dragon Hill where St.George is said to have done in a dragon. A night in the Uffington pub was most exciting, the landlord letting us sleep on his living room floor after many songs and pints.

Wayland’s Smithy is an impressive neolithic burial chamber. It is named after the Saxon god of metal work (Weland, Volund, Volundr). It is on the Ridgeway near Uffington.

We stayed on canal boat with a herbalist near Bath. It was a tiny boat, and we took up all the available floor space. While filling the water containers from a spring beside the canal, Will knocked the copper kettle into the canal. He had to undress and jump in the December grotty water, and fish around the bottom for 10 minutes before the bits were found.

We busked a few times in Bath, and had crowds of people dancing crazily on the cobbles. We were offered to be recorded by a nice fellow and his wife. Singing in the dark deserted streets, long after shops closed, an old academic shuffled up and told us “those are the best harmonies for fiddler’s green I’ve ever heard.” The next day, a young fellow, while we were singing Ryb an Avon, stepped forward and said: “Oh yeah, butter wouldn’t melt in your mouths, boys”.

We tried busking at the Bath Christmas fair, which is an upspringing encampment of little green huts selling sausages, mulled wine, and trinkets. People seemed really happy to have songs given, and crowds of children dragged their parents over. But then the yellow-coats arrived, and threatened us into leaving. So we located a friend met earlier that day, who was working a stall, and made us official crowd-pullers for his licensed enterprise, no longer untamed buskers. The yellow-coats glowered, but we had achieved legitimacy, and enjoyed well the cider and bratwurst rewards.

Staying in Glastonbury, we woke at 7 and sung a jingle down the telephone for a local radio programme. The lyrics were all about today’s Frost Fair, which is the town’s winter street festival. The tune was taken from a World War 1 marching song. The organizers were later told, by not a few people, that they had been en route to another town, when they heard the jingle (which the radio repeated throughout the day), and decided to turn around. That was good.

We sung our very best gig, for the Fabulous Furry Folk, in Glastonbury Assembly Rooms. It was a triumphant and rousing fanfare of trad music, and we had a roaring time.

We had set off with a very limited knowledge of long-walking. We did know we could sing together, how far we could walk, nor how to use the kit we were carrying.

We learned a lot, and met many great people. We found that England is no single land, but many small lands that mingle and overlap, each distinct, but also dependent on its neighbour for a sense of relative identity.

There is much we would say of this journey; but we’ve already said a lot, and snippets of info are distributed around this website.

For a detailed sample of these adventures, please check The Book.

So right on the edge of town, after the main ring roads, we were feeling thirsty ourselves. We saw a dimly-lit, stained-window little pub on the edge of town, with a dirty old placard calling “Fine Food” and “Real Ale”. We were intrigued. It had steps going down.

It was much as we’d hoped, a rare pool of rich cultural life, a place of history, initiation, ancient codes and clan meetings. And, like such surviving places, it was mostly impenetrable to an outsider, an invisible tapestry of gestures, nods, jokes and gossip. It looked just like a grotty pub on the edge of town. That’s what living museums of folk culture look like.

So we had our ale, and sat for a while talking. After perhaps an hour of nursing the pint, a fellow came over and started to chat. He told us a number of things, and we said some too.

Attempting to be plain with what we find, we will say now: the following may be deemed blue literature, a dirty story, and perhaps unsuitable for those of a tender disposition or young age. “Consult your Guardian”.

It is a story concerning a man and his love. He told it to us in his home, as he drank steadily into the night. He said it was alright to write it down, and we found it on a scrap of paper the other day. We really liked it. His tale had been mapped roughly in short sentences, so it turned out like poetry.

He had met his true love five years ago, and was living in a new happiness he had not previously known. But they lived separately, and she was on holiday, so he was free to entertain walking fellows.

They had met after 50 years of growing in different directions, of becoming less likely to meet. But they met, and…here it is:

Met, 8 months argue.

Will you come for a drink, she says, talk quiet?

I don’t drink coffee.

I’ll buy you beer.

She’s Buddhist, I’m pagan, it’s a way of life.

She’s ½ million pound house, I’m a flooded bordello

I’m a tramp, she’s the princess.

She likes it that way, but she don’t keep me under.

She got all the worries that go with it.

I got none. You want to wreck the place

Go on, fuck you. Don’t like it? Fuck off!

So we talk. She says “why no drink beer?

I down it. “Now where?” I say. She takes me

To car, we talk four hours. You gonna

Shag me? “Not here in car” I says. Un-

comfy. She takes me to hers. I say, “well,

That’s it over”. She says “no, you laugh and joke and

Keep me happy.” Watch a few sunsets.

“You’re genuine. You’re real, you’re what I ain’t got.”

She’s got 36G tits, leaves her

Underwear round. We’re over 50, get free

Viagra. Gotta grab it, you can make £40 a pop.

She says “you love me, I don’t love you”

Months later she says “I love you”. I say

“I don’t.” But we both do, I know.

I take her home, she says “you scruff ass”.

On the kitchen table, I take her. She

Wants to, she likes that.

Her friends say “why you with him?”

She says “you can all fuck off”, and she doesn’t swear.

I feel good, I got a woman, she’s

Strong, & she’ll have teeth marks

In her arse tomorrow night.

52. Still fucking horny.

In the morning, we had set off before the sun, to make our way toward Totnes, which legend states was the place colonized by the survivors of the Fall of Troy. “New Troy” is what “Totnes” is said to mean.

The day’s walk across the moors was made in misty alacrity. Dartmoor is a place of great and ancient mystery, a perpetual borderland which both invites and forbids. If we were to describe it any further, we would become less accurate, for it shows each person what it chooses, and what you find will be what you need to know.

We were only mildly fatigued on reaching Totnes, a destination that, from the time-travel of maps and the whisper of rumours, had been beckoning us for quite some time. We found it a fine stone town, full of warm smiles and taverns. It was late when we arrived, so we spent our first night with newly met friends, a couple and their baby who had invented a board-game of Buddhism. We played, and reached a dicey Nirvana late in the night. (http://www.buddhawheel.co.uk/)

In the morning, after some gardening, we went into town, to see it in the daylight. We were keen to busk, as excited crowds of shoppers were taking their pleasurable strolls past gleaming windows of promises, and the streets seemed to be whispering in anticipation of the great festival tomorrow. We set up our sign and hat, and launched into a Cornish love song, about a girl being prevented from marrying her chosen man, by her parents who put her in an asylum. We were deliberately avoiding the typical carols, as they carry powerful stylistic baggage, and cannot be so freely sung. We also fancied that people have heard, by December 24, as many carols as they can stomach, and so we sung what we knew instead.

We did well, and people were complimentary and kind. We answered a bunch of questions, and were just carrying on, when a woman and her two daughters approached. We told her where we came from, and where we thought we were going, and when she asked us what our plans were for Christmas day, she nodded as we told her: “nothing as yet.”

“Then you’ll not mind spending the day with my family and friends. There’ll be music, and games, and lots of food. How does that sound?”

Not many seconds were needed, to briefly look at each other, to check the grin was mutual, before responding that it sounded “very good indeed”. Arrangements and directions were given and confirmed, and we carried on busking with the thought of a merry Christmas being happily given.

That night, on the Totnes exuberance, we went to the pub, and a number of parties, and sung all over the place in varying states of sodden joy. We slept in the camp of a girl we met, whose boyfriend didn’t like us at all, but whose caravan sat on technically un-owned land, and so was unmovable by legal force. It had thus managed to accumulate all the heavy comforts of a stable home in and around the limited confines of a small plastic box on wheels.

It was a lovely night, and we arose in the thick morning to see the others already passing round a bottle of Christmas cheer, which shocked our rising eyes. We ran off before inebriation befuddled our recovery, and hurried to meet our Christmas family. But as we were early, we sat for an hour beside the River Dart. We were feeling rather rough, a shade delicate. So we sang awhile, and the harmonies of ‘Claudy Banks’, a truly old song, melted our headaches into clear pointed energy. We were transformed, and went to meet our new friends for Christmas lunch.

A great family gathering followed, a great and beautiful welcome, with more food than we could ever eat, and games and music galore.

During these celebrations, which are still giving joy to our hearts, we sung a good few songs. But the lady who invited us there, and who gained the permission of all three families, soon took her guitar in her arms and sung with it. And we, and everyone else, were flown away to quite another place.

The songs are here:

The story of these songs, that were once busked by this singer as her sole income, have a long and incredible history. They are a family heirloom, a corpus of song that has been passed down for generations, and that still exists intact today. They are mostly Yiddish songs, with some Russian and Polish and German, and after the Second World War her family was able to survive by the family industry of binding these songs into slim volumes, and selling the books, for food, fuel and clothing.

They retain such simplicity, these songs, and are shockingly dissociative from even the idea of Holocaust. It is a strange path of history they follow, all the way to now, here, on this gifted Christmas day.

We stayed with this family for a few days, until Will’s birthday came on the 28th, we baked a few loaves of bread, and helped with the garden, but mostly we read, cleaned and fixed our kit and bodies, ate and slept.

The Totnes adventures continued, for on the day we intended to leave, we were taking a half of ale in a little pub, and a fellow come over saying: “I saw you singing in Chichester, a good while ago. I told my mate about you, and he’s coming over to ask you something in a minute.” – We waited, and then he sloped over, with a strange diamond grin, muttering “oh yeah, just wandered if you’re up for coming to meet me and my friends. We live in a mansion up the road. There’s loads of rooms, good people, pretty girls, cider, buckets of instruments and food. You up for that?”

And so our path took another turn, and another tale.

Why? Who knows ‘why’? If ‘why’ is already known, why go walking? The mysterious dysfunction of cause and effect is not a clear web to us, nor would we pretend otherwise. Sometimes we’d mutter about ‘self-initiation’, ‘going on adventure’, or ‘meeting our country’. More often, in response to this ‘why’, we’d offer our first walk as a contextual analogy, concealing a lack of explanation with the illusion of history.

In Spring 2004 we walked from Winchester to Canterbury, along the Pilgrim’s Way.

We wanted to investigate this ancient beaten track, to see what remained of the phenomenon of pilgrimage. We took about three weeks, slow going by most standards, an uncertain first investigation into the art of journeying. In truth, our initial pondering steps were amazingly naive. We had few relevant outdoor skills, no tents/tarps nor maps, and we had no idea what a long walk meant. Slowly we began to perceive the vast scope of our ignorance.

We detected no contradiction in taking a train to Winchester, to walk back again. Movement toward Canterbury seemed safer for inexperienced walkers, a journey empowered by the summoning gravity of home.

Initially accompanying us was a fellow called Ted, who had jumped on board at the last minute. Ted was a big quiet man, who wore tired old Nike trainers and carried a jacket that tenuously boasted of ‘water-resistance’. He walked mostly in silence, practising tai chi at every spare moment. He was a good companion.

In contrast to Ted, we were gloriously overburdened, our backpacks full of plastic kagouls, waterproof sleeping bag covers, books, potatoes, gloves, hats and scarves. We had each baked a loaf of bread the night before we left, full of our personal power foods, seeds and greens, potatoes and spices. These loaves became swiftly less than appetising, guaranteeing their longevity as emergency rations all the way to Canterbury. On cold nights with no fire, we’d gorge on these stale savoury cakes, chewing heavily and thinking of Elven Lembas bread.

The idea of beneficial fasting appealed to us. A sense of growth through self-denial, iron-rations and wind-bitten hands, lingered somewhere in our myth of pilgrimage. We shared dreams of finding the biggest forest in England, and getting lost in the middle.

But we were young, and full of flickering distractions. That other life, normal and creditable ambition, the money and career thing, still echoed its tricky little voices. Will had not finished his studies, and the ghoul of dissertation awaited completion. It was then that we glimpsed the thrilling possibility of ‘research’, which made essay cease to loom so great and so abstract. Instantly, the project flickered into an open page, an empty map waiting to be filled with people, adventure and walking.

We aimed, hard, to prove that Chaucer in his Canterbury Tales crafted an illusory political stability; he obscured the historical truth of pilgrimage as a form of social protest, and hid its historical contests.

His book rebuilt the pilgrimage landscape with twin towers of story within story, to normalize the sacred journey as a middle-class saga of fine horses, gossip and chat. We saw this as strong cultural propaganda, soft-power, hearts and minds stuff.

But the many angry words of the big essay did little to alter the world’s interpretation of the Canterbury Tales. The degree was won and the dissertation read by perhaps eight people.

The real rewards of the journey were elsewhere, in our fingers, toes and hearts, in our immediately deepest roots. Far from student essay-consciousness, we had stumbled into a fresh and uplifting reality, an England of footpaths, woodlands, churches and villages. We had somehow accessed an ancient dream of wandering life, and found it kind, sustainable and exciting. It was a clear step closer to the ultimate human potential that we craved.

A few plot fundamentals were written into our story from the start. We had agreed to pay for no accommodation; to take no lifts; that we should graze, gathering wild food whenever it was abundant and identifiable; that anything we bought would be from independent shops not supermarkets. A dream of freedom, we agreed, needs a root of discipline.

And so we went our footloose and headstrong way. It was with a proud twinge of rebellion that we spent our first night next to the walls of Winchester Cathedral. The lights that usually burn all night, to highlight the Gothic symmetry, were being repaired. So we slyly jumped the fence, and bedded down on the dark stone floor beneath the soaring walls. Dreams came swiftly on.

We arose just before dawn, and soon realized we had slept only five yards from St Swithin’s grave, the famous Saxon Archbishop of Winchester. This was the very spot where Swithin requested to be buried, and where he lay for 100 years, until being re-buried inside the Cathedral walls. This was not the result of insensitivity, but was due to the medieval phenomenon of ‘Translation’, the theft and relocation of saintly relics to other religious centres. Those bones brought in gold.

Swithin’s eminence had made Winchester an early capital of Christian pilgrimage in Britain, before the ascending cult of Beckett and Canterbury. We were repeatedly told of Swithin’s remaining popular legend: that the weather on his day, July 15, would continue for 40 days to come.

We left the Saint’s chosen grave, packed up quickly and silently in the grey morning, and with cold eyes made our way into town. We could see and smell the bun-haze freshly rising above the city, billowing through the waking streets, and we eagerly tracked it to source.

That morning, after pastries, still enjoying the early city sights we bumped into the Dean of the cathedral, who had previously been the Archdeacon of Canterbury. We said nothing of our night’s sleep, and he told all of how he had walked the Pilgrim’s Way in the other direction when he had been promoted, striding with his dog over the downs between the two Cathedrals. With his blessings, we made our way out through the town, agog with synchronicity’s thrills.

The way is well marked Eastward from Winchester along the Itchen river, and the path mainly skirts agricultural land. We stopped frequently in places that called us, beneath a great Elder tree amidst the corn, and beside tiny tributaries of the river to soothe and cool our feet. Soon enough, the way became more exciting, and more difficult.

Huge warehouses appeared alongside mountainous rubbish dumps, in the midst of twisting woodlands. Parts of the ancient path were blocked entirely by electric horse fencing, over which we threw our bags and bodies. We sat in one such paddock awhile, where a huge white stallion and a fine black mare were kept in pining separation by wire and voltage, until the stallion kicked down the paltry fence, and the two ran joyously free together. We liked that.

We soon found the myth of pilgrimage to be alive and strong in the British psyche, despite Henry VIII’s divorcing efforts. One night, too few miles above the M25 (the popular original route of the pilgrim’s highway, a living heritage enshrined under tarmac), we were cooking our pot of stew over a small fire. Suddenly, our ears warned us of approaching noises of shuffle and mutter…not badger, but humankind.

Now, we all know of what Banksy calls the “Crimewatch Syndrome”, whereby television has imprinted the idea of dark natural environments being inhabited by fearsome humans, capable of hideous evil. So hearing unknown people surround our fire, we did hastily bind our shoes to our feet, bringing our staffs close to hand.

Suddenly into the fire’s circle-light stepped a huge man all draped in Barbour, thick-bearded, his low-rimmed hat hiding his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. This was reassuring. Dialogue was always missing from Crimewatch reconstructions. We spoke up:

“We’re pilgrims, on our way to Canterbury” we announced, as calmly as we could.

A pause, and the stew bubbled out from under the pot-lid, to spit and crackle onto the fire.

“O, pilgrims, well that’s alright then,” he replied, reassured, “we thought you were troublemakers from the village. They’ve been up here pulling out fence-posts, and burning cars.”

Unsure of what had been avoided and what won, we were wished a good night and a safe journey, and the people disappeared as swiftly as they had come.

The Pilgrim’s Way from Winchester to Canterbury follows paths that sit between the summit and the foot of the North Downs. Such paths protected rich pilgrims from potential robbery in the outlaw-patrolled woods, and from wind and rain exposure on the hilltops. As we followed these muddy tracks and green lanes, up and down hillsides, Ted’s insufficient footwear proved a constant wonder. He slipped and slid everywhere, his feet soaked everyday within just 10 minutes of setting out. Each night, he toasted the useless running shoes on the fire, like toxic marshmallows.

The weather was an initiation all of its own. We didn’t like tents, and considered them to comfort the camper by the imposition of nylon walls, while we instead sought immersion and awareness of our surroundings. In truth we had not even the most basic conception of walking in foul weather. We slept in clearings, trusting the good weather to hold, which was wonderful until we woke up soaked, not knowing how to dry our sleeping bags.

We had to learn the technical benefits of shelter, of overhead shrubbery, tree trunks and ruined chapel walls. We kept a closer eye on the sky, and on animals, noticing how cows huddle in one corner of a field, tails toward the wind when rain’s coming. We learned to watch for patches of sunshine, when we could rig up a string and hang our soggy clothes in the sun’s direct glare. The sight of water turning to steam, drying your only shirt, is beautiful sacred physics.

The journey was physically more difficult than we had predicted. Youth is blessed by the illusion of its invulnerability, and we happily endured our petty suffering. We generally ached a lot, and pushed ourselves according to beliefs and ideas of limitlessness. We listened rather disparagingly to the protests of our hips, knees, ankles, and shoulders. Being blessed by fearsome blisters, we looked forward happily to the promised future of tough-footedness.

Everywhere we walked, equipped with our 1940’s guidebook to the way (it had seemed the best option available), marks of tradition and history awaited us. Pubs, churches, signs and way markings, all whispered of the years of dedicated journey that preceded our own.

Signs of tradition

We had vetoed the carrying of OS maps, so we happily followed the instructions our old guidebook gave us. This was wonderfully fruitful, until we reached the river Medway. We searched for miles in each direction, trying to find the ferryman who was described so well in our guidebook. We were confused by the industrial complexes that hugged the riverbanks, fencing off the streets and houses alongside. Local kids had no information to venture. An older fellow, emerging from his lunchtime pint, laughed loudly at our queries: “There’s been no ferryman here, for at least 40 years gone. I can’t remember his name…was it old Jack? No, that’s all long gone now.”

We headed downriver, until we found a bridge, and vowed to read our guidebook through to its finish with a critical modern eye, to check for other surprising plot twists.

One night, approaching Box Hill, more lost than usual, we emerged onto a small lane, where two cars zoomed past to splash our already dripping bodies. The third car slowed down, politely avoiding another drenching, and from its window drifted the off-beat sound of Bob Marley’s ‘One Love…One Life…let’s get together and feel alright…’

“Ah…” we thought, and then the car stopped, and a grinning Czech fellow poked his scraggly head out the window, with a yellow 50p price sticker stuck on his forehead.

“Want help?” he articulated, and we most happily took this opportunity to consult his map, before arranging to meet in a Boxhill pub later that evening. The girl was an au pair with weekend driving privileges, and together with her visiting boyfriend, they offered us support where we would have hoped to help them. We spent the evening together in a wild west theme pub, which was confusing for all parties.

The night was passed in Ted’s cousin’s house, whom we dripping disturbed from a night alone with her boyfriend. We felt bad, but it was a big old house, and family is blood. We found out in the morning that the shed where Logie-Baird invented the television lay in the garden of this house, and walking through a village at nightfall, we were coming to appreciate very strongly the common support systems of humanity along the route. Houses were providing water for our canteens when doors were knocked upon, strangers were wishing us constant good luck, and drinks were lining up in public bars for our tales to be told.

People often seemed unsure about not what we were doing, but what we were. Ed had developed a mania for fixing to his walking staff all the relics of the road, the twigs, feathers, pinecones and foliage that he found.

In one village we spied a notice for a local garden tea party. The day and date we confirmed as timely conjunction. We soon found the garden of promise, and eagerly introduced ourselves. We were told, by a distinctly worried gentleman, that the event was not starting for an hour. Hurriedly consulting his lady wife, we were offered the compromised opportunity to take refreshments before the other guests arrived. We are still unsure if this was generosity, concern for our convenience as walkers with miles to tread, or if we were viewed as a potential threat or possible embarrassment. Was this welcome or segregation?

A threat to tea party propriety?

Such an uncertain reception returned. We were not yet singing together, and Ed wore his hair in long dreadlocks, so we surmise we presented a difficult image for middle England to digest smoothly.

One evening, stepping over the threshold of a friendly looking village pub, we very clearly felt the eyes of unwelcome. Perhaps the smell of woodsmoke, or the feathers in our hair, or maybe our raggled green clothes…but we definitely rang alarm bells. Strangers at the door are not always good news…

We shuffled into a corner, bought our ales, and determined to undo suspicion by politeness and good cheer. This was worth little effect for the bulk of the pub’s clientele, but one little old sweetheart called Betty, who had lived in the village for 50 years, decided to be the sole outreach from her community. A wonderful night of energetic conversation followed, and despite our protestations, Betty kept buying the ales. Still, each time we approached the bar, a villager would warn us: “Don’t take advantage of Betty’s generosity”. It seemed that genuine friendship between such apparently different people, us and her, could not be perceived as genuine and heartfelt, but must be reduced to conniving and mal-intent. This hurt our hearts, but we did not let it spoil a rare and beautiful night of cross-generation companionship. On this short walk we never fully overcame such troubles, but it felt like our intentions became clearer, to us at least, while our reception continued to be confused.

We stepped onwards, ever closer to the spires of Canterbury, passing many mysterious monuments of furtive story. Kit’s Coty, and the Countless Stones, which rest near Maidstone, sent us onwards with new appreciation of the energetic boons offered by seemingly anonymous piles of stones. We won’t tell secrets, save to say we were both sent onwards with renewed vigour.

Crossing the A249 at Detling we met another important monument, although its story is new and clearly dictated. A beautiful village, Detling was cut clean in half by the road that was built to protect it from traffic. The Pilgrim’s Way is also neatly chopped by this fast and dangerous road. A bridge crosses the road, entitled Jade’s Crossing, which was built after a difficult battle with a reluctant council, to provide a safe place for people to cross the busy road. OAPS and children had been killed, many villagers’ dogs and horses, and still the council delayed, harping on costs. It took the death of an 8 year old girl, and her grandmother, and £100,000 of donated money, before the bridge came.

We crossed this path on a full-moon night, unwilling to sleep on such a pleasant and bright evening. We slept on a hillside somewhere, waking in long grass with a beautiful valley stretching in front of us.

On a very wet day soon after, as we dipped down from the North Downs to seek shelter in the village of Chilham, and ducked into the pub which was blessed by a huge fire. Here we took ale and soup, and hung our soggy jumpers and hats on the iron hooks that adorned the inglenook fireplace.

An irate Scottish voice barked: “Do ye think this is a Chinese washing house, boys? Put yer clothes away. Now!”

Well, this upset us, but it was wet outside, so we slowly did as asked. The tradition of welcome, a backbone of the public house, was demonstrably snapped like a brittle withy. Thankfully such foolishness is atypical, and most pubs appreciate their traditional role as institutions to serve the traveller.

Approaching Canterbury, we followed the river Stour as it washed into the tiny city. Our pilgrimage was nearly done, and we wondered how it would feel to re-visit the tomb of Beckett, that had previously been so meaningless, after this extensive reflection on his historical and social role in the pilgrimage tradition, and the cultural shape of England.
Passing through the tiny village of Harbledown, through ghosts of apple orchards, we knew we were walking the same path King Henry II had taken when he came here in penitence for Beckett’s death, and was whipped, a king punished by monks. We were buoyed and immensely cheered to be walking up the High Street, that looked the same as ever, but more markedly ancient than we remembered.

And so this little journey drew to close. Our pilgrimage nearly completed, we felt joyous. We entered the city through the West Gate, one of the only surviving medieval gates in England that is treated as an inconvenience to traffic-flow.

Marching over the cobbled high street of Canterbury, we saw the architectural evidence of pilgrimage previous, the old hostels, the stone loops where Beckett lead badges were sold, the churches that would prepare pilgrims for the cathedral ahead. In fine high spirits, we saw the grasping spires of the Bell Harry tower, and under the horrid torpor of a 1980’s statue of Jesus, we walked into the Cathedral precincts.

Here we were told: “No. You can’t come in.”

A concert was due to start, and fur-coated women were arriving, who to their credit were as perturbed by this numb rejection as we were. We knew our journey was not sensational, but still, that our pilgrimage should be so undervalued, by the Cathedral, seemed a grievous woe. Canterbury had grown to wealth and power by grace of pilgrims, and we were sorry that this had been forgotten.

We live near Canterbury, and have been back to the Cathedral many times, to enjoy the herb garden or sing a song in the unbelievable acoustics. But we have not since visited Beckett’s tomb.

The cathedral has now launched an appeal for £50 million, called “Save Canterbury Cathedral”. The Dean and Chapter own half of Canterbury, beside many great ancient treasures, and small traders are frequently complaining of the exorbitant rents that force their businesses to close.

We really want to end this writing with the words “save yourselves!”

But Canterbury Cathedral is one of our favourite places to spend good times. It provides a silence, an opportunity for gentle reflection, that is otherwise unavailable in a modern environment. And from this hub, the deeds and words of this city (small town) flow outward to the rest of Britain and the world. It seems that ancient channels of communication converge here, the seat of the Church of England. The cathedral has recently revived its monastic herb garden too, which is a fine living place of instruction and refelction. And the choristers sing every night, at 5:30 evensong, which is a free daily concert of some of the finest choral music available without a ticket.

And we are great fans of Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who is an excellent poet, an aquiline intellectual, and an outspoken fan of the Incredible String Band. We’ve also heard that he blocks Masonic promotion in the Church of England, due to his concerns about priests swearing oaths to others than God. It makes sense, and is an interesting window into the world of dark rooms and power, the marks of which are all over Canterbury.

So we shall only say: we hope to finish our pilgrimage, at the tomb of Thomas, the next time we return to Canterbury.