Endings and Beginnings

Our second day (Tuesday) in Canterbury began for me with sad news. Word came that a friend and fellow parishioner from my home parish had died Saturday night - even as we were winging our way over the Atlantic.

The news, coupled with another friend's birthday, really colored and shaped my day. We missed Matins, due to a mixup on the Fortnightly Service Sheet (which doesn't show Matins, for reasons unknown) - but that gave us time to attend Mass instead, and I was grateful the opportunity to carry them both with me in spirit into this place.

Morning rehearsal was again in All Saints Chapel. It is high up on the south side of the cathedral, nearly at the pulpitum steps (a long flight of steps down past the tunnel built so pilgrims could go see where Thomas was murdered, without bothering the monks at their prayers). It feels a bit like a nest, cozily tucked away; from the windows in the room one can look down into the cathedral and see some of the massive conservation work underway on the south side of the cathedral.

After rehearsal, we gathered in the lobby of the Lodge, and walked to St. Martin's Church. This is, by virtue of containing some of the remains of the original church or chantry built for Queen Bertha when she came from France to marry Ethelbert, then King of Kent, the oldest church in England in continuous use. She came here in 570 or so. The docent apologized, tongue-in-cheek, for the modernity of some of the church - it's rather new, he said, only dates from around 1170.

It's a lovely little gem of a church, surrounded by a churchyard full of an eclectic collection of burials - from flat slabs with carved crosses on top, to barrel-shaped things that looked a bit like wrapped bodies, to upright memorials from the 1800's. The communion of saints, indeed.

From there we walked back to St. Augustine's Abbey. Augustine was the one sent by the Pope to convert the English, in 597 - and succeeded admirably. The Abbey was one of the less fortunate victims of the Dissolution; all that's left is ruined walls. Once again, thank you, Henry VIII.

It was here that we bade farewell to our guide; he's on to Paris tomorrow, with the group that's coming here next week; they're starting there, then taking the train to Dover and on to Canterbury for their own week in residence.

A quick lunch on the way back; a bit of a walk and a bit of a rest - and it was time to dress for tea.

We had a lovely tea in the library before warm-up; looking a bit formal and sad for tea, being as we were all in concert dress, but it was pleasant.

The service went well, but really hit me hard. It started even in the morning, as we rehearsed the Nunc dimittis (now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace) and the anthem (Bright Morning Stars). I thought of my fellow parishioner - free from pain, now, and never to be lonely again. And then had to fight off a crying jag right before service - which several of my friends unfortunately noticed, and tried to fix. The only problem is that if you're sweet to me when I'm fragile, I'll cry harder. It makes no sense, but it's how I operate. So here are these lovely people trying to be sweet to me, and I'm having to tell them to just go away.

The only fly in the ointment during the service was a particularly ill-timed cell phone going off, which startled us and threw our concentration just enough that one entrance went a bit off the rails. Not too badly; we fixed it, and we got the next one perfect - and only those who know music would have noticed.
For dinner a great number of us went to the Old Buttermarket, just outside the Christ Church Gate. Lovely place, and reasonably good food, but better suited for a day when we've got time to linger - which we didn't, having to get on to rehearsal at St. Paul's.
Very full days, Monday and Tuesday. Only slightly less full today and tomorrow, in that there are no planned tours either day. Enjoying the singing, but very much looking forward to two completely free days at the end of the week.