On pilgrimage...

So, when last I wrote, I was sitting by the gate, waiting for the rest of the group and awaiting our flight. I can now report that the flight was lovely (aside from feeling a bit like I've been folded up in a too-small space for far too long), and we arrived safe and sound and a bit early. You'd think that was a good thing - but early meant nobody was expecting us yet, so we had to circle for ten minutes before they let us land. Then we had to wait at the gate, because the gate driver wasn't there yet to connect us to the airport.

And then, of course, there was customs. There was a hike of what seemed like nearly a mile from the gate to customs (I am again reminded of the pilgrims wending their long, slow way to Canterbury on horseback), and then a long, snaking, shuffling line. You know you're in for it when there is a sign at customs like the ones at Disneyland rides: your wait from this point is 45 minutes.

Excited as I am to be here, I slept most of the way on the bus from London. Every time I opened my eyes along the way, I noted not how different the countryside seemed, but how - aside from the cars being on the wrong sides of the road - I could be tootling along the Garden State Parkway. That changed once there started to be road signs - very different style here.

We arrived in Canterbury, and got as close as we could by bus - we were let off in Burgate, and from there must travel on foot to the Cathedral grounds where the Lodge is. Cobblestone streets, and a weary band band of pilgrims dragging their luggage along to their lodgings - I think Chaucer would have recognized us.

We came into the Close and past visitors relaxing on the lawn by the Cathedral...which is breathtaking. You can see the tower from anywhere in town, and navigate by it. Then on around and in through the gate to the Lodge, where they sorted out our rooms. We had just time for a shower (and a fire alarm) and then we scampered across to the Cathedral for Sunday Evensong.

The quire is where Evensong is held. It encloses the High Altar; it is separated from the nave by a great wall with a great door; and many parish churches including my own would fit inside handily and rattle around loose. We inadvertently had an extra treat - yesterday was the end of term, and the choir was being dismissed for holidays, so we heard their last service before summer - and they are a tough act to follow. Soaring, clear, pure boys' voices, bolstered by the deeper voices of the men...pure musical enchantment.

Dinner out - a lovely walk there and back, and a stroll around the grounds upon our return in the gathering dark, gazing at various ruined walls and arches, close enough to the Cathedral that we think they must have been part of the monastery that originally was attached to the place.

I find myself in a very monastic frame of mind, actually. There is a TV in the room, but I was loathe to break what felt to me very like the Great Silence, when I finally went back upstairs. Closing the day with Evensong, and opening it again this morning with Matins, gives that gracious framework to the day that I so treasure when I'm at Holy Cross.

What better way is there to begin the day than, "Lord, open our lips, and our mouths shall proclaim your praise"? What better way is there to close it than, "Let us bless the Lord! Thanks be to God"? To read Matins in a chapel so old and so full of the communion of saints is an extra treat.

And the silence. The stillness here, even in the midst of a busy Monday morning, is deep and peaceful and full of love. The depth of the silence in the evening made it even easier to sleep, feeling cradled and rocked in that quiet assurance - that we are loved, that we are precious in God's sight, that all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.