A Million Times I've Asked You, And Then...

You would think that someone would get it right.

I'm at Southwark Cathedral in South London next to London Bridge. I worshipped here on Good Friday ten years ago and so it felt like I had returned to some place familiar (a bit, sort of, maybe...familiar).

The famous work of Geoffrey Chaucer, "Canterbury Tales" had its fictional start from this general location of London, near Southwark Cathedral. The premise of the Tales was that Pilgrims were traveling in the Middle Ages to Canterbury to visit the shrine of the martyr, Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Beckett who was murdered by King Henry II.

I was in Canterbury the other day and from what I can see, the Canterburians have a Cottage Industry, no, a Major Industry in encouraging pilgrims today to the Canterbury Cathedral and the actual site of the murder. Been there. (See my blog of the other day.)

In the Tales, the Pilgrims walk to Canterbury a  few days south and each Pilgrim is to tell a tale or two. (Actually the Tales are never completed, sort of like St. Pepper's Album which begins with a full premise and never fulffills it.) So, I asked the guides at Southwark if some of the Chaucer family were members of the parish at one time. I was certain that I had read that Chaucer's uncle worshipped there in Southwark. That question was considered by the guides like no one had EVER asked it before.

After a bit of a rambling history, kind of like what I am writing, it was decided that most certainly there might have been a cousin thrice removed from Chaucers aunt who may have worshipped there, perhaps.

That's about as far as my primary sources went in ascertaining correct historical verification.

It is for certain that Shakespeare worshipped here a bit and if I were on the Southwark Cathedral Foundation I would have signed him up for a Foundation Gift. Alas, I doubt he did sign up. But he gets a statue, there in repose, which makes one wonder if that was the position in which he wrote all the time.

Dead Kings. Dead Clergy. Wealthy benefactors...all of them get their due in this or that chapel or a marble slab which gernerations trod upon as they tour this massive, wonderful cathedral. 

The founder of Harvard University was baptised in Southwark in 1607. And they had a Harvard Chapel (Go Crimson!) I imagine Southwark would like a small portion of Harvard College's endowment.

Once again, upkeep for this wonder is expensive and so the faithful, like myself were charged four pounds. If you wanted to take pictures, it was another 2.50 pounds. I'm a responsible guy and paid both and they gave me a barcode sticker that looks like it would be on your vegetable purchase at Whole Foods. I stuck it on my chest and walked all over the Cathedral, secure in the knowledge that I was legal and also rather smug (as lots of folks were surreptitiously snapping photos and selfies with the Shakespeare statue.) I waved my camera around like it was a military flag...I had PAID!

A couple other benefits of having paid, and a lack of tourists...the guides and I got into long discussions (well THEY got in to long discussions...actually THEY just rambled and rambled and didn't listen to me but I just kept on smiling cause I had paid for the photo bar code and I wore it proudly on my chest.) Plus, and this is another continuing theme of my travels, and with my recent experiences it is one close to my heart....I got access to the very nice toilets at the cathedral. The guide punched in the code to the keypad to the Men's Room and I was admitted. I imagine these are a bit more posh than in Chaucer's day. The facilities in his era were probably across the street under London bridge.

It takes very little to keep me happy.

Here's what I like about Southwark Cathedral....it is jammed right up against the beating heart of the city of London. Across the steet is the fabulouss and tastey Borough Market...sort of the North Market in Columbus, on sterioids.  Spent quite some time there. 

And right there is London Bridge, which basically is a bridge that is in London across the Thames. It doesn't look iconic like the Tower Bridge down the way but it is a main artery in the city.

I like a church, that doees not necessarily sit high on a hill and not involve itself with the riff raff of the city. That term is a subjective one and from what I can tell, it applies to us all.

Thanks be to God.

Peace,  Bob

She Could Use an Extra Hand

I missed my flight to London the other day because of storms in Wash. DC...hence I arrived a day late. I emailed my hotel that I would miss the first night. Upon arrival I checked to see if I would get my first nights' cost refunded.

"Nope."

"Too Late."

"Sorry"

"We can't give it back."

"It's your fault not ours."

"Ask the airline for the money since it's there problem, not ours."

Those were all the responses from one woman who was part owner...and she gave me all those in under 30 seconds.

I was beginning to get the idea that I wouldn't get my money back.

I headed out for coffee........

My old friend Don (as opposed to my new, not-my friend, owner of the hotel) mentioned a place for me to see in London. It's St. Etheldreda's Roman Cahtolic Church and it's reputed to be the oldest Roman Cahtolic church in the city.

I went to their website and there it was .... all wedged in between modern (semi-modern) buildings and I browsed through it's webpage with photos. It all looked quite interesting, especially after seeing one photo which was a coloful cask somewhere in the church which contained St. Etheldreda's hand.

That was enough for me.

 I love visiting old churches but when somebody mentions a saint's body part, then I am all in on that!

What's not to love about a long dead saint whose bones or whatever have been distributed throughout the kingdom. I've detailed elsewhere some of the purported relics which I have seen. Laura says that she was in Japan and visited "Buddha's nostril." She was a bit dubious as to its authenticity and it's rather harrowing to contemplate, but it may be true. She and I visited Buddha's Tooth in the mountains of Sril Lanka some years ago. So, there is some presidence for parts of Buddha's head being scattered to the winds. People get real passionate about Buddha's relics. A few years before we were there some Separatist's in the country tried to blow up the shrine. But you can't keep a good tooth down and they built a bigger and stronger shrine.

I even saw "Mohammed's footprint" some years ago in Turkey.

Relics are big business and if you want to stay ahead of the church in the village down the road, you must have a relic for the faithful to visit.

And pray over.

And contribute money to the coffers over.

Today churches offer parking valet and Starbucks in the narthex and really fun rock bands for the teens and wifi with enough strenght to upload a selfie to all your Facebook friends when you nod off during the sermon. 

Back then it it was relics and even though the website offered no history of the relic, their photo stream tagged the cask as containing the hand of Etheldreda. (Ethel-dreeda) Lest my Personnel Committee think I'm squandering my Study Leave on mere foolishness...I had to get to the bottomo of this apparent lack of recognition of the hand of Etheldreda. 

Finding St. Etheldreda's is not like finding St. Paul's. St. Paul's could be found by The Pinball Wizard in a snowstorm. Its dome is majestic, the tourists flock there and sit on the steps and take photos of themselves sitting on St. Paul's steps and then upload the those photos within seconds to prove to everyone that they sat on St. Paul's steps. And then they wait for "Friends" to "like" the photos of them sitting on St. Paul's steps before they move on to the Millennial Bridge where they repeat the process.

St. Etheldreda's hosted the faithful since the late 1200s. I now was seeking out the saint and the church for which it is named. We got off the tube, walked through what was evidently the Jewelry District of London...dozens and dozens and dozens of jewelry stores. One man asked what we were looking for. We said, "St. Etheldreda's!" He hesitated and I thought "this guy has never heard of St. Etheldreda." But he assured us that he knew and told us to take the second street on the right and we'd find it.

"Maybe he DID know," I thought.

We went, found nothing but a couple other churches...doubled back and found it right around the corner from the guy's jewelry store. I was right...he had no idea.

We walked in.

The hall was impressive in it's simplicity and we went downstairs to the crypt, cause if I had a church with a relic in a cask, I would enshrine it in a place called a "Crypt." Even the way "crypt" is spelled makes it seem more mysterious. Besides the Albanian workers setting up for a wedding reception (nothing says, "celebration " like a wedding reception in a crypt.) I was struck by the stations of the cross which were along the walls. These were great, and worth the journey just to view them.

I needed a flash (after all...it was a crypt) but they were wonderful. Still...no hand.

Besides relics, churches like martyrs...it rallies the faithful and reminds them of the difficult times endured by their ancestors. St. Etheldreda's had eight statues of Catholic martyrs who died for their faith. The King and Church of England were not kind to the Catholics after the Reformation and rejection of Rome by Henry the VIII. (Just ask Thomas Becket's bones.) And this old Roman Catholic Church placed the martyrs around the sanctuary and had an explanation of the martyrs near the back wall.

It seems that St. Margaret Ward (1588) helped a Catholic priest escape and sadly, she herself did not and so she was killed for her act of kindness. But the statues lay claim to the Redemption in Martydom.

Stained glass windows with pictures of the Gospel stories and they were indeed beautiful.

Everywhere you turned there was an ancient door bidding you to enter or enticing you to at least look behind it.

Still no Ethelreda's hand. I was beginning to think I had come clear across the Atlantic only to have my hopes for the sacred relic dashed. So I surveyed the sanctuary again. and spotted something off to the corner of the nave. Most relics I've seen in churches make a big deal out of the relic...signs....lettering that catches the eys.....lights to illuminate the sacred object and also a box for donations. Surely that wooden box in the corner (which looks like the priest absentmindedly put there after worship and fogot about, a few centuries ago)  could not be the cask of St. Ethelreda's hand.

Even though I am a certified preacher, I know enough about the altar of Roman Catholic Churches to realize that you do not tread lightly in that area. I looked around and saw no one else in the sanctuary and quickly and quietly went past the holy of holies to the corner and there it was....the cask of St. Ethelreda's Hand.

Simple in its presentation. Elegant in it's construction. I came, I saw, I blogged.

St. Ethelreda was a good woman of the 7th  Century who married and left a loveless marriage and devoted herself to good works. She started a church. When she died her body would not decompose and the faithful were amazed and it became a shrine. One website says it became one of the "Top Five" Medieval shrines. (I am not making this up...but I do want to know....were they REALLY ranking these shrines back then. And if so...one would think that a non-decomposing body would not be rank at all.... But, I digress). So the body would not decompose and and apparantly people kept track of that non-decomposing body for centuries. I imagine Monks making a daily ledger entry..."just saw St. Ethelreda's body today...still composed.")

Long story short. Somehow she was finally buried and somehow her body parts got scattered to other churhes and somehow her hand ended up in a box in the corner of the nave of the church. There was no mention as to whether the hand had decomposed. But those days of relic-searching are long gone.

Think about it....who would really make a long pilgramage all the way to a church just to see a relic in a box?

I guess I would.

Having just checked off an item on my bucket list. I went in search of one more destination..."Ye Olde Mitre Pub." My friend Don recommended it also and I knew if was in the neighborhood and I knew that it was difficult to find and I knew that it was old because it says so in its name and "olde" has an "e" at the end which proves its age. Plus I have no idea what a "mitre" is...but if they spell it Old-English-y it must be authentic.

This is the Dickens-Cockney-Oliver Twist area of London. It was right down the street from St. Etheldreda's and ulike the church which nobody knew how to find, the first guy I asked about "Ye Olde Mitre" knew exactly where to find it. And we entered this weird long dark alley.

A pint will trump religious relics any day.

There wasn't a decomposed body in the place.

Cheers,

Bob

An Archdeacon, a (Wo) Man of High Degree

So....I fell asleep in the Nave behind a hugh Gothic Arch and when I awoke, the doors were locked and the Ascencion Day Service was about to begin.

I'm jet lagged. I have this ability to take a 7 minute nap anywhere and at anytime and so I sat in a chair in Canterbury Cathedral...a little off to the side and leaned my head against a 14th Century support and took "7"...4 times. By then they had locked up the Nave in preparation for the Service in the Quire (Choir)....an amazing portion of this huge place. 

Anyway, I stumbbled awake, spoke to a guide and they admitted me to the part of the cathedral where the service was to take place in a few minutes.

"Are you a part of the group from Virginia or Stockholm?" enquired the usher when I asked where I could sit.

"I'm part of the Dublin Church group." I responded.

"I'm not sure where they are sitting," he replied.

"How about over here?" and I pointed to the back row and he nodded approvingly and headed off to shepherd the Stockholm Lutherans.

In preparation for the Ascension of Christ, these Anglicans were about to celebrate a "Sung Eucharist" which translated means...singing and communion, it's just that the Latin gives it more substance in the title.

I was seated next to an English couple, and soon the service began, and the procession of Acolytes and churchmen and churchwomen and candles and incense  began.

"Oh no," whispered the Englishwoman to her husband (and then to me, as if she needed my approval for her next request) "I should have known they would have incense...and I'm alergic to incense! I'll have to move." Forgetting that incense would be used in a High Church Anglican Worship Service is like forgetting that a foul ball might come screaming at you in your seat at a baseball park.

She, and husband, Nigel moved to avoid a direct hit of incense. Turns out she was quite wise. One would have had to move to Dover to avoid this incense.

Choir. Organ. Dramatic lighting. Robed Clergy and Acolytes and the guy with incense.

Singing, Prayers and Glorias. We stood for the Epistle, some singing, some prayers. As a priest read the Gospel, the incense guy was nearby liberally incensing the litergist. At one point we almost lost sight of the priest amidst the smoke. But it cleared and she was able to see her way back to her seat.

The Sermon was delivered by The Archdeacon of Canterbury. She was quite good. Her voice reverberated throughout the mighty Cathedral and I was pleased that our Anglican friends whose roots in European Christianity are deep, are a part of the modern world which recognizes fully the gifts of women as well as men. Plus she had a great English accent and she could have been reading the ingredients to a frozen dinner and it would have had gravitas.

Most of the Mass was conducted by "The President"...not sure what titie that is...but he was a priest and tall and serious and if Hollywood were casting an imposing Priest for the movie, this guy would be it. Plus....that English accent! It lends itslef so well to liturgical practice. If they didn't have such an accent, they would have to make it up.

The President prayed, sung (chanted...once again....the English accent made the moment), bowed, prayed some more. Blessed the host, poured the wine. Bowed and in the meantime, the incense guy was right there incensing for good measure every significant utterance. He directed incense towards the Virginians, the Stockhomers, and I think he even blessed us Dubliners. The Priests, ushers and especially his acolyte were incensed again and again. And once again, one of the litergists was so smoked with incense that when her reading was concluded, no one could find her and we assume she had wandered off in the smoke to the chapel.

Communion began and all were welcome to partake. All. Once again, my delight at the Anglicans for there inclusion of all Christians...just as Christ would want us to do. We went to the altar, kneeled, received the host in wafer form,  drank the cup of wine (fruity with just a hit of spring blossoms) from a common cup. Common cup. Good job Anglicans, I applaud you in this era of germ-o-phobia in thinking that wiping the chalice after every drink will make a difference. I liked it. The bigger threat was from the incense guy and lung infections.

Today we get our "Spirituality" from music and and seminars of solace and alone-time and time in nature or the 16th Fairway or family or some guy on TV who uses three sylables to say the name "Jesus." But some things are best experienced with sight and sound and smell taste and touch and the heart. The ancient words are intoned, the ancient creeds experience and our eyes, ears, nose and tastebuds are invited to participate. 

These are modern times and this Anglican Service had ancient roots. And it certainly did not hurt that the soaring architecture of Canterbury Cathedral was providing a backdrop. Yet, as noted before, these Anglicans are fully participating in modern society with their acceptance and inclusion of all genders and persuasions. I am impressed.

With the service concluding, we walked out into the night air.

Wrote Chaucer..."Grand mercy, by my faith."

Peace,  Bob

The Bishop's Finger

You'd think the officials would pay more attention to my Rail Pass.

I'm traveling on a BritRail Pass. They did some official stamping of it in London...lots of rubber stamps and lots of careful writing on it. But after that, nobody seems to care of look very closely. At one place the gates were closed, I questioned an official and they directed me to the opening, no one looked at my pass. On the train, the conductor never looked at the dates on my Pass...he just smiled and said, "carry on!" The ride was great and it was so very kind of the system to inform us that the train would "split" and go two directions and to make certain that we, the passenger was on "the correct set of cars." This announcement was on a loop, like an endless rotation of Nat King Cole songs which I experienced at my hotel last time in London. There was no way to miss the fact that the train was going to "split" but hearing it announced constantly from London to Canterbury made me want to confess to any number of horrible crimes just to have them stop the announcement.

First sight of Canterbury when I got off the train was the Cathedral across the way. The town is touristy and someone said that lots of French tourists were here. I figured the French had enough cathedrals in their own country but no, they are coming across the channel to view the home of the world wide Anglican Church.

Jet Lag and Hunger are the order of the day, since I had arrived just a few hours earlier in London. That hotel is owned by a bunch of Spaniards from Malaga. I told them that I had been in Malaga a couple years ago. They were delighted and asked what I enjoyed most about their city. I mentioned one thing (through my fog of Jet Lag) and they said, but that is "in Seville." "Oh, I meant" and I mentioned another thing we visited in Malaga, to which they said, "that is in Granada." By then I was flustered and generalized with, "I'll bet you guys are big fans of football...which are you....fans of Real Madrid or Barcelona." (As a guy....I knew I was on safe ground with sports....and I knew the Spaniards were totally nuts for their Spanish football teams.)

But when I mentioned Madrild and Barcelona they both looked at me and said,

"Ah, we hate football! We love Motocross!"

I said, "Just give me a room." I had totally struck out with impressing the Spaniards.

So in Canterbury. I strolled down the lane and there was a pub...."The Bishops Finger" 

It appeared as if the Bishop was wagging a reproving finger at his flock and that seemed a good place for me to eat. BLT and a 7 Up and I'm ready for my hotel and the Cathedral.

I'm at the Pilgrims Hotel. In centuries past, the faithful would take a pilgrimage to Canterbury, site of the great Cathedral and place of the martyrdom of Thomas Becket the Archbishop many centuries ago. Chaucer wrote of the journey and the telling of tales in "Canterbury Tales" and the result is that I want to visit, French tourists want to visit and half of the town makes reference to the Cathedral and its heritage through the sacred pilgrimage of tourism. 

The beauty of the Cathedral is that it is was built in the 1300's. That is also to its detriment. At first glance the place looks all of its 800 years of age.

It costs about $30,000 a DAY to maintain the building. I'll remember that the next time we have to pay $350 to clean our church gutters after winter. But to their credit. They have tuck-pointed a lot of the outside. Other areas are under scaffold for upkeep and the huge stained glass main window is under repair for the cost of $5 million. That's a lot of Pilgrims donations.

But, the inside was one of the best I've seen. And I've seen quite a few.

Light and dramatic architecture make this a stunning sight from every angle.

Look at the detail...the above photo is of the CEILING! Heck it is so high that nobody in the 14th Century had good enough eyesight to see its detail. So I figure it was created so tourists and high powered camera lenses in the 21st century could document their talent and dedication to God through their artwork.

I walked and walked. They were having an Ascension Day Service in the early evening so they were about to close the crypt and Choir and Trinity Chapel. My first move was to visit the site of the murder of Thomas Becket. Which took place in the site called the "Martyrdom." I mentioned to the guide that it was rather creepy that Thomas was murdered in a place called the Martyrdom. As Archbishop I would have avoided that spot like the plague. The guide pointed out that the room was not called the Martyrdom until AFTER Thomas was killed. Which is why he's the guide. The guide also mentioned that the Puritans of another century wanted just to tear down the cathedral but instead they went to America. I neglected to tell him that I was a minister in the lineage of the Puritans who wanted to tear this magnificent cathedral down and thus put him out of a job. 

So Thomas was killed by the king's men who later claimed they misunderstood the king who uttered, "Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?" Besides not understanding the word "turbulent" the  four knights later claimed they were just "following orders" and the King claimed he did not really mean to have Thomas murdered but was just exasperated and the knights "misunderstood."

Such an excuses as "we were just following orders" and "I was misunderstood" as we all know, were never again used in history to justify violence. In any case, it was tragic for Thomas but great for tourism and a pilgrimage to this great cathedral was a the plan of the faithful down through the ages. Thomas body was put in a crypt and the faithful would come and visit for centuries, their knees wearing grooves in the marble floors.

You can see the grooves in the bottom left of this photo. The candle marks the spot of the crypt...which was destroyed by Henry the VIII. Those Henry's couldn't seem to get enough of destroying poor Thomas. Henry the II murdered him...Henry the VIII destroyed his bones and the pilgrimage centerpiece. His bones were ground up and scattered and distributed to other cathedrals around. The Middle Ages church had strange notions about bones and relics. Anyway, there is one tiny piece of one finger of Thomas buried someone in the Cathedral.

I told the guide that I had been to a church in India where they too had a piece of the finger of Thomas and it too was sacred and buried in the church. The guide smiled and said that THAT was Thomas the Disciple  and THIS was Thomas the Archbishop. If I were a churchman named Thomas today, I would be watching my back. But they both were named Thomas and both dead and both had finger parts enshrined in churches as centerpieces for the sacred. What are the odds?

After hearing the tale of Thomas and his martyrdom and scattering of his bones, The idea that I had just had a BLT for lunch at "The Bishop's Finger" did not sit so well with me.

Peace, Bob

Creative Dislocation

The young woman was sorting through her luggage there just outside busy Paddington Train Station. She looks up at me and says, "What's the weather for today?"

I look up at the sky and say..."Grey."

"Thanks!" she says and grabs a jacket.

I recall riding a train through the mountains of Sri Lanka. The train was swift and passed within feet of houses and neighborhoods. We would see people walk out to the back of their homes to do their business or smoke of just look at the train. And we on the train "were just passing thru" as we watched people go about their personal lives. So it is with any travel...you are "just passing thru." Real life takes place but we go on with our artificial life of dislocation.

Now, about those five extra inches of legroom on the plane. 

Once when we taught school in Zambia we had some people visit us from the States. They had never been to Africa and we had been there a couple years. I said to our guest that I had a special treat for us in the afternoon. Around tea time, I got out the bread...and jam.....and butter and we had that with our tea. I was in a good mood about it all. Our guest was polite but a bit amused.

"That's it? That's the treat?!" He asked with trepidation.

I told him that it wasn't every day that we had French Bread with South African butter and English jam. It's the little things you really appreciate when you have been deprived of them. In the same way....those five extra inches of legroom meant I could stretch out a bit on a 7 hour trip. I enjoyed every dollar of the $150 bonus legroom.

So, I arrived. A day late but London was waiting. 

On the Express train from Heathrow to Paddington station we zipped along quite well...but the conductor apologized for the slow moving train this morning. The Londoners rolled their eyes in disgust at the glacial pace....but I used to work on American railroads and in comparison this mornings ride was like riding with the Jetsons.

Gotta remember. Make use of airport toilets whenever possible. I hopped on the train to Paddington and when I arrived it was time to use the facilites. But alas, these cost 30 pence at the huge Paddington Staiion. I pondered that, then remembered I had some British Pounds given to me. I buy a coffee. Explain to the counter girl that I need 30 pence in change for the loo. She nods....counts out 30.....points out which is a 10 a 20 or whatever. I go to find the 30p loo. She even puts my coffee and roll aside until I return and then serves me.

I figure that if I have a Debit card and know how to negotiate the public toilets ....that's about all I need to get by in London.

As I head to the hotel, I pass a guy walking in to the coffee shop with a fly fishing rod...right there in the heart of Paddington Station.

Intersting town, 

OK....heading for the train to Canterbury.

Peace Bob

The Journey Thus Far

Thus far?

As stated elsewhere....The Journey is the goal. At the moment, the goal is just to get the journey started. In the past 24 hours I have managed a journey of about 17 miles...from Dublin to the Port Columbus. That's it.

It seems that some freak storms kept the Washington DC plane from leaving DC yesterday afternoon. So it never arrived in Columbus and I then missed the flight to London. Long story short....leaving today. A few weeks ago I was hacked and a message was sent that I was stranded in Turkey. Today I am somewhat stranded in Columbus, but I have my resources and a new ticket and should arrive in London early Thursday morning.

I'll give the airline credit for customer service as I used my cell phone to hustle some new flights. It took a while but I think I'm good. Perhaps the ticket agent on the other end of the phone took pity on me when I calmly said that I missed the flight and had to stay overnight. I asked for an aisle seat on the new flight to London and she promised that she secured it. She even said she would "upgrade" me. My hope was first class...the airline class to which I am most accustomed.

"Dream on." she replied.

But she said I'd get "Premier Seating." That sounded great. Perhaps cocktails and surroundsound TV. 

"And what does that get me?" I asked.

"Premier seating gives you five more inches of leg room." she responded.

"I'd be happy with 5 less inches in First Class" I said.

"Oh, but sir, we have waived the Premier Seating fee." 

"What is the price of five more inches?" Which is probably the first time I have ever had a discussion with an airline on that that topic.

"We have waved the $150 fee for your inconvenience." said the woman.

Recently the Pope has been critical of his flock taking undo liberties with church money. I tip my hat to him for speaking out against excessive spending in housing and banquets and the like. Pastors must set an example. I did the math and I figure that I have just been given $150 worth of legroom,free. That comes to $30 per inch. I will work out later with my Personnel Committee just how to justify such extravagance. 

As I left the airport last night I asked the local Airline Rep if I was entitled to a hotel voucher since my flight was cancelled. He was sympathetic but said,

"It was thunderstorms that cancelled the flight. We don't give vouchers for that. It was an act of God."

Fortunately, as a Pastor...that is something I can relate to.

Peace,  Bob

And So We Begin

For a number of years I have longed to take a train through England and visit some of the cathedral towns. Now I will.

It is not a unique travel idea but one that sits well with me. I am fascinated by the majesty of those centuries-old Gothic masterpieces. I saw my share of them a few years ago in the countries of the Northern Mediterranean, and for some reason I can't get enough of them. Perhaps now I will.

So the plan is quite simple: fly to London, get on a train and go. The original plan was concocted 20 years ago but other travels took precedence and now is the time to experience it. I planned to go solo but one daughter wanted to go, then the other and I am delighted to have them journey with me. I have traveled with both extensively but the three of us have never taken off together. Sort of a 21st Century Mod Squad. "One brown, one blond, one old."

We'll see Canterbury, Lincoln, York, Liverpool, Hereford, Gloucester and London. If any of you are semi-experts (which I certainly am not) you will note that Liverpool does not have a Gothic cathedral. Indeed, it has a couple "modern" cathedrals but it also has a couple other claims to fame which this child of the 60's must explore and besides for over 50 years I have wanted to take a ferry 'cross the Mersey in the same way that I experienced "some exotic booze in a bar in far Bombay." You'll have to dig out your Sinatra and Gerry Marsden references to decipher that last sentence.

Suffice it to say, it is not 24/7, wall-to-wall cathedral wanderings, but it is pretty close. A few years ago, when I was in Italy, where you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a couple cathedrals, I spent a lot of time just drifting in and out of those marvelous structures. Makaila was very patient, and I think she "got it" because if I wanted to explore the corners of a cathedral, she would come right along and if not, she enjoyed sitting in those cavernous Houses of God. Soak it in. "Be-bop" traveling she calls it.

Laura was as curious about the ancient relics of India as I and when I wanted to see the sacred bone of the left hand of this or that saint which was enshrined in some church on the coast, she was all for it. We experienced Saint Thomas' finger-bone and Buddha's tooth. Makaila and I saw the beard of Mohammad and the house of Mary (both in Turkey...go figure.)

All of which means...."the journey is the goal"....which has been my mantra for 40 years.

London holds a special fascination with its cathedrals. I hope to see as many Christopher Wren cathedrals as possible. The great London fire of 1666 destroyed about 80% of the city. Far too crowded and far too many wood and thatch dwellings made for great fire-kindling and few deaths. So the fire that began in a bakery ended up redesigning the city and the great architect Christopher Wren drew up the master plan which still defines the city today. Not sure if he factored in the number of Starbucks and curry houses which populate the city today but I am ready to walk to the dome of St. Paul's and hear Evensong in any number of catherals.

I'll try to give my official seal of approval to Wren's great master plan so that he can rest easy there in the security of St.Paul's. Perhaps a chance to see a Gutenberg Bible, the Magna Carta, use a BritRail pass. Eat in an overpriced London restaurant, see the old city of York, the Mapa Mundi in Hereford, or is it Gloucester? I'd best figure that out by the time I arrive in those cities.

I'll blog daily and with the time difference, you should be able to see my diary each morning. Coffee and Bob's ramblings as he....rambles.

I begin a few days after Memorial Day.

Peace,  Bob