The three beat sound of the pigeons was accompanied by the seagull cry as we woke in our private loft three stories up in our London friends’ busy home. We were treated like celebrities as we were indulged with sweets, soup and stories catching up on things missed out on. After a bevy of games with their young boy, and the recent sounds of one younger ever smiling boy, we were escorted by their mum to St Pancras Cross station.
Off to Canterbury with tales yet to come, more like tales from Canterbury. Chaucer welcomed us to town by attaching his famous name to everything including our lodgings, from where Canterbury Cathedral filled our window. A stroll around this curious place led us to its famous landmark where our Via Francigena passport was presented.
We left early searching for tales to tell that can only be told post walking. Getting lost is now an expectation, especially when the cobwebs are still holding firm. From recent experience we stopped and waited for a body to appear. And soon one did, in the form of a young African Englishwoman heading off just after sunrise to start her working day. She pointed to a road that she hoped was the right one, and caught her bus.
Gingerly walking along streets not in our guide book, a familiar experience, to be missed if possible. A young man soon to be married in Cypress, said, “follow me” as he told us of closed down mines where he was to follow his dad into guaranteed lifelong work. Not now, this jolly bricklayer, building lasting monuments on top of the ground rather than hundreds of meters below.
Friendly older locals with their over joyous dogs confirmed our path as our book had not yet caught up with our poor earlier directions. Welcome shade had now deserted us as glaring green fields challenged our resolve. This April, one of the hottest on record had also provided the hottest April day ever, so our wish to start our journey before it got hot was sadly thwarted.
A local village ignored our need for sanctuary as an older local informed us of their lack of such amenities. A shady spot here and there allowed me a chance to sit, unsure whether I could stand later, was in slight contrast to Corrie who was certain that if she sat, it was there she would remain.
Slight differences in interpretation put us at odds with our persistent guide book, but like any relationship, it hopefully gets better with more understanding.
A final meeting with a walker from Canterbury resulted in chats about his past mountain climbing adventures, had us walking through a field of horses, who were more interested in lunch than us.
We were exhausted and sore, my bursa was complaining, the only accommodation was out of town, Dover was nearly in sight so we took a 10 minute train ride to those white cliffs. It was still a long climb to our bed at Bleriots. An early French pilot, Bleriot flew across the channel and crashed very close to where we also crashed for the night.