Day 9: FIELD TRIP--Sacred Space

Off to Kent

The morning came too quickly for everyone, least of all for kitchen crew. Happily breakfast consisted yogurt and fresh bakery muffins, so the five of us had no dishes to wash. Everyone made their lunches and shoved off for the coach (in American, that's a really nice charter bus). I sat next to curly-haired Rachel and we chatted happily about OK Go and Muse before trying to sleep.

Due to my lack of schedule attention, the sight of Dover Castle was way more exciting than everyone else thought. It was a cloudy morning, and the Channel was greyer than frozen mackerel. The city of Dover was stacked precariously over the rolling hills, and the fortress loomed far above. We fell out of the coach, throwing on coats and bags and ready to trek up the hill. We waited in the biting wind for some time before the gates would open, taking dorky pictures and trying to spot the Eiffel Tower on the other side of the Channel (it was all grey mist). At last we marched across the drawbridge and grassy moat, past the stained-glass windows and cross-bow sights, past the marine buttresses and little shops for ice-cream, and to a sign that read "Secret Tunnels This Way". No one laughed except me.

Within the Cliffs of Dover

A bit of history: These Secret Tunnels, dug into the Cliffs of Dover, were constructed in medieval times and greatly expanded during the Napoleonic Wars. During WWII, however, the Germans ushered the Allied forces into the French town of Dunkirk (right across the Channel from Dover) like hogs in a slaughterhouse, pinning them between ocean and armsmen. But General Ramsey decided to head a rescue operation, using those tunnel annexes as headquarters. Of the 400,ooo British military trapped there, Ramsey got 338,000 out, an enormous success for the incredible odds against them.

Down in the tunnels, the soft chalk walks were fortified with sheets of aluminum and plaster, making Annex A particularly dangerous. Like a Disneyland ride, the tour was punctuated with radio signals, failing lights, and staged conversations. But as we viewed military uniforms, lockers, bunkrooms, toilets, kitchen and mess hall, operations rooms, and infirmaries from the period, it all became a bit spooky. We stared at scissors in a bedpan on top of a white gurney and listened to the dramatization of a pilot amputation, imagining the concentration of the surgeon and the pilot's fear as all the lights failed. All these few men in charge had were women--hundreds of women--to work the mess hall, operations rooms, as nurses, technicians, and even to fly the planes from factory to the carriers in the bay. It was amazing to see those female workers smiling from every picture on the tour, living for three years among gruff soldiers underground. No doubt most had a vested interest in WWII, whether it was a boyfriend, husband, or brother off to fight; I'm sure these women felt that they could be of service--it's a shame that it took until the forties for everyone else to figure that out.

King Arthur, Saxons, and Romans

With an hour to spare before we had to be back at the coach, Dover Castle awaited some fifty feet up. We huffed up those hills, remembering the organized ones at St. Paul's with fondness, and emerged at the Colton Tower, which was constructed later. The castle itself was built in 1180 by Henry II, who wanted a "Key to Britain", a fortress that could be impregnable and deadly to any invader. His showpiece to visitors is called the Great Tower, which is the place where many scholars believe King Arthur's knights gathered together.

Coming into the square, my breath flew away at the sight of enormous crimson flags hanging from steel-colored stone walls...the castle stood in the center, and surrounding courtier houses added extra defense and a little town in an exterior circle. They were made of stacked stones, the grout a cement made from flint. I offered to take as many pictures as Rachel liked, sorely missing my own camera and batteries.

We sprinted up the tower, only stopping briefly to view the different rooms; one was full of straw, a furnace, and baking bread; one was a king's court, strewn with gold and scarlet banners and silver goblets; one was a bedroom with chamber pots and a magnificent bed. Reminded of St. Paul's, we dutifully climbed the stairs to the very top. The roof square was flat, with guardtowers at each of the four corners and a chimney in the center. I stared over the side at the design of the place--the courtier houses, which had been converted to bunkhouses during the Napoleonic Wars, the church and lighthouse in the distance.

Nikki and Rachel were nice enough to put me in a lot of pictures. With only twenty minutes left, we hurried to the north corner and saw the oldest building in Britian--the Roman Lighthouse. It looked like a roll of Jimmy Dean sausage, squashed sideways into the earth. Verdigree had begun to disease the lopsided stones, which were also made from flint and cement. Inside, the windows clearly once supported crossbowmen and a magnificent fire to lead across the water.

Next to the lighthouse stood a Saxon church, a great basilica with graffiti from the Crusades. The top half had clearly been destroyed and rebuilt again, but the foundation of flint was still very sound. Saxons had invaded England after the fall of Rome, in the 4 and 500s, and were converted to Christianity by the conquered peoples. Although the Dream of the Rood and Beowulf suggest an influence of pagan beliefs, but those scholars need to realize that as soon as Jesus was portrayed as an epic hero who vanquished death and hell, Christianity clicked with many mead-hall cultures. It was spectacular to see the devotion of these so-called barbarous nations who dotted the continent with churches and inspired generations of Christianity.

Pit-Stop

All too soon, we had to get back to the coach and couldn't see the castle out the windows. Everyone grabbed their lunches and we sat in mullified silence with sandwiches, chips, and Malteasers. Our next stop was St. Augustine's abbey, also known as ruins from Henry VIII's dissolution. We drove by the chalk-white cliffs and thought of taking the Dover Ferry in a few weeks.

The little village of Canterbury was barely a half-hour away, but the Shulers had given us so much lunch that most of us hadn't finished despite tromping from one edge of Dover to the other. We jaunted over to the abbey entrance only to find a heavy black gate, locked. Dr. Seely looked utterly bewildered. He jumped on his cell (mobile) and we waited for more than thirty minutes while he worked his way through the heirarchy of church and cathedral management. At last, he declared the manager would arrive, and we had enough time to visit a little parish just down the street.

The bridge opening to St. Martin's had HOLINESS UNTO THE LORD inscribed at the top, and we all hushed as though entering the temple. It was a green, woody part of the town, cornered by the black river and raised by fat green hills. I guess I never really believed the museums that said England was running out of burial space; the gravestones were ancient and lopsided and crammed together like a field of upright macaroni. I was glad that the particularly photogenic girls in our group refrained from making dorky faces in the cemetery of so many laypeople. Dr. Seely stood on the front steps as though getting ready to lecture from outside the parish when someone opened the door. He looked shocked and gestured for us to come inside.

A lady welcomed us, putting down her watering can and recognizing we were LDS at once. She

had us sit in the pews and we spent a few quiet moments admiring the very mismatched walls. A picture of amiability, she looked thrilled that this one time she'd come in to water the flowers, there was a group of Americans who wanted to see the oldest church in England from inside. She pointed out the Roman bricks in otherwise Saxon walls, the leper's squint and how it was lined up with the altar, the font carved from marble and a millstone at the entrance. Dr. Seely was so thrilled; in all the years of doing this program, he'd never been able to come inside St. Martin's. "I know that the cathedrals are impressive and meant to wow you, but these are the places where religion is truly practiced," he said. "This is where your ancestors worshipped." We ended with a few hymns, our voices echoing from the stone walls and feeling the reverence of the place. I have no doubt that the Spirit was able to work in these congregations of generations ago, leading them to Christ as best as possible. That never really clicked for me until now, but it makes sense as to why members in 1844 in Britian were double that of Salt Lake (24,000 to 11,000)--they had already devoted their lives to God and felt of His love.

The Martyrdom of Sacred Space

All too soon, we were required back at the gate and were ready to visit the ruins of St. Augustine's (not Augustine the theologian). It was built around 598 A.D. thanks to Queen Bertha, who was a Christian. It survived for nearly 1,000 years until Henry VIII's Dissolution absorbed all church wealth and destroyed the country's abbeys and monasteries. We just about sprinted through the little museum to get out to the ruins, barely taking in the tunics, ceramics, and Bibles salvaged from the ruin.

The sun had finally come out and wildflowers grew between the stones that were left; they looked like abandoned legos in a rec room. At one corner of the grass was a prehistoric stone--it looked like an 8-foot black index finger pointing toward heaven. On closer inspection, we could see two slabs had been smashed together by some ancient Celts or even earlier; the slabs were rubbed smooth by time and the holy rock (so say scholars) had a very Stonehenge feel.

All that's left of the abbey are arches, the framework of a tiny monastery, and the tombstones of two abbots. Girls clambered onto the crumbling pillars to pose for pictures, while others sat to contemplate why the square was octagon-shaped...I wandered over to a wall in the middle of the grass to get away from everyone. The wall was made of flint shards. I ran my had over it and knocked a piece loose, like a bad tooth; tucking it into my purse, I read the inscription, which said that this wall separated the clerical graveyard with the laypeople. None of the graves were marked. I treaded lightly where I could, staying close to the wall. There were purple snapdragons growing out of the cracks. Mandy caught me and took a picture.

A Pilgrimage to Canterbury

Driving out of London, little Andrew Tate recited (in Middle English too) the first 18 lines of Chaucer's General Prologue; the words about pilgrims coming from miles away to see the miracles at Canterbury were never said so beautifully. We all hushed in reverence.

We walked through the town from the abbey, through little sidestreets where people milled in the road and bakeries, fishmarkets, and spice shops were commonplace. There were many declarations that this was the coolest little village we'd visited and we regretted not being able to come back. It was clear that a little town like Canterbury retains its livelihood from its history, particularly the Gothic Cathedral that towered over every high street.

For those who don't know, Canterbury Cathedral is the endplace for every pilgrimage mentioned in Chaucer's Tales. True, the pillars, tiles, windows of Bible stories, tombs, and high altar were breath-taking, but unlike St. Paul's, our tour was particularly heavy on the spiritual aspect of the site, and our guide helped us understand exactly when and where the Sainthood of Thomas Becket was made sure. Thomas was very young when he was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury by Henry II (the same king who built Dover Castle!) and thus headed the Cathedral. Unfortunately, the King and the Church had difficulty sharing power, and in Henry's rage, said, "Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?" Sure enough, one night, Henry's knights appeared at the Cathedral to make Thomas agree to the king's utter supremacy, higher than God's. He refused. They dragged him from the chapter room and before the altar. As Thomas yelled for the other monks to run, they sliced off the top of his head and left his body in a puddle in his own cathedral. The knights, pleased with their handywork, left the monks to clean up.

The story goes that Thomas' body was placed in a tabernacle and people (once the news had spread) came to pray before it. Many miracles, including incredible healings, began to take place, as recorded by one gentleman and now engraved on the wall of Canterbury. It made Thomas Becket the fastest-made Saint in history. During the Dissolution some four hundred years later, Henry VIII demanded that the tabernacle be removed and St. Thomas' bones burned, which left them scattered to this day. Our guide led us to the place where a candle now burns instead of the tabernacle, which was stolen by the king for its fabulous jewels. In the flagstoned floor are the imprints of a million knees that knelt to pray, lit in red and blue stained-glass windows. I caught my breath at this simple display of pure devotion.

Dinnertime

The trip back was uneventful; most people slept, and everyone else kept conversations minimal. My neck ached when I awoke, and I realized I'd only seen one sheep field the entire journey. But it was dusk now, and London began to light up everywhere. Bishop Shuler gave us each £5 to get some food. Lunch seemed ages ago, and we were ready to tackle whatever place sounded good.

Long story short, nine of us headed to Wagamama's, a Japanese place recommended by all the profs. Sarryn worried that the Japanese cuisine would incure nothing but bad reactions (picky eater) and I convinced her that everything would be just fine. After discussing what we'd seen that day, a few boy stories, and how to properly handle chopsticks, our food began to arrive. Teriyaki, yakisoba, and a few curry dishes, and Sarryn's ginger chicken arrived. It was a mound of rice floating in a sea of dishwater-colored gravy; although the chicken and vegetables looked fine, we hoped that for her sake, it would be okay. At Sarryn's look of disgust, the plate was passed around and everyone agreed it tasted like wax. We all determined to get Magnum bars on the way back. My very first double-decker bus ever!

It didn't feel like Friday at all. We were all determined to sleep in Saturday. But, as wiped out as we were, we didn't go to bed until after Lisa's surprise birthday cake. Portobello Road, Camden Market, and homework awaited.