Day 10 - "More" and More Pilgrimages

As is usual on weekends, Daddy dragged us out of bed bright and early at 5:30AM. As quickly as possible we got ready and prepared lunches/snacks for the day. In the bustle of the preparations we realized how grossly small our new accommodations were. Given barely enough room to move around, we squeezed about the house (in all honesty made for three at the very most). It was a huge relief to burst through the doors, even if it was only for a moment before climbing into the car.

Two hours later (during which time most of us slept), the family arrived at Aylesford Priory in Aylesford. Famous because it houses the relics of St. Simon Stock, the Priory was recommended to us by Monsignor Hughes, our pastor at our home parish. It was a beautiful, untouched retreat that quietly passes unnoticed unless purposefully sought. Though at one time the Priory boasted forty brothers and priests, the numbers have dwindled now to only twelve.

We hurried in to Mass and afterwards stayed for morning prayer with the Carmelite priests and brothers. When it was over, we all walked out and Daddy went to find someone to open the relic chapel for us. He found a young Indonesian priest – a certain Fr. Augustinus – to let us in and show us around. But beforehand Father wanted to chat with us a while.

A short, dark man with glasses and an unassuming manner, he charmed each and every one of us. For a year he has been living in England, practicing the English language. It was truly wonderful to talk to him and help him along, as his tongue unfamiliarly tripped over words and his eyes pleaded for assistance when it came to vocabulary. When given the right words, he had quite a story to tell.

Fr. Augustinus’ parents converted to Catholicism from Islam in 1965 on account of missionary priests who visited near his village. Of Father’s nine brothers and sisters, only himself and one other has accepted the newfound religion of his parents. Most of the others still retain their Muslim faith, the largest in Indonesia. Interestingly, Fr. Augustinus is now a missionary to Indonesia himself, who with his brethren convert and baptize approximately eighteen Muslims per month. When asked the one thing that convinces members of Islam to convert to Catholicism, Father said that in his experience it was largely that the Muslims themselves realized that their fanaticism perhaps it not the right way. Some, after coming to this crossroads, join the Buddhists, and others the Catholic Church.

By this time a brother had come and “absconded” Mommy and Kenny to take them on a historical tour of the Priory. I was disappointed to miss the tour, but it would have been rude to leave Fr. Augustinus at this point in the conversation. Noting the disappointment, perhaps, on the rest of our faces at missing the tour, he decided to take us on our own.

First he brought us into the relic chapel, where the relics of St. Simon Stock lay in a huge reliquary behind the main altar. Although the outside was made of clear glass, we tried unsuccessfully to see inside. Finally another brother, seeing our confusion, came into the chapel and planted himself nearby. Mischievously looking at Celeste, Elizabeth, and I, he said “I can show you how to look at the relics, but it will cost you a pound fifty per girl.” We all giggled as he switched on a light inside the reliquary and disappeared down a corridor. In fact, the relic is the upper part of St. Simon’s cranium, or skull, and it lies on a black-and-white checked cloth.

Briefly we venerated the relics and left the chapel. Leaving us with Fr. Augustinus, Daddy went to see if he could find Mommy and Kenny. Meanwhile, Father wanted to continue the tour (and practicing his English) and took the rest of us on a walk through the ample and lovely gardens along the river. It was so peaceful, bringing to my mind memories of the Dominican House where I spent so much of my time last year. I can even smell the air inside, heavy with incense. As we walked Father picked a rose for Elizabeth and gave Celeste a pretty rosary bracelet from his pocket. I chatted with him about the differences between Aristotle and Immanuel Kant.

After we finished our walk, Daddy found us again. He had attempted unsuccessfully to find Mommy. Waiting in the hopes that she would show up, we stood in the courtyard a while longer and talked to Fr. Augustinus. About fifteen minutes later and elderly brother – the one who “absconded” Kenny and Mommy – came out of the eating hall in the corner of the Priory and said hello to us. Introducing himself as Brother Lawrence, he proved to be a crusty fellow who insisted that in England the “honeymoon was over” in the Church and who had many stories to tell.

I suppose I should give a bit of history about the Priory itself. Originally the first Carmelite Priory in England, it was abandoned at some point and turned into an estate. Later, in the early 1940s, the Carmelites bought back the property and did a little excavating when they moved in to their new (old) home. They found, underneath where the open-air church now stands, the foundations of the original church dedicated to St. Simon Stock. Where the stables were on the estate, pilgrim are now housed; where a flight of steps stands on the porch which aided ladies in mounting their horses, a bell announcing the beginning of Mass is rung three times a day.

Tearing ourselves away from this joyous place, we climbed into the car and drove the rest of the way to Dover Castle, which as you probably know stands on the famous White Cliffs of Dover. Nicknamed the “Key to England”, the defensive battlements enclose 2000 years of history. On the property you can see a Roman lighthouse (phantos), an example (the finest) of Anglo-Saxon churches in Kent, walls built by William the Conqueror, a keep built by Henry II, various tunnels dug during the Napoleonic Wars, and a three-level network of tunnels occupied by the military headquarters during World War II.

First of all, we joined a tour of the famous tunnels, which were only recently opened to the public as unclassified. The first level held a huge hospital. Below this, the second level (“The Annex”) was very important. In the tunnels in this level was the headquarters of Admiral Bertram Ramsey, who orchestrated the “miracle” rescue of over 338,000 British and French soldiers from the beaches of Dunkirk. Also open to the public is a barracks which housed 500 soldiers during the Napoleonic Wars, but was partitioned into several rooms during the Second World War. Finally, fifteen meters below the second level, lays “Dumpy”, the deepest network of tunnels which is yet unexplored and supposedly was the headquarters for the Army, Navy, and Air Force of England.

Next we moved on to visit the medieval keep, visitor-friendly because of its colorful exhibitions. Unfortunately, I find these “Disney-style” audio-visual activities kind of degrading. They teach little or no history, and merely suffice to impress upon little ones that the Middle Ages were a time of colorful theatricality and senseless noise. Nonetheless, the roof of the keep offered a breathtaking view of the English Channel and the surrounding countryside.

Putting this behind us we climbed down not a few stairs to the medieval tunnels underneath the keep. These, again, were dug during the Napoleonic Wars but have not been used since. Kenny and I, a bit more brave (or stupid?) than the rest of the family, went ahead into the dark tunnels. Apparently the English Heritage organization that runs the rest of the site didn’t see fit to install much lighting in the medieval tunnels. Aided by the faint glow of Kenny’s digital camera, we explored some of the deeper regions. There was one pitch-black small tunnel, however, at the end of a dim passageway, which I would absolutely not enter. Eventually Daddy and the rest caught up with us and only then would I go inside.

Despite my apprehensions, the tunnel led to a huge, creepy, black room. This room in turn led to more tunnels that we dared not enter. But it was incredibly exciting; the same adrenaline rush you feel at the peak of a roller coaster, or when you just know that someone – or something - is going to jump out at you out of the dark. Somehow it felt safer when Daddy was in there.

Above ground once again, we hiked across the grounds to a scenic overlook dubbed “Admiral’s Lookout” in honor of ADM Bertram Ramsey. From a viewing platform you get a fantastic view of the White Cliffs of Dover, as well as the bustling seaport of Dover. For roughly an hour we stood up there: feeling the clear sea air, trying to find France across the Channel, musing as swimmers struggled against the current in preparation for attempting the Channel, and watching boats come in and out of port. No one wanted to leave.

Daddy and Kenny went to get the car so that Mommy and I didn’t have to walk so far. Seated at the base of a bronze statue of ADM Ramsey, we talked quietly about how much times have changed since only sixty years ago. In the 1940s ADM Ramsey was trying to plan “Operation Dynamo” to rescue hundreds of thousands of men from Dunkirk in France. Even before this Dover Castle repulsed the siege of Prince Louise of France. Today, three or four ships ferry hundreds of European visitors across the Channel every hour, and more brave the twenty-minute long Chunnel. While sixty years ago the German machine, swathed in a swastika, roared across Europe, today I sat on a bench at Dover Castle listening carefully to conversations around me Auf Deutsch. How much this world has changed…how much more will it change in my lifetime?

The last thing on the agenda for this busy day was a very quick visit to St. Dunstan’s in Canterbury to venerate the relics of St. Thomas More. Waiting for the Evensong service to let out, we strode slowly up and down St. Dunstan’s Street, snapping pictures of the gate to William and Margaret Roper’s house in the 16th century. Finally Reverend Worgen finished his service and was free to take us around the church.

Unspeakably awed, I stood over the Roper vault in the corner of St. Dunstan’s Church in Canterbury. Gently I knelt to kiss the “E” on “THOMAS MORE” written on the stone above the vault. The Vicar, a gray-haired soft-spoken fellow who thought that everything we did or said was “lovely”, told us that the small lead casket containing his head was directly beneath that letter.

At the beginning of every new semester I formally dedicate my studies to St. Thomas More and every morning I bed his help to remain discerning. A feeling of security pervaded my soul as I realized that he was with me; he will not abandon me. What better representative could I have in the court of Christ than a man who was one of the most religious and brilliant men in the realm of England?

Having paid my respects to the late Lord Chancellor of England, we left Canterbury. It was a long trip home, and we were all very tired when we arrived.