On a recent wobbly day, I went, as is my occasional wont, to my local church. I’ve done this wherever I’ve lived – in London, Athens, various bucolic English parishes – and sometimes I pray but more often I seek a sense of rootedness and peace. I always come away feeling refreshed and in touch with not only a deeper part of myself, but a deeper connection to place.
Since January, my local has been Canterbury Cathedral, mother church of the Anglican community worldwide. I went once as a tourist; queued up, bought my ticket, took the one-way tour. I gawped at the list of archbishops, which includes Augustine, Becket, Cranmer et al. I absorbed the glamour of the tomb of the Black Prince, felt mildly bored by the spot where Becket was murdered and seriously considered some charming oven gloves in the gift shop.
