In Kent County, it seems, all roads lead to Thomas Becket. My road began in London, at St. Pancras station, with Becket meant to be a detour en route to a Michelin-starred meal. But no lover of Western history and politics could stay away Canterbury Cathedral, from the chance to walk on the very spot that was once slick with the blood of the man who fought to keep the church out of the manoeuvring grasp of King Henry II. This detour was the perfect appetizer for, as I would soon find out, without Becket's murder, the restaurant I'd heard such accolades about simply wouldn't be.
It's just over an hour on the high-speed train to Canterbury West, where I had planned to take a guided tour of the famous cathedral. At Canterbury – this, not Westminster, is the Mother Church in England – I meet Mike Evans, who is both patient and passionate as I pepper him with questions from the nave, through the Great Cloister (those crests on the ceiling? A medieval fundraising campaign: Make a donation, we'll display your coat of arms!), into the Chapter House (the stained glass windows on one side depict the cast of characters, the mirroring windows are their stories), at the site of the murder of Thomas Becket, and in the tombs (notice, among the statues and other works, that one saint who avoided getting his head lopped off? Even the Puritans, who raided the cathedral in the 1500s, couldn't behead St. Christopher).
At 11 a.m., the activity in the cathedral pauses for a service, and we say the Lord's Prayer together. It's a stirring moment, for a spiritual agnostic, and I hope that I'll have time to return for evensong.
For now, though, I'm off to Whitstable – if I had more time, I'd cycle, but the “triangle” bus or a taxi are faster – for lunch at the Sportsman, the restaurant that has chefs and foodies abuzz. It's an inviting gastropub, the kind of place you stumble upon at the end of a road (in this case Faversham Road) and wonder if you should give it a shot, oblivious to the wonders that await inside. In reality, though, you'll need a reservation – you'd best make yours long before your visit, and yes, the Sportsman is worth the hop across the pond.
I assumed a Michelin-starred restaurant would have a certain amount of pomp. That notion was put aside the moment the homemade breads landed on a simple cutting board on the simple wood table, sans serving plates. The Sportsman lets the local ingredients shine; it's utterly relaxed with its come-as-you-are, we're-confident-you'll-leave-enriched mindset.
It's after we eat that co-owner Phil Harris joins me at the table, and I compliment him on the salty butter (I haven't bought into the sweet butter trend). Salt is crucial at the Sportsman – they make their own (and their own butters, too). It's then that I remember the Sportsman is not actually in Whitstable, but in lesser known Seasalter village.
“The only reason the land we're on exists is because of the murder of Thomas Becket,” Phil says.
If it weren't for his murder some 900 years ago, I wouldn't be besotted by silky poached oysters with pickled cucumber and smoky Avruga caviar, transcended by slip sole in seaweed butter, and filled with an almost childish delight by the capers atop the braised brill fillet and mussel tartare.
In the late 1100s, Phil explains, Seasalter was nothing but marshy seabed. Almost immediately after four knights struck Becket down in four murderous swings, the pilgrimages began.
“Onlookers, aware that a truly awesome event had occurred,” John Guy says in his soon-to-be-released Thomas Becket: Warrior, Priest, Rebel, a Nine-Hundred-Year-Old Story, Retold, “cut off pieces of their clothing and dipped them in his blood for use as relics. Some daubed their eyes with his blood, perhaps hoping that their defective sight might be cured.”
Reports of miracles spread and, Guy writes, “a cult grew up around the tomb of the murdered archbishop with breathtaking speed.”
Becket was canonized as a saint, the junior King Henry visited the tomb, and later even his father, the King whose spoken sentiments led to Becket's murder, was among the legions of pilgrims who prayed at Becket's tomb.
Source: The Globe and Mail
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