My English Tour

From June 30 to July 17 I was on a tour of England. My visit was entirely recreational, taking me in a circuit around the country from London to Kent, then on to Dorset and Cornwall, then Somerset, Oxford, and the Midlands and then up to Northumbria and back down to Norfolk. Here are some of my reflections from the trip that you may find of interest.

1. I have seldom seen a country so naturally Catholic in its cultural mindset. Oh not in the actual practice of the Faith, of course, for England is heavily secularized, but in the disposition of the English people. Their culture evidences a deeply sacramental view of reality—from the English desire to commemorate every historically relevant event with plaque and monument, to the profound localism and particularity that characterizes their society, to the inherently conservative nature of English custom, where an extraordinarily long collective memory sanctifies traditions because "that's the way it's always been done." There is a salt of the earth concreteness about English life that I would almost call incarnational, evidenced in the way the English live, think, and act. One can easily see the profound role the Faith played in shaping the English national character. I am certain that, were England to everr return to fold, its rich Catholicity could scarcely be matched.

2. The fire of Catholicism is kept burning in England by several small communities, few in number but excelling in piety and good works. Chief among these are the Oratorians. Mass in Brompton Oratory was sublime, not only for the splendor of the structure, but for the solemnity and immense dignity with which the Oratorians celebrate the liturgy. I kept running into Oratorians wherever I went; I attended their TLMs in York and London and their "unicorn" Novus Ordo in Oxford, which undoubtedly represents the absolute apex of what the Novus Ordo is capable of. There are other communities doing great things as well; I was privileged to run into a Dominican of Oxford's Blackfriars Priory on the street outside the Eagle and Child where Tolkien and Lewis used to frequent. Catholicism seems small in England, but the little community that exists appears to be of very high caliber. The spirit of John Henry Newman and Frederick William Faber continues to bear fruit a century and a half on.

Brompton Oratory, London

3. While I was obviously aware of the destruction brought about by Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries, it was a little jarring to see the tangible effects of it all around. So many towns I visited had the remnants of some tumbled down abbey, with a little placard explaining how it was destroyed under Henry VIII. The physical remains of the monasteries throughout England are a visceral reminder of the horrendous acts of this historical antichrist. It is hard to think of an individual in the history of Christendom who did more lasting damage than Henry VIII. Perhaps Luther, but then again, Luther never ordered monks and nuns dragged from their abbeys to be hanged from the nearest gibbet for refusing to violate their convictions. What a truly awful man Henry was—and how sad, as he was once the model Catholic prince, admired throughout Christendom for his piety and erudition. His fall is truly reminiscent of the fall of Satan. His baleful name will ever be hateful to Catholics, especially in England.

4. My visits to the country's large cathedrals served to illustrate the degree to which Anglicanism is little more than an experiment in religious nationalism. Created at the dawn of England's expansion into a global power, Anglicanism was meant to serve as a religion for the British Empire. It had some semblance of vitality as long as the British Empire was in its ascent, but with the collapse of the empire it is now adrift. When entering into the grand abbeys and cathedrals like those of Bath, York, or Canterbury, one is struck by the way the Anglicans transformed these houses of God into emblems of state power, places to house the bodies and monuments of England's elites. Every church is crowded with the tombs of England's heroes civil, military, and ecclesiastical. One can sense that, having ripped out the side altars and saint's shrines, the Anglicans were at a loss for what to do with all the empty space and therefore utilized the expansive walls for entombments. For centuries, faithful service to king and country was rewarded by burial within the sacred precincts. The great Anglican churches are functionally shrines to the elites of the British Empire, secular heroes replacing Catholic saints with a veneration of honor instead of intercession. The empty alcoves that used to hold statues of the saints are a perpetual reminder of what was lost. York Minster perfectly exemplifies the civic nature of Anglicanism, where every saint statue has been removed, but a prominent statue of the late Queen Elizabeth II has been installed on the building's facade.

The statue of Elizabeth II in the facade of York Minster, occupying an alcove that likely once held the image of a Catholic saint.

5. It is also particularly grating that you have to pay to get into these historic cathedrals, sometimes as little as £5, sometimes as much as £12. It's not enough that the Anglicans stole these buildings, not enough that they threw out and murdered the original owners, but now they charge faithful Catholics money to come venerate the places we used to own. I have been told, however, that some of these cathedrals will waive the fee if you say you are there to pray; my friends in London told me they were allowed to enter Canterbury for free because they said they were there to venerate St. Thomas Becket, but I don't know if this is a formal policy or a discretionary matter. Regardless, something seemed wrong about walking into a church to be stopped by a registration table charging entry fees. 

6. The Anglican churches are also filled with a considerable amount of modern cringe, both the large cathedrals and the small village parishes. I mean, I have seen some nonsense in Catholic parishes, but the Anglicans have their own distinct style of cringe they bring to their worship spaces: interpretive art displays, hideous modern sculptures, and altar decorations that would make Blaise Cupich blush. And this is all weirdly juxtaposed over beautiful Gothic stonework, elaborate wooden rood screens, and centuries' old design elements, making a jarring mishmash of old and new with no attempt at artistic or architectural coherence. It is all so profoundly weird and unnerving; my daughter described the Anglican parishes as looking like churches designed by a generative AI combining modern and antique elements of Christianity is scoured from the Internet without understanding any of them or how they do or don't fit together.

7. It had long been a dream of mine to venerate the site of St. Thomas Becket's martyrdom in Canterbury. I have read and written much about medieval Canterbury and consider myself knowledgeable about the site. Even so, I was not prepared for the sheer size of the Canterbury complex. I say "complex" because the cathedral itself is ensconced within an entire walled cathedral district accessible by a single massive wooden gate, still adorned with the crests of the medieval families who patronized the famed abbey. Touring the cathedral was a moving experience, one which not even the ugly sculpture over the site of Becket's martyrdom was capable of dampening. Of special interest to me was the sprawling crypt which, despite the standard presence of Anglican cringe, was very well preserved and maintained a spirit of subdued somberness. I particularly appreciated several side chapels in the crypt whose colorful medieval frescoes could still be seen, a reminder that medieval churches were not gray and dark but vibrant and colorful.

Colorful 13th century frescoes from a crypt chapel of Canterbury, demonstrating how vibrant medieval churches were in their heyday

 

8. Glastonbury is an...interesting town. The heart of the town is Glastonbury Abbey, today only a ruin but once the home of a thriving monastic establishment which, among other things, boasted the grave of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Christianity here is very ancient; according to tradition, it was introduced to the region by none other than Joseph of Arimathea. Today there is a prolific neo-pagan community at Glastonbury. This Christian city has been entirely given over to New Age and the occult. The streets are lined with the shops of spiritualists, Wiccans, and gurus; I saw one shop with a sign boasting the resident maharishi as the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. The pagan community here is unique in that they adopt a somewhat standardized mode of dress, a "habit" of sorts. They wear their hair long and unkept, with baggy, colorful pants decorated with the motifs of India and loose shawls draped over their upper half; generally the shawls are also brightly colored, giving them the appearance of performers or jongleurs. It was disheartening to see the ancient center of Joseph of Arimathea's cultus swarming with these devotees of demons.

9. The little town of Walsingham in Norfolk was second only to Canterbury as an English pilgrim destination. With its abbey dating back to the late Anglo-Saxon era, it actually once surpassed Canterbury in importance prior to the death of Becket. Today it is scarcely on the radar of the English; twice when I told people I was planning on visiting Walsingham, they said, "Oh I've never heard of that place." Such was not the case five centuries ago. Then hundreds of thousands of pilgrims from all over Europe once descended on Walsingham to walk barefoot along the "Holy Mile," a mile long stretch of road from the so-called "Slipper Chapel" (where pilgrims would remove their shoes) into town to the Augustinian Abbey, where they would conclude their pilgrimage with veneration of the image of Our Lady of Walsingham, a sedes sapientiae statue of Christ and Mary that was once the most popular image in England. None other than Henry VIII once walked the Holy Mile barefoot in 1511, praying before the image and bestowing his largesse upon the abbey he would later destroy. Today the abbey is a collection of ruins, but the Slipper Chapel has been lovingly restored where pilgrims can venerate an image of Our Lady of Walsingham modeled on the original. I was privileged to attend a monthly Traditional Latin Mass in the so-called Reconciliation Chapel adjacent to the Slipper Chapel, celebrated by Fr. Andrew Chamiec during the tenth anniversary of his ordination. I had the chance to speak with Fr. Chamiec at length after the Mass and received a pilgrim blessing from him. He was a most kind, humble, and knowledgeable priest whose preaching was a delight to listen to. May God reward him. Walsingham was also the only place I traveled in England where I felt like I was in a truly localized Catholic enclave. Our Lady of Walsingham is still shedding her graces on the faithful here.

10. Interestingly enough, outside of Walsingham while on a country walk I wandered into a confusing church. It looked to be from the 15th century, and I naturally assumed it was Anglican, but when I entered I was surprised to see images of St. Anthony of Padua, Therese of Lisieux, and even the Divine Mercy. There were books on the table about St. Padre Pio and St. Faustina. There was a Brown Scapular. A notice on the bulletin board said the community here professed "the Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic" faith. It had a confessional. I therefore assumed the church was Catholic, but something felt off. I read the placard in the confessional and the form of absolution was not any I recognized. The parish also had portable cushion kneelers, and one thing I quickly discerned about England is that Catholic parishes use the kneelers attached to the pews as common in the states, while Anglican parishes prefer individual rectangular cushion kneelers. I was legitimately uncertain what sort of church I was in and wasn't sure if I should be genuflecting or not. I rummaged around in the narthex until I found some paper that resolved the mystery: this was what we would call a traditionalist Anglican parish, basically the traditionally-minded Anglicans who reject the progressive bent of contemporary Anglicanism in favor of cosplaying as Catholics.

The trad Anglican parish outside Walsingham which perplexed me

11. Of all England's rural areas, Dorset was my favorite. I visited some neolithic sites that were of interest to me (I am a big fan of prehistoric mounds, dolmens, and that sort of thing), but one of the most moving sites I visited was the 15th century St. Catherine's Chapel, an abandoned pilgrim shrine built on a lonely Dorset hillside overlooking the sea near the town of Abbotsbury. St. Catherine's Chapel had somehow survived the dissolution intact as its proximity to the sea allowed it to double as a lighthouse. It was a half-hour hike up the hillside to find it, but well-worth it. I went inside the empty chapel and prayed the Divine Office in Latin, wondering when the last time anyone had done so there. I could have easily spent hours in this humble little edifice in prayer and contemplation. 

St. Catherine's Chapel in the Dorset countryside

12. The most spiritually rewarding part of the trip was undoubtedly my visit to Lindisfarne in Northumbria. As much as I love England's latter medieval heritage, I have always been most interested in the island's earlier Anglo-Saxon and Celtic history. Lindisfarne Island was the home of the famed priory of the same name, founded by the great St. Aidan of Iona in the 7th century. A multitude of saints came out of Lindisfarne, including St. Cuthbert (d. 687), the most widely venerated English saint before Becket. Today the island can be reached by a tidal road across the mudflats that is only accessible during low tide. Here it was that scribes bequeathed to us the Lindisfarne Gospels, perhaps the most excellent example of Anglo-Celtic illumination of the first millennium. The extensive ruins of Lindisfarne are haunting, calling to mind not only the golden age of Anglo-Irish Catholicism, but also the tragic destruction of the abbey in 793 by the Vikings at the dawn of the Viking Age. 

The ruins of Lindisfarne Priory

12. But what made Lindisfarne so spiritually rewarding was my excursion to St. Cuthbert’s Isle. St. Cuthbert's Isle is a tiny piece of land in the tidal mudflats off Lindisfarne, not even an acre in size. It’s cut off by the sea for most of the day but you can access it at low tide. This island was the refuge of St. Cuthbert (634-687), bishop and prior of Lindisfarne and patron saint of Northumbria.  When Cuthbert was prior, he used to retreat to this island for periods of prayer, where he constructed a little stone cell. Some traditions say he died on this island, though there is disagreement on this point. The life of St. Cuthbert is told at length in St. Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English Church and People.

For me, the physical veneration of the saints’ shrines, tombs etc. has always been an important component of my faith because it helps me sense the historical connection between myself and their days. I was keen on getting to this island because it’s so raw—there are no fences or signs or admission fees or obnoxious docents; the island remains unchanged since the 7th century, just as St. Cuthbert knew it. The day I was on Lindisfarne low tide was at 12:52 A.M., which meant I had to get up past midnight if I wanted to make it out to the isle, which I accordingly did. I was prepared for a bit of an experience when I crossed the mudflats by darkness and made it to the isle, but I was not prepared to encounter the physical remains of Cuthbert’s cell. No remains are visible from the mainland and I had no idea I would encounter his actual cell—a few layers of rough hewn stone from the Anglo-Saxon era forming a foundation sunken into the earth, clearly divided into two chambers with a porch or entry way on one end (a modern wooden cross marks what must have been the altar area in Cuthbert’s cell, oriented East).

I was taken aback by the presence of this ancient structure, which I had not believed would still be here. I was overcome by the tangible connection to the saint and fell prostrate on the earth beneath the dark sky, no one in the world knowing what I was doing, nor caring. I was conscious only of myself beneath the all-seeing eye of God, no one present and no sound but the crackling sound of the water draining from the seaweed on the mudflats as the tide receded. I did not have much time because I had heard the isle was not exposed for long and the tides could come in swiftly, so I made my prayers brief lest I be stranded on the isle—I asked to be firmly established in grace and asked the same for those dear to me. I asked for clarity and success in carrying out my life's work and then begged for the Lord to always guard my steps. I prayed for England, for the U.S., and for the Church and asked St. Cuthbert to be with me as a patron and be pleased with my veneration. Then, fearing the rising of the water, I crossed myself and quickly made my way over the stones back to the mainland as I began to hear the trickling of the sea returning to cut the island off once again. This moment was certainly the highlight of the trip for me and will ever be recalled as a very spiritually vivifying moment in my life. May St. Cuthbert's favor remain ever with me.

St. Cuthbert's Isle as viewed from Lindisfarne during high tide

There's much more that could be said, but this is a good place to leave it. Thank you to all the English friends I met along the way. I enjoyed the splendor and richness of your country's heritage, the beauty of its Catholicity, the rustic beauty and simplicity of the countryside. I am, however, glad to be back in the land of e pluribus unum with our wide roads and free refills. 

May the Blessed Virgin bless the kingdom known as her Dowry, and speed the restoration of the faith to the land of England.