“Here Begins A Short Treatise”: A Pilgrimage To Canterbury

By Kat Balke

Margery Kempe is my Taylor Swift. The Book of Margery Kempe is my Speak Now, Fearless, and Folklore albums wrapped into one huge compilation of Taylor Swift’s most iconic hits. Now, if you aren’t an aspiring medievalist like myself, I imagine that the previous assertions mean nothing to you. This breaks my heart.

Let me introduce you to my favorite leading lady. Margery Kempe, born in 1373, was a secular British mystic known for exuberant expressions of her visions. After having fourteen children (you read that right), she began experiencing visions which she believed could only be from the heavens. After leaving her husband behind, Margery embarked on a series of pilgrimages which occupied the rest of her life. She traversed the UK, made her way to Italy, and met a lot of people along the way— including the Archbishop of Canterbury.

To follow in her footsteps, I made the short journey from London to Canterbury accompanied by Camden and Solomon. After our walking tour through the city, the three of us boarded a train and began our own journey to Canterbury. I hoped to immerse myself in Margey’s world. The thought of walking on the same floors and visiting the same town she frequented was exhilarating. I was finally going to tread the footsteps of the woman who catalyzed my now insatiable interest in medieval literature. Our trek to the hallowed cathedral, however, was not without its mishaps. After sitting on the train for approximately twenty minutes, we hopped off to change trains at what we thought was the correct station: we were wrong. About two minutes after we stepped off of our train, it began to pull away, and Solomon waved hopelessly at its tail; not unlike a knight waving his soldiers into battle. Alas, we were stuck in a town just outside of London and had no choice but to call an Uber. Now, Margery certainly didn’t have access to Uber, but I imagine that her pilgrimages were not without their inconveniences.

We forged on, and after a forty-five minute ride, we made it to Canterbury! Canterbury is situated quite a bit closer to the coast than London and I felt it in the crisp, fresh breeze blowing in off the sea. I thought about Margery: when did she visit? I’m sure it would have been freezing if she had come in the winter, and in the stone cathedral it had to have been even colder. As we rounded the corner, I was greeted by the two most magnificent cathedral spires I have ever encountered. The Caen stone pillars peeked over the medieval town. Clouds blew forth and back in front of them, making the stony mammoths appear to be playing peek-a-boo. I can only imagine how Margery would have responded to this sight. If visions of Christ made her weep I imagine this architecture had a similar effect. Suddenly, I felt goose pimples develop on my arms and chest, which I initially attributed to the chill; however, I now believe they were from the sheer magnificence of the cathedral.

As I weaved my way through the spiralized town, I thought about all of the pilgrims who visited the cathedral over the centuries. Pilgrims weren’t just fictionalized characters in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. In his prologue, Chaucer writes, “In felaweship and pilgrims were they alle / That toward Canterbury wolden ride.” Pilgrims were real people who often traveled thousands of miles for Christ, establishing communities and friendships. Margery, however, went alone. Fulfilled only by her devotion to something higher, she found her way to Canterbury despite misogyny, ridicule, and the clergy’s castigations. I finally walk through the gates towards the Cathedral, and I can’t help but smile. Although we’re separated by centuries, I take solace in Margery. Ultimately, she was a woman of will. She fought for her independence—both spiritually and bodily—and was uncompromising in her desire to overcome the heartaches of her past and future. She was tenacious, and her commitment to writing about her life is admirable. Standing in the nave of the cathedral, I found myself crying. Not because of religious wonder or architectural admiration, but because of the people who stood there before me. People with lives just as rich and complex as our own. Temporally divided but united by the humane desire to learn, to grow, and to thrive. When Margery was asked about her weeping, she replied, “Sir, you shall wish some day that you had wept as sorely as I.” And trusty readers, I did just that.

Una Romanza Italiana!

By Kat Balke

I went on a date. A really terrible, no-good, very bad date. He was Italian. I study Italian. He swooned. I swerved. We met at a restaurant. I had been reading all day and decided I needed a break, so I found the nearest Italian restaurant, ordered a glass of wine, and prepared myself to relax. As I sat, a man approached me and proceeded to speak in Italian and offer to buy my dinner. We had a conversation, and I learned that he was 28 and from Italy. He seemed sweet enough, and when he asked me if he could take me for drinks with some of his other Italian friends. I agreed, and a short while later we were sitting in a Neapolitan pizza joint just down the street from our hotel. After about ten minutes of talking, I started to get the “ick.” And he definitely wasn’t only 28. When he got up to go to the bathroom, I ran. Literally ran the four blocks back to our hotel. As I sprinted, I got a phone call from him on WhatsApp. I panic-blocked. Shortly after, I got another call from WhatsApp - this time from his friend. I panic-blocked her, too. Alas, my dream of falling in love with an Italian, moving to a villa in Siena, and basking in the Tuscan sun were quashed. At least I got a meal out of it.