As you might know already, Indi is the social one of our relationship. For every friend I claim to have, she has five, and for every text I get, she gets ten. Of course I do not mind, I am glad for my tight-knit circle, and I most certainly do enjoy all the gossip she provides me with. Sometimes I know more about her friends and their adventures, than I do about my own mates. This has always been the natural order of things. I have never questioned it. You have never questioned it. 

One day Indi got one of her many texts. I have never been jealous of her popularity. She usually relays the most interesting news anyways, unless it’s secret. Everyone has a right to their secrets. But this one message made her particularly bubbly, unusually mischievous. I could see the sneaky glint shine brighter in her eye. And for a while I couldn’t pry out any gossip, nor any surprise. It was clear she had a plan, and even more clear that I was to be kept out of the know. 

Eventually she spilled the beans. Her Japanese friend Mayu, whom she had met in South-India of all places, had decided to move to London for a year or two. With some kind of working-holiday in mind, but before Mayu settles in, she thought it would be lovely to spend some time with Indi. That explains the bubbly mood, and the sly chatting. Who wouldn’t want to be invited to visit London? Introduce her to fish and chips, walk the city’s lush parks, drink lots of iced tea… It sounds nice, doesn’t it? It does…

Please, can I join you guys in London? I’ll behave, I’ll pay for lunch, dinner, get out of your way! But of course there was no chance I’d be allowed on the same plane. A girls trip, and Mayu had never even met me. Nothing for me to argue about. No choice for me but to stay home. Or maybe? I’ll leave you two be, you won’t see me for most of the day anyway! Three days passed like this, Indi battling and countering my imploring, calling Mayu to inform her about my request, until finally, thanks to my determination, the veto is lifted, and the invitation extends to me.

And so it happens, the worst heatwave in European history, and we’re on our way to London. I help the girls with their luggage, play the guide, buy some chilled drinks, and generally make myself useful to keep me in their good graces. But as old friends, I quickly realise that Indi and Mayu have got more to talk about than I do. It’s time for me to live up to my word, and the next three days, I move around England on my own for quite some hours. That way, the girls’ trip can commence in earnest, and I get to investigate some properly interesting spots. 

Interesting places like… Saint Albans Cathedral? Or perhaps Peterborough Cathedral? And then most definitely also Rochester Cathedral? Hear me out, let me make my case.

Britannia was Rome’s northernmost province by some margin. After founding Londinium, the Romans built Hadrian’s wall to keep out the clans of what is now Scotland, and introduced a whole slew of brand-new technologies to the island. Just north of the provincial capital, on the road towards Chester, they built Verulamium, using the same type of Roman bricks that hold up much of the forum in Rome itself. The collapse of their empire saw a seven century long lapse in the production of bricks, so when the abbot of Saint Albans, (formerly Verulamium) wanted to rebuild his cathedral, he needed to search for a different solution.

Let’s backtrack slightly. Alban was Britain’s first martyr, a man converted to Christianity at a time when doing so generally still meant getting beheaded. The spot of his swift demise received his name, and became a pilgrimage site. I didn’t visit to ask his bones any favours. Instead, the Cathedral’s tower dragged me here. Because the chalky hills of Saint Albans couldn’t provide any building material, and as the Roman staple of baking bricks had long since been forgotten, the abbot built his tower in a different way. He sent out his masons to raid the ancient ruins of Verulamium, gathering five thousand tons of perfectly usable Roman bricks. In some real sense, the eleventh century belltower of Saint Albans Cathedral is the last ‘Roman’ structure ever built, still standing almost 45 meters above the landscape. 

Second, Peterborough. Once one of the wealthiest abbeys of medieval Britain, their abbot never had any such problems. Owner of multiple quarries, they built their monastic complex with pale limestone, a resource whose export made them rich. In fact, the nearby Abbey of Ely, located in the swamps and marshes of East-Anglia, annually paid a high price to access these quarries. But Ely didn’t pay in cash, nor in gold bullion. Instead they exploited the vast wetlands around them, and exchanged the critical limestone of Peterborough for 8.000 eels per year. As the construction of Ely took well over a century, it is highly likely that over 100.000 eels saw their end in the bellies of Peterborough’s monks.

None of these eels remain in Peterborough. The abbey was dissolved ages ago, turning the building into a massive cathedral. Instead of a fishy meal, the nave’s unique ceiling brought me here. Its brightly painted wooden expanse measures 62m x 11m, and was completed between 1230 and 1250, making it almost 800 years old. It is one of four surviving examples in all of Europe, and vastly larger than the other three put together. The oak panelling from which it is made stems from North-German forests, once more underscoring the vast trading network of the abbey, although it is unclear if any eels were involved during the negotiations. 

On my third day I visited Rochester, not far to the South-West of London. In 596, the Pope had ordered his friend Augustine to convert the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity. However, he never made it to his destination of London, and founded Britain’s first cathedral immediately upon crossing the Channel in Canterbury. Just eight years later, in 604, Augustine’s companion Saint Justus tried again, but only made it halfway up the road between Canterbury and London, founding his own cathedral in Rochester. While many people have at least heard of Canterbury, it is common knowledge that no one cares about second places. 

This is really quite unfortunate, because a team of over 300 volunteers spend their off-time at Rochester Cathedral (although not all at the same time), welcoming infrequent visitors, happy to show them the highlights and answer their questions. I followed them around the place, as they pointed out demonic heads carved from wood, or a column where someone had cut the outline of a bird into the stone. Very proud of their local history, and working hard to save it from oblivion.

And there we have it. Just like that I spent three days avoiding my girlfriend in London, afraid to ruin the girls’ trip she had planned with Mayu. Every evening I returned to the beating heart of the capital, happy to listen to their stories of encountering squirrels in Regent’s Park or Kensington Gardens. I was happy to treat them to Indian food, but never got to tell my own tales, gathered in some properly interesting spots. Because who in their right mind would care so much for those old, crumbling churches?