We looked briefly at St Mary's and St Vincent's in our last little investigation of quaint-Whitstable's interesting landscape, and in this part I'd like to continue the themes with which we toyed there- the idea that The Street at Tankerton- and therefore- the entire alignment from Canterbury to Tankerton via Chestfield, is some sort of 'road-of-the-spirits' or 'street-of-the-dead,' bizarre as that sounds to modern ears- and that Whitstable is related to the sign cancer, and the female energies associated with that moon-ruled sign- symbolised by the crab, the chest, the grail (cup, chalice), the doorways which are the womb and the tomb (the land).

We'll start at what is probably the oldest part of this very old town, All Saints Church. This is where Wynn Ellis- the man who remodelled Tower House into The Castle is entombed- in free-masonic grandeur- in a four-stepped pyramid designed by Charles Barry junior (1823-1900), son of the architect who designed Westminster Palace, Sir Charles Barry. Junior was a pal of Wynn's, and built an extension for his mate on the side of All Saints Church- where me and my siblings were Christened and three of my four sisters were wed. I feel a certain connection with the place, as you can probably understand. My earliest memories are of my younger brother being dunked in the font and screaming the place down.

But what I want to tell you about All Saints is that it's the crossing-point of two ley-lines or alignments, whichever label you feel comfortable with. The first of the lines you already know about- it was the subject of part-one; the one that crosses it runs three-miles from St John's in Swalecliffe to the 'old-church' at Seasalter, St Alphage's- slightly tilted just-off 'true' east-west. Part of the route follows a very old pathway called 'Sunray Avenue,' which makes a whole-new lot of sense when you discover that on two 'pagan holy-days' every year the sun rises and sets directly along this alignment. The two days in question happen to be very important days in the ancient 'ritual-calendar-' one of these is Mayday, and the other is.... wait for it... All Saint's Day! All Saints day is part of the three day new-year celebration of the Celtic (and Druidic) New Year festival or holiday of Halloween- when the spirits of the dead walk among the living and quite often go to their parties (if they're invited). At the opposite-side of the calendar- beltane and mayday, the oposite situation was celebrated- the re-emergence of the spirit of life. It becomes ever clearer that Whitstable's association with the spirits-of-the-dead- the ancestors- was very real and more-than-likely taken very seriously. The toponomy, the curvaceous, feminine lie-of-the-land and the 'ritual-furniture' positioned upon it, signal this very clearly- if you know what you're looking for.

The following de-coding of the crossed-alignment at All-Saints will demonstrate what I mean- but it means we have to get ever-so-slightly esoteric- as you do. This alignment from Swalecliffe to Seasalter crosses our north-south line at an angle of 18 degrees (if east is 0 degrees). The section of the alignment from All Saints to St John's in Swalecliffe is exactly 1.18 miles in length, as if to reiterate the numbers. So we wouldn't be in any doubt. 18 is- like the thirteen- a number whose significance is entirely feminine and entirely to do with the departed ancestors- it is the Tarot arcana called The Moon. This is a number of nightmares, mourning and loss, the imagination, unconscious mind and the dream-life. It is of female-magic and witchery, and relates to the ancient Egyptian goddess of life and death- Isis- queen of heaven. If two 18's are stood next to each other, her name can be seen: ISIS - 1818. She was the lover, sister and wife of Osiris, the god of death and resurrection. Osiris was murdered by his half-brother Set, who 'coveted' the magnificently beautiful, all alluring Isis. Set chopped Osiris into 14 parts and scattered them abroad. Isis, tortured by her loss, and driven mad with longing for her dead husband searched the land high and low to find the dismembered parts of her beloved. She cast spells by night and day and prayed to the ancestral spirits to guide her to him- piece-by-piece. The story has it that all-but-one of his 'bits' were eventually discovered where evil Set had concealed them- the part still missing being- from the point-of-view of male fertility and female conception- the most important. So Isis, by magic-arts and the help of the ancestral spirits, crafted a faxsimile of the missing member, united her dead husband with the missing part and- miraculous conception #1- conceived a child, the hermaphrodite, hawk-headed sun and moon god/dess, Horus.

Almost from the moment you leave St Augustine's Abbey in a northward direction the theme of goddesses, boxes and chests soon makes itself known, if you know how and where to look. For example, in order to follow the alignment from the Abbey as closely-as-possible, you have to go along Bridge Street and Upper Bridge Street. The name 'Bridge Street' leads the visitor to fully expect that at any moment they would go under or over a bridge, yet there is neither sight nor sound of any bridge anywhere around here. How odd, how bizarre, one thinks to oneself. What (and where) IS this bridge? Perhaps it was blown down during the war? No, there's no record of any bridge ever being here on either of the two Bridge Streets- perhaps then this word bridge could be referring to a person... ?, shock horror... perhaps a female person?

We are probably right to call to mind the 'triple goddess' of the moon (the virgin, the pregnant maiden and the hag), variously named Bride, Bridget, Brigantia, Brigid, Brigit, Brigandu, and Brighid, meaning 'exalted one.' She was worshipped all over prehistoric Britain right up until Christian times, proving to be so popular among the folk that she was expediently absorbed into the Catholic Christian mythos, becoming, to the Irish at least, Saint Bridget, the midwife to the Virgin Mary. She was traditionally called upon for assistance in childbirth, and was connected with the lactation of ewes (mothers of lambs). The seemingly modern term for a young, attractive woman, a bird, is in fact based on two very ancient words: 'brid' and 'bridd.' The first of these means 'a maiden or young female,' and the second is the word for a young chicken! Make of that what you will... Bride, Brigid or Brigantia was usually propitiated for a favour at the healing well, several of which were very nearby at the first northern 'marker' on our alignment- the still-peaceful gardens at the healing shrine of St John's Hospital on Northgate- that's John The Baptist who we've name-checked already at the Swalecliffe church- I feel it in my bones that we'll meet again on this road-of-the-dead.

This would be as appropriate a moment as any to hark-back to our earlier discussion (part 1) regarding tanning or dying. In Anglo-Saxon- the tongue of our prehistoric ancestors- the word 'brige' has some interesting and appropriate connotations. To the ancients, 'brige' meant a change or display of colours! And as we've already discussed, this applies to the dead, to the moon and to the alchemy of the dyer.

Between St Augustine's Abbey and St John's Hospital the alignment passes through streets named along distinctly 'fighting' themes- Artillery Street for one example, whilst the dwellings on the estate here are named after famous battles, and truly live-up to the description 'blocks'- chests, blocks, boxes... it's all the same, and fits the 'goddess' pattern precisely. As does the defence motif, corresponding with the northern-sign cancer the crab. The expected direction of any enemy attack in ancient times was from the direction of Fordwich, to the north-east of the city, for the River Stour widened enough there for big ships to disembark large troops of men. Hence the need to station defensive forces on the north side of the city. Where these blocks of flats stand was, until they were bombed during WW2, the site of the barracks.

Though there are many significant (for our purpose) 'signs' to be witnessed in Canterbury- signs both modern and ancient- we'd never get through this journey along the road of the dead if we stopped and looked at every last one of them- there are too many. And you'd get bored. So we'll leap north to the next major-point on the alignment- St Stephen's Church. Is it Saxon? Is it Roman? Or is it something other? Truth is, it's so old and dilapidated (though standing up well) that no-one really has the answers. A close up look at the fabric of the building soon reveals the hodge-podge of materials stuck-together with lime-mortar and- who-knows-what? Mud... cow dung... ? Anyone's guess is good- as is the actual age of this incredibly... unique old building. It's very cuboid. Very solid. The buttresses which support the bell-tower are too massive for the job- it's as though someone wanted to emphasise the solidity and strength of the tower, which, it can't be denied, has stood here for a very, very long time. A few of the head-stones in the chest-field have chalices instead of crosses atop them. Chalices- or grails if you like- are also symbolic of the womb and the female element. A number of others are distinctly Celtic in design, like these beautiful timber-cut examples I snapped on my com device.

St Stephen himself, the man after who the building was named, was known as the proto martyr, being the first Christian (after big J.C.) to willingly go to his death for his outrageous beliefs. He was one of the seven men (yes- seven) of the germinal Christian Church and was specifically tasked with the handing out of alms to elderly widows.

Tyler Hill- the name- doesn't seem, at first glance, to easily fit the female-lunar-cancerian 'pattern-set' of boxes, chests, houses etc, that is until it dawns tiles- after which the village was named- were and still are vital components for house building- what you might call a houses outer-shell. The village is in the parish of Hackington, named after something no house is secure without- in Anglo-Saxon (AS) the first syllable Hack means a door-closing device, a hook. As with everything the ancients did, such simple words can- and should- be understood in three ways, for reasons explained in part-one- there are three worlds and each must be included (in the ancient mind-set). So in this case this simple hook might be thought of as the hook which waits for all living creatures- the hook attached to the line dangled- from a higher world- into our world, middle earth,  on the fishing-rod held in the hand of 'the-fisher-of-men;' the hook which is also the crescent moon, as well as the bill-hook of the 'grim reaper;' and in reverse the same is true- THIS world and its pleasure and pain are also- in Buddhist terms- hooks which capture the souls of the yet-to-be-born- by gravity and the lure of earth-experience we are dazzled and trapped- hooked.

Two chapels, standing-stones concealed in gardens of private-properties; a line of wells in fields (west) behind the houses.

As I'll not tire of reminding you, north is the direction of the tropic and sign of the crab, cancer- ruled by the moon. It's appropriate then that at Tyler Hill are two properly-named streets: Summer Lane and St John's Crescent. They're appropriate because St John's Day is midsummer day, or solstice, which falls on the first degree of the crab- and cancer is ruled by the moon- the crescent moon. The great-polarities seen at The Street can be seen fully-functioning in this annual event of the sun-god at the height of his power and strength entering a sign ruled by his opposite number, the moon-goddess. A cosmic mating. Sinister then that this was also the day in the druidic, bronze-age ritual calendar that the earthly representative of the sun-god, the fittest, most fertile, most handsome youth from ther wider-tribal group (the nation), was sacrificed to the gods! They lopped his head off! That's because it is on summer-solstice that the sun-god, at the height of his virility, beauty, strength and vigour, 'falls' from his high-seat, begins his precipitous descent to the horizon- he too has been beheaded! And that's why the Christian heirarchy- keen to shoe-horn their new-religion into the 'pagan' mind-set of the northern european-tribes- dedicated the festival-day to John The Baptist, the 'voice-in-the-wilderness' who was thrown in Herod's dungeon and, at the whim of a beautiful dancing-girl, decapitated.

The next major spot on the route is very difficult to get to, being in the middle of a densely forested area- the seven huge tumuli in Clowes and Radfall Woods. These tumuli dominated the horizon and the minds of our predecessors, both ancient and not so ancient. When I was a little boy aged seven or eight my pals and me would 'scrump' apples and pears from the orchard-sized garden of the little-old lady that lived along the street. Her name was Miss Leyton and the cottage was named Aquarius- her birth sign. Anyway, one mellow autumn afternoon she called us kids- five-or-six of us- over to the thorny-hedge that kept the cows out of her garden, over which she was peering intently. She pointed a finger at the horizon- a mile-or-so distant, and said 'there's a giant lying on his back under those trees.' We all fell about giggling, as kids do. 'There's his chest,' she went on, ignoring us, 'it's a giant's coffin.' She was pointing at the skyline which I now know to be Chestfield. 'And one day in your life-times, he's going to wake-up!' The other kids ran off screaming with mock fear, but I remained there, peering at the green-hills over the hedge. She turned to me, 'and you' she said in her faltering voice, 'are the one who's going to wake him!'

It took me many years to work out what she had conveyed to us that day- she was telling us that Chestfield was a massive grave-yard, a field of chests. When I was about twenty (last year ha ha) me and a couple of mates had a ghostly experience whilst atop one of the burial hills- in broad daylight. A man dressed in green swinging an axe so fast it blurred- accompanied by the screams of thousands of children. In an instant he and the screaming disappeared. Neither of us were aware at the time that we were on top of a tumuli. It was a year-or-so after that that I came across an ordnance-survey map of the area and noticed the label 'Tumulus' right in the middle of the forest- exactly where we'd seen the ghost. I returned there with some trepidation and whilst meditating with my back against an ancient holly-tree, had an intuitive flash- I 'saw' that between the tumulus and the sea were two churches- and between the tumulus and Canterbury were two more. And in that instant I knew that The Street was sitting there, right on the end of the alignment. I also knew- in the same instant- that the chances of this accidental alignment (if that's what it is) escaping the notice of our prehistoric forbears was practically nil.