Crayford, though it be anything but picturesque, is nevertheless not without interest.  It is the Creccanford of the “Saxon Chronicle,” and was the scene of the half-legendary final battle between the Britons here and Hengist, who utterly discomfited them, so that we read they forsook all this valley, even, so we are asked to believe, those strange caves which they are said to have burrowed in the chalk for their retreat, and which are so plentiful hereabouts, but which assuredly are infinitely older than the advent of the Saxon pirates.

The real interest of Crayford, however, as of more than one place in this valley, lies in its church.  This is dedicated in honour of the companion of St Augustine, St Paulinus, who became the third Bishop of Rochester.  The form of the church is curious, the arcade of the nave being in the midst of it, while the chancel, of about the same width as the nave, is possessed of two arcades and divided into three aisles; thus the arcade of the nave abuts upon the centre of the chancel arch.  Parts of the church certainly date from Chaucer’s day, but most of it is Perpendicular in style.

More interesting than Crayford itself are North Cray and Foot’s Cray in the upper valley beyond Bexley.  At North Cray there is one of the best pictures Sassoferrato ever painted, a Crucifixion, over the altar.  At Foot’s Cray, the church, besides being beautiful in its situation, possesses a great square Norman font.

These places are, however, off the Pilgrims’ Road, which climbs up through Crayford High Street, and then in about two miles begins to descend into the very ancient town of Dartford, where it is said Chaucer’s pilgrims slept, their first night on the road.

CHAPTER II

THE PILGRIMS’ ROAD

FROM DARTFORD TO ROCHESTER

The entry into Dartford completes the first and, it must be confessed, the dullest portion of the Pilgrims’ Road to Canterbury.  Here at Dartford the pilgrims slept, here to-day we say farewell to all that suburban district which now stretches for so many miles in every direction round the capital, spoiling the country as such and making of it a kind of unreality very hard to tolerate.  The traveller must then realise that it is only at Dartford his pleasure will begin.

Dartford, as one sees at first sight, is an old, a delightful, English town, full of happiness and old-world memories.  Its situation is characteristic, for it lies in the deep and narrow valley of the Darent between two abrupt hills, that to the west of chalk, that to the east of sand, up both of which it climbs without too much insistence.  Between these two hills runs a rapid stream from the Downs to the southward, that below the town opens out suddenly into a small estuary or creek.  Where the Watling Street forded the Darent there grew up the town of Dartford, on the verge of the marshes within reach of the tide, but also within reach of an inexhaustible river of fresh water.  The ford was presently replaced by a ferry, and later still, in the latter years of Henry VI., by a great bridge, as we see, but the town had already taken its name from its origin, and to this day is known as Dartford, the ford of the Darent.