It is then upon this most ancient highway that in the footsteps of the Britons, the Romans their beneficent conquerors, and the English pilgrims our forefathers, we shall march on to Canterbury.  The road of course is broken here and there, indeed in many places, and notably between Dartford and Rochester, but for the most part it remains after three thousand years the ordinary highway between the capital and the archi-episcopal city.

The Watling Street takes Shooters’ Hill, so called, I suppose, from the highwaymen that infested the woods thereabouts, in true Roman fashion, and it is from its summit that we get the first really great view on our way, for that so famous from Greenwich Park does not properly belong to our journey.  We must, however, turn to another and a later poet than Chaucer for any description of that tremendous spectacle.  Here indeed, more than in any other prospect the road affords, the horizon is changed from that Chaucer looked upon.

[Illustration:  Shooters’ hill]

For we turn to gaze on London, the Protestant, not the Catholic, city: 
         A mighty mass of brick and smoke and shipping,
          Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
         Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
          In sight, then lost amid the forestry
         Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
          On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
         A huge dun cupola like a foolscap crown
         On a fool’s head—­and there is London town!

Don Juan had got out on Shooters’ Hill
Sunset the time, the place the same declivity
Which looks along that vale of good and ill
Where London streets ferment in full activity;
While everything around was calm and still
Except the creak of wheels which on their pivot he
Heard—­and that bee-like, babbling, busy hum
Of cities, that boil over with their scum.

The prospect eastward across the broad valley of the Darent, if less wonderful, is assuredly far lovelier than that north-westward over London; but from the top of Shooters’ Hill we probably do not follow the actual route of the ancient way until we come to Welling.  The present road down the hill eastward is said to date from 1739 only. [Footnote:  See H. Littlehales, “Some Notes on the Road from Canterbury in the Middle Ages” (Chaucer Society, 1898).]

There is nothing to keep us in Welling, nor indeed in Bexley Heath, except to note that they are the first two Kentish villages upon our route, now little more than suburban places spoiled of any virtue they may have possessed.  It is said that at Clapton Villa in the latter place there is preserved “an ancient and perfect sacramental wafer”—­ perhaps an unique treasure.

The road runs straight on through a rather sophisticated countryside, almost into Crayford, but in preparing to cross the Cray the old road has apparently been lost.  We may be sure, however, of not straying more than a few yards out of the way, if we keep as straight on as maybe, that is to say, if we take the road to the right at the fork, which later passes Crayford church on the south.