The land was sun-drenched in between the April showers. A glorious time of year with tender green shoots bursting from the ground; the tree tops alive with birdsong; and the light wind caressing all with its sweet breath, bringing life anew. It was, indeed, the perfect time for travel, for adventure, and journeys to strange and distant lands,

However, on this fine spring morning, it was not far and distant lands which drew my attention but a jaunt from London to Canterbury, where the great saint Thomas Becket lay. I had heard tale of a pilgrimage to the saint’s resting place and was making my way to Southwark and an establishment by the name of the Tabard Inn. A bustling business of some renown, and one I could attest to personally. This was to be the starting point of the pilgrimage and I hoped to tag along.

I heard the raucousness before I laid eyes on the inn itself. Not sure whether it was a blessing or forebodance, I stabled my horse across the road and made my way inside. The fine spring morning could not have prepared me for the sight which greeted my entry. The smell almost drove me back outside in the first instance – the stench of onions, sweat and ale mixed with woodsmoke from a roaring fire despite the pleasantness of the morn.

Before I could decide one way or the other, a huge plate-sized hand clamped down upon my shoulder and a large, round-faced man bellowed, “Welcome!”

 I’m sure the blood ran from my shoulder as Harry Bailey, the Tabard’s proprietor, squeezed. “How about that? If it isn’t the famous writer, Geoffrey Chaucer.” His blue eyes bored deep within mine as he invaded my personal space. “Good to see you again. Joining the masses?” he swept an arm around a group of four or five tables which had been shoved together. “You’re in good company, my friend.”

I smiled sheepishly at Harry and nodded my head as I took in the group of around twenty or so disparate travellers. I was not travelling to see the saint’s resting place alone, and I needed to be careful to not reveal my true purpose. Falling in with such a diverse group, under the guise of ‘writer’ would suit my purposes admirably.

“Make room for Master Chaucer!” Harry roared as he propelled me towards the table, thrusting me down onto a rough-hewn bench between a rake-thin, rat-like man and an ample woman who appeared as gregarious with her conversation as she evidently was with her food and wine. Before long, huge dishes, piled high with food of all descriptions, began arriving at the tables. Copious amounts of mead, ale and wine soon followed, whetting everyone’s appetites, and loosening their tongues. I drank with care, lest I became too loose-lipped myself. I sat back and did what many a writer does best… observed other people.