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.
The situation of Dartford is thus very picturesque, and as we might
suppose its main street is the old Roman highway that the pilgrims
used. This descends the West Hill steeply after passing the Priory, or
as it is now called the Place House, the first religious house which
Dartford could boast that the pilgrims would see.
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