The end of a pilgrimage?

A pilgrimage never really ends.

When you stop walking the pilgrimage...

...the pilgrimage walks with you.

Beautiful (Mothering Sunday)

In 2018 I bought a Panasonic Lumix compact digital camera and began a journey into the world of photography. I guess you could call it a kind of pilgrimage in its own right, and it's a journey that's done me so much good over these past seven years (we'll focus on how much its given me and gloss over how much its cost me, after all, you can't put a price on happiness!). Looking back over the past three months of blogging, I'm slightly surprised that I haven't written more about all that I've learnt from my camera. The need to pay attention to sources of light, to think carefully about how you frame something, to realise how significantly the background/context shapes the image; these aren't just important factors in the creation of a photograph, they're essential to living well too.

At the start of this Sabbatical I'd rather fallen out of love with photography. I wasn't looking at photo books or websites all that often. I'd more or less dropped out of the photography club that I'm a member of. Now and again I'd pick up my camera, but without much enthusiasm and with very little vision or inspiration. I missed taking photos, but not enough to really do much about it. I was dull-eyed.

Realising that conditions for photography might be a bit challenging on a February walk across Ireland and Scotland, I treated myself to a waterproof camera. Heaven only knows how many photos I took over the course of the walk (and how many I subsequently deleted!), but it's been good looking at life through a camera lens again.

And as I've been re-connecting with photography, I think I've discovered how I fell out of love with my camera. It's a theory anyway, and it has to do with the pilgrimage theme of thanksgiving.

I stopped taking photos because I'd stopped taking photos. Profound, eh? 

Anyone who enjoys photography will know that the hobby creates a certain kind of vision; without particularly trying to, you simply find yourself being more attentive to light and shadow, to form and texture, you notice colour and you notice the absence of colour. Every day brings new opportunities to take photographs, and you can choose to take out your camera and capture those moments, or you can choose to walk on by. Over the course of the past year I'd repeatedly chosen to walk past those photo-making moments; and it seems to me that every time I chose to walk past those moments of beauty, I made it less likely that I'd notice such moments in the future. In the language of the Bible you might say that I was 'hardening my heart'.

To take a photograph is an act of thanksgiving for a moment in time and space; for me, it's a kind of prayer. Every time I failed to give thanks for those moments, my eye darkened and my vision grew smaller. I think something very similar happens with living thankfully. The more we forget to be thankful for all that we have and neglect to take the time for thanksgiving, the less conscious we become of all that we have to be thankful for. However, the more we take the time to give thanks for all that we are gifted with every day of our lives, the more we will see to be thankful for.

Look! Beautiful.

We were walking through a forest in Suffolk. I was in my early twenties and was looking at the ground beneath my feet as we walked along. We were talking, I know, but I can't remember what we were talking about. Suddenly Mum stopped and said, 'Stuart! Lift up your head and look around you, it's a beautiful world.'

Just a few days before she died, the boys and I took Mum for a short walk. Dementia had largely bound her in silence, but she recognised us with her smile. It was October: Mum loved the colours of Autumn. As we turned into the driveway of her care home and the end of our walk together,  she noticed some flowers blossoming. Mum reached out her hand to touch them and said, 'Look! Beautiful.' It's the last thing I remember her saying.

I am thankful.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Taylor Swift and Jesus

A couple of days ago a friend got in touch to ask me what the experience of having my head shaved had been like. (A Pilgrim's Cairn: Bruce Springsteen and Barbershops)

The jumping out of my skin bit is no exaggeration. I remember walking into the loos at Heathrow Airport before my flight to Derry, and of course the place was full of mirrors. Looking up I found a stranger standing in the place where I should have been and there really was a palpable jump in my heart to discover myself replaced. That feeling of estrangement remained for several days. The other thing I discovered was that I clearly run my fingers through my hair (which has never exactly been long and lustrous) a lot more than I was aware of; in the absence of hair I'd find myself wincing as I repeatedly scratched my poor bare scalp.

Anyway, my friend was right to call it a ritual. I was shaving my head as a symbol of penitence for mistakes I've made, and it was very much the right thing to do at the start of the pilgrimage; it had an important role in making the journey into something other than just a long walk. I did become strange to myself and week by week as my hair has been growing back I've been returning to the person I was.

Except, that's not actually what's happening, because it can't. 

Almost as soon as I'd written about 'returning' I knew that I was mischaracterising what is happening. There's no question of returning to the person who once I was, because it's simply not possible. What's more, to 'return' would require a massively unhelpful attempt at amnesia; an erasure of the things I've done wrong would also be an erasure of the ways in which I've grown and the ways in which growth lies before me. The person I was might not have the failures I have, but the person I was hasn't learnt the things I've learnt either.

As I've been thinking about the mysterious Celts I've been reminded of how compelling a good story can be; how much we can be drawn to believing something not because it's factually true, but because it resonates, inspires and moves us (A Pilgrim's Cairn: Fighting and drinking their way across Europe. Or not.). One such story that resonates with many of us is the story of the Return to Eden/Return to Innocence; the idea that we can 'go back' to a time when life was better, when we were better. It's such a pervasive vision, from the Enlightenment story of 'the noble savage' through to Taylor Swift singing, 'Time won't fly, it's like I'm paralyzed by it. I'd like to be my old self again, but I'm still trying to find it'.

There's another well-known story which provides a counterpoint to the dream of returning to a perfect past. I'm always struck by the stories of the Resurrected Jesus still carrying the wounds which He suffered at the Crucifixion. Surely if God could raise Jesus from the dead, then God could have healed His wounds too? But that's not the story. The story is that the Risen Jesus was still the wounded Jesus, still the scarred Jesus.

There were no wounds in Eden, but then there wasn't much wisdom in Eden either.

Carried

So, a couple of weeks ago I was moaning. Yes, I know, let that sink in. Anyway, I was complaining that Scotland was distinctly unimpressed with my pilgrimage, largely because I wasn't wild camping. (Stuart Owen (@pilgrimscairn) • Instagram photos and videos). I'm delighted to report today that having walked across Mull overnight I have at last won Scotland's respect, or at least Mull's. Since getting back to the hotel last night I've had a 'fair play to you', a slap on the back, a high five and a complimentary glass of Merlot. It was all worth it after all.

This morning did not begin with me lathering my shoulders with Deep Heat. This morning's breakfast was not followed by an Ibuprofen chaser. My knees are not tightly held in elastic supports. This morning I struggled to put my jeans on, and not for the reason you might think (actually, I think I've lost quite a bit of weight); I struggled because what I really wanted to do was put my waterproof trousers on, still smeared with the mud of Glen Noe (A Pilgrim's Cairn: Many rivers to cross), and I really knew that I shouldn't. After breakfast I spent about an hour just staring out of my bedroom window at the land and the weather, like a restless dog.

According to Garmin I've walked a total of 488.5 miles, 190 hours and 11 minutes, and made a total ascent of 11,387 metres. That ascent is the equivalent of climbing Everest and then coming about a third of the way down. I'm sure that some of you will rather be relishing the idea of me perpetually stuck a third of the way down Everest; don't get used to the idea, I'm getting the train home to my boys tomorrow.

My main feeling this morning though is not centred on what I've achieved, but on all that I've been given. I'm pleased that I completed the walk, I was far from confident that it was 'in the bag' when I left Berkhamsted a month ago. What will last though, I believe, is not what I've 'done' but what God has given me. It has been a month of such grace, love and growth. I walked a long way, but for the most important part of the journey I've been on I was carried.

At Morning Prayer every day I've read the words of Jesus: 'Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.' I simply knocked, but it was Another Who opened the door. I sought and I was found.

In the 'Nine Hostages' coffee shop in Derry I wrote down a prayer that my friend Rabbi Neil had sent me from The Talmud (A Pilgrim's Cairn: Pilgrimage: the eyes of all who see me.). At the start of every day's walking I've read that prayer. It ends, 'let me find grace, kindness and compassion in Your eyes and in the eyes of all who see me.' Over and over again I have been met with that gaze of grace, kindness and compassion.

Blessed are You, Lord, Who hears prayer.

The island at the end of the night

At St Columba's Bay

Day 24: Craignure to Fionnphort

Distance: 36.1 miles (488.4 total)

Time: 11 hrs 42 mins

Tomorrow: the ferry back to Oban, followed by the train back to Berkhamsted on Thursday.

The thing about a night hike is that it doesn't leave you with much to say about the scenery; even Barnaby's peerless powers of description would be tested!

Leaving the hotel at 7.30pm last night, the receptionist gave me a sympathetic smile as I handed in my room key and headed out; I don't think she thought my conclusion to this pilgrimage was a very good idea. Truth be told, I wasn't entirely convinced that it was a good idea either, but it had seemed like a suitably austere and challenging way to end a 'Celtic' pilgrimage and I'm sure St Columba would have been all in favour.

With various bit of hi-vis fabric dangling off me I set out into the night. I did have a head-torch, but I wasn't totally sure what its battery life was and so I wanted to keep that in reserve for as long as possible. It's remarkable how much light the stars shower into the darkness, and for the first eight miles or so I didn't need the torch at all; the borders of the single-track road were usually fairly visible. The left and right sides of the road dipped away slightly where they had been worn by the traffic whereas the centre remained fairly level, and my feet learnt to distinguish the difference most of the time. However, about two hours or so into the leg the stars were shrouded behind thick black clouds, and as the rain fell the wind rose.

Oddly enough, the most challenging miles were the earliest ones. Trying to follow the road without a torch felt mentally tiring a lot of the time; my concentration would weary and I'd find myself stumbling into a verge. My mind played its 'what if?' games: what if you trip and damage your knee, and there's no phone signal? what if this heavy rain turns into heavy snow? There were very few houses on the first half of the walk and that deepened my sense of isolation and vulnerability. At one point I was contemplating walking out for eighteen miles and then turning around and walking eighteen miles back to my hotel: I'd have done the 'mileage', did it really matter all that much whether or not I actually went to Iona?

Around the halfway mark everything became much easier. Although I couldn't really see it, I could hear the waters of Loch Scridain lap against the shore on my right and that sound was a comfort. There were more houses and signs of life, even if most of that life was tucked up in bed and sleeping gently. Although the rain could be hard, it never lasted for more than twenty minutes or so at any one time. With every step there was an increasing confidence that I could do this just fine. Slightly to my surprise the night was full of prayers of thanksgiving; I have so much to be thankful for, so much.

The rainclouds thinned sufficiently for the dawn to creep up behind me grey and weak as I approached Fionnphort. (That's one of my clunkier sentences. For the sake of clarity, it was the dawn that arrived in Fionnphort grey and weak, I was remarkably chipper). Just after 7am I arrived at the ferry-port. I was rather ahead of myself and had a wait of just over an hour for the first ferry to Iona.

On Iona I made my way straight to St Columba's Bay at the south of the island; the place where Columba is believed to have first set foot on the island I had walked through the night to. The weather was beautiful all morning and the brief, intermittent showers brought with them the gift of rainbows. The last time I had been on this island was with my dad at the start of my pilgrimage to Lindisfarne. Between my tiredness, this latest pilgrimage coming to its end, the memories of my late father, and just being on Columba's island, I expected it to be quite an emotional moment but it wasn't really. It all felt right. It was right that I was there. It was okay that I was alone. All was as it needed to be.

My plan had been to post a short video on Instagram marking the journey's end. I would find something to say which neatly and succinctly tied up all the themes of the past four weeks in a dinky little package. I made a couple of attempts at a recording but it was all very half-hearted and I gave up. This was time just to be. This was time just to be with St Columba, to be with his God and mine. This was time to simply be with myself and to believe again that I'm an okay person to be with. 

On rocks that Columba would have recognised, I sat in the morning sunshine and said my prayers and that was enough; that was the only thing that I needed to do.

goal

home

I have a memory but I don't know if it's a true one or not. The football team I played for as a child got beaten just about every week. We were so bad that on the rare occasion that we won, our manager, Jack, would take us to the village pub where we'd be treated to a fizzy drink and a bag of crisps... each! I wasn't a great footballer but I was fast and so I played on the wing. I remember, but I don't know if I do, getting the ball and running for the goal and there was only the goalie to beat; but I couldn't make the shot. I remember feeling overwhelmed by there not being anyone nearby that I could pass the ball to for them to score. There was just me.

This morning after breakfast I went for a short walk around Craignure; it's not really possible to take a long walk around Craignure. Being back here has stirred a lot of memories. Last time I was here it was with Dad, at the start of my pilgrimage from Iona to Lindisfarne. I'm staying in the same hotel in pretty much the same room. I felt a palpable shock when I walked into the room, as if time was collapsing, distorting; for a moment I felt quite disorientated: Dad was dropping his bags in the next-door room, and then we would go for dinner together.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise that this last stage of the pilgrimage would trigger all sorts of emotions; I should have seen it coming, but I didn't. Last night I went to bed very early.

It was on my little walk after breakfast that the memory, if it is one, of that football match came back. Perhaps it carries too much emotion to be true. The Noonday Demon walked with me too (A Pilgrim's Cairn: The Noonday Demon calls me Billy). Why are you doing this? What did you really think you'd achieve?

When I first settled on the idea of walking across Mull overnight it felt like such an adventure; it really energised me, motivated me. Right now it feels a little too big. I'm full of self-doubt and don't believe that these legs really got me this far. Maybe I feel a bit scared: am I scared that I can't finish this journey or scared that I'm about to? 

There's quite a sense of loneliness too; being alone isn't a hardship for someone like me, most of the time.

The last leg of my pilgrimage to Lindisfarne was walked with Dad and Paul, and with Susie. We celebrated together that evening in the pub. The following day we shared in a celebration of the Eucharist in the parish church (A Pilgrim's Cairn: From An Ocean To A Sea.). This night and dawn will be a very different kind of ending. All the themes of this journey feel like they're coming into sharp focus: exile, penitence, pilgrimage and thanksgiving. This is how it should be. This is how it is. It's okay.

From Iona I will bring something back for my sons; they are Home.

____________________________________________

Thanksgiving: So yes, okay, I'm feeling a bit low and confused today - daunted. So thank you for the guy at the hotel who's just been asking me what I'm in Mull for. I told him about tonight's walk. "Och, I walked across Skye one night with a friend. Mind you, we left at midnight and we were both totally pissed." I could have kissed him!

How was your walk? (2025 edition)

Craignure, Isle of Mull

Thank you to those who took part in the 2025 edition of 'How was your walk?' (A Pilgrim's Cairn: How Was Your Walk?)

Here are their journeys.

From Sarah:

I did a couple of hours gardening this morning as the weather was quite mild compared to the last couple of weeks. After lunch Julian & I decided to go for a short walk at Wilstone Reservoir near Tring armed with our binoculars. On the way to the bird hide walking along the muddy path I reflected on what Stuart was having to cope with; the bogs & rivers in Scotland & the driving wind & rain! On reaching the hide we were very lucky to see a beautiful kingfisher sitting on a post. Keep going Stuart; you are doing incredibly well, not too much further to go.

From Anonymous:

John managed two short walks today mostly in beautiful sunshine. His 89year old legs held up! Hope you enjoyed the match even though for you it was the wrong result!

From Michael:

We rose to your challenge and managed a "walk" this weekend.- the first for quite sometime. I've been feeling very lethargic and can't remember feeling so unfit. Come to think of it, I can't remember being so old before! Anyway, we managed about 1.5 miles, walking "round the field" at Castle Hill Farm where we used to walk our dogs (two Irish Setters, which we had one at a time). I'm sure I feel all better for doing it! Tracy took some photos and I took a screenshot of Herts CC footpath map showing our route, but it seems that "comments" only allow narrative". But thank you again, Stuart for the challenge!

From Cath:

Reflecting on the theme of home, I came up with an idea for my own weekend pilgrimage – to walk from my current home to the BT tower, via all the nine homes I’ve lived in since I moved to London at 18. Why the BT tower? Because it’s been the one constant throughout this time, with almost all of my working life being in its shadow, so I describe it as my homing beacon. When I plotted the 15 mile route, I realised I could add in two additional landmarks – my mum’s childhood home, and the hospital where I was born.

This also fits nicely with some work I’ve been doing recently, using ‘place’ and ‘home’ as a way to trigger key memories in people with early dementia. I ask them to think about places they’ve lived in, and to write down the first memories that come to mind, the theory being that this is a really good way to curate someone’s significant lifetime memories. I wondered what memories would come to my mind as I physically found myself in front of each front door. I also thought it would be a good way to share something of my life with Jeff (my husband) and Philip (my youngest son).

My initial interesting observation was that the first four properties we walked to are all within a few hundred metres of each other, and between them they account for most of the last 33 years. It seems I’m a creature of habit and don’t really like moving too far! But I also became aware that the most salient and immediate memories that came to mind – in almost every case – related to beginnings and endings in one way or another. There were other memories too, lots of fun and laughter with friends, lots of eating and drinking, and of course a few painful and difficult moments. But moving in, moving out, building relationships and breaking up, all seemed to jump to mind first. 

I was also reminded how valuable the interaction is when you are walking with others. It was particularly poignant that much of the second half of the walk related to a point in my life when I was only a little older than Philip is now. He listened and asked important questions, and I hope learned something new about me. He was also struck by all the different neighbourhoods and architecture, and found himself wondering what it would be like to live in all of these different places we were walking through. He has a lot of beginnings (and endings) ahead of him. And of course, being his Godfather’s Godson, we had to stop every now and then for photo opportunities. 

Twelve miles in, we arrived at my mum’s childhood home in St John’s Wood. We have taken her there a few times in recent years and she talks about it often. Imagine our shock when we saw that it was all boarded up with notices that it was to be knocked down and replaced with luxury apartments! I looked through the hole in the hoarding at this beautiful but somewhat tired looking old house and couldn’t help reflecting on the parallels with my mum herself. It’s almost as though the place was reflecting her own progressive decline. But I also took some heart in the idea that – from what I could tell – when it is finally demolished it will be transformed into something new and quite impressive.

After that, we traced my mum’s daily walk to school across Regents Park, towards my homing beacon, which is right next to where I began my studies and now work. I popped into the university and saw a sign that said, “it all starts here”, which felt somewhat fitting. After getting some lunch, we walked back to the tube and past the hospital where for me it really did all start. This evening, I sang at Evensong and the first reading was Genesis 1:1. It couldn’t have felt more fitting. Life is full of beginnings and endings. In just 5 hours, I did a whirlwind tour of many of mine. I guess you can’t have one without the other. These transitions make us who we are. 

It really was a special day and I’m grateful for being encouraged to carry out my own pilgrimage. As a postscript though, I was a little disappointed that the rain, which was forecast for about 12 noon, didn’t actually come until much later, just as we were getting home. I was so looking forward to following Barnaby’s example, by sharing our rendition of “bring me sunshine” in the pouring rain!