Exile

A moment passed in silence and then the Bishop said to me, "Stuart, how did you get so lost?" It was just a couple of weeks before Christmas. The previous day I'd phoned to let him know that my marriage was ending. He could not have listened more carefully, he could not have been kinder, he could not have been any wiser.

The word 'lost' really struck me. I hadn't felt lost. There had been times when life had felt like a maelstrom, a bewildering vortex of fear, bereavement, anger and pain; I can see now that it had felt like that for far too long a time. Like someone being carried down violent rapids just clinging on to a life-belt, I'd been too focused on trying to keep my head above water to even begin to notice that I was being carried so far from all that I knew, from all that I was.

I was very close to my mum. I'd love to be telling her now about the pilgrimage I'm going to be making. Moments of odd behaviour were at first laughed away; don't we all become just a little more forgetful, a little more eccentric as we grow older? We were on holiday in Scotland when my brother phoned to confirm what we all suspected, all feared. Mum had dementia; mixed dementia it's called, Alzheimer's and vascular dementia all wrapped up in one. We would bring her to stay with us at weekends, not every weekend but as often as we could. Every time we thought we'd got all the strategies we needed in place to care for her we would discover that she had deteriorated again, new challenges would arise. As these things go it was all fairly swift in the end.

When the phone call came in the middle of the night I was in Sarajevo. I was on a week-long course about reconciliation. That day we'd visited the Body Identification Centre in Tuzla; remains of victims of the Srebrenica massacre continue to be ploughed up in fields across the region and the team there work to identify them so that they can be returned home to their loved ones; after that we had gone to Srebrenica itself. I got the first flight out of Sarajevo and by the middle of the afternoon I was standing by Mum's hospital bed; she'd fallen and looked so bruised. Less than twenty-four hours later she died. I got home to see her at least.

After that, loss seemed to follow loss and there was never quite the time to get back on your feet before the next one descended.

Our identities are organic and complex. We are interwoven with one another; our stories, histories, identities are never entirely our own. For the overwhelming majority of people we are identified by our relationships from the moment of birth; we are someone's daughter or son, we are grandchildren and siblings, we become friends, lovers, partners, spouses (which means we get in-laws!), we become parents and grandparents. Each relationship changes us and so does each loss of a relationship. A silly example, maybe, but there are times when I'm trying to remember some event from my childhood and I want to pick up the phone and ask Mum or Dad if they can remember the details; because they're not there anymore that part of my own history has become less clear to me, my story of who I am has to be told a little more hesitantly. I lost a lot of stories about myself in a fairly short space of time and the cumulative effect has been like losing a clear sense of where I belong, going into exile.

Columba didn't choose exile, didn't choose to lose the places and people that were 'home' to him, and neither did I. However he did choose to offend his mentor, St Finnian, by illicitly copying parts of his precious Bible. He did choose not to be reconciled. He did choose to ignore the judgement of Ireland's High King. He did choose to rouse his clan to battle. And the fact that he wasn't exiled until two years after the battle would seem to suggest that he continued to fight his corner, continued to refuse to accept that he was at fault. Perhaps there were ongoing attempts by the other clan leaders to find a peaceful resolution and he refused all those too. Columba made a lot of bad choices, each one leading to the next, and he ended up in exile. 

So did I. This pilgrimage is not about finding a way back to the 'home' that I had; I understand that that won't happen. I pray instead that this pilgrimage might be about learning to find a new sense of where and who 'home' us, about learning to 'sing the Lord's song in a strange land'.

Boot News (spoiler alert: it's not good)

Happy Feet

So, yesterday I went for a short walk with a friend; three miles or so. We walked at a very leisurely pace and then went for a coffee. My brand new boots have been giving me an increasing amount of pain in my right ankle - that bony bit that sticks out. Ever the optimist (?) I was quite convinced that sooner or later we'd reach that blessed moment when the boots were 'broken in'. It hasn't happened. As my friend and I were sitting with our coffees my ankle became more and more painful and when I got up to walk again I was hobbling horribly. Something was getting broken but it wasn't my boots.

Limping home I felt fairly despondent. If I carried on wearing these boots there was a good chance that I'd properly hurt my ankle and then instead of spending February striding manfully across Ireland and Scotland (no sniggering at the back please), I'd spend the month on the sofa watching daytime TV.

That was when I had my epiphany. My old boots felt fine to walk in and I wouldn't like to guess how many miles I've done in them over the past sixteen years or more. They're a second skin. The only slight problem with them was that they were rather more porous than you'd like walking boots to be, but surely that wasn't an insurmountable flaw?

Waterproof socks!!! Ordered them yesterday. They're arriving today. I feel like singing. What could go wrong?

Over the next few days I'm going to post a few reflections on the themes I want to explore on this journey I'm going to make, inspired by the life of St Columba: exile, penitence and pilgrimage. I could write them in a detached way and pretend that they're just elements of Columba's life that seem interesting. That would be dishonest. They're themes I want to reflect on and pray about because I feel that they can give me some helpful frameworks to look at what my life has been like over the past few years, what I have learnt and how I can grow. Some of what I write is likely to be quite personal. If that's something you'd feel uncomfortable with then it might be best to skip them and wait until the pilgrimage starts two weeks today; then all the blogs will be about the beautiful landscape, the horrible weather, which bits of me are hurting, and just how much I enjoyed my evening in whatever pub I happened to be staying in the night before.

Two weeks today!

St Columba: exile, penitence and pilgrimage

In 2009 I walked the Kintyre Way with my Uncle Jimmy. The walk ends near the village of Southend and nearby there's rock that appears to bear the imprint of a foot. By tradition this is St Columba’s footprint and marks the place where he first set foot in Scotland. 

St Columba, like most of the Celtic saints, is often viewed through a rose-tinted mist; devoted to prayer, the quintessence of kindness, and proto-environmentalists with a deep love of the natural world. In truth these were warrior-saints deeply rooted in and shaped by the Celtic warrior culture. They viewed themselves as being in a battle with the devil and his hordes of demons and that sense of being engaged in a very real conflict shaped everything about them. You can see some reflection of that in The Rule of St Columba: ‘Take not of food till thou are hungry. Sleep not till thou feelest desire… Thy measure of prayer shall be until thy tears come; or thy measure of work of labour till thy tears come…’ Clearly a world away from contemporary versions of ‘Celtic spirituality’.

According to the Venerable Bede, Columba ‘came to Britain to preach the word of God to the kingdoms of the northern Picts.’ However, St Columba came to Britain as an exile not as a missionary and preaching the word of God to the northern Picts was almost certainly not one of his chief aims.        

Around 560AD a battle was fought between the army of King Diarmait, High King of Ireland, and St Columba’s clan, the Northern Uí Néill; by birth St Columba was a prince of the Northern Uí Néill and could well have gone on to become king had he not entered the religious life. Exactly what part Columba played in inciting the Battle of Cúl Dreimhe is uncertain but one of the best-known stories involves a Bible. It’s said that during a visit to Rome, Pope Pelagius had given one of Columba’s teachers, St Finnian of Moville, a copy of St Jerome’s translation of the Bible. On a visit to his teacher, Columba secretly set about making himself a copy of this rare and precious translation. When Finnian discovered what his former pupil was up to a huge dispute erupted, which they both agreed to take to King Diarmait to be resolved. The High King’s judgement went against Columba, and angrily determined that justice had not been done he stirred his clan to battle. It’s possible that Columba himself took part in the conflict as he was marked with a livid scar throughout his life.

Although St Columba’s clan won the battle, the clans and clergy of Ireland were outraged at the huge loss of life and felt that the Northern Uí Néill were responsible for the suffering that had been caused. A synod was called at which Columba was excommunicated but the judgement was overturned on the understanding that he would leave Ireland and go into exile.

Some traditions have it that a penitent St Columba set out to save as many souls for Christ as had been killed in the battle. Perhaps that’s true, but it’s more likely that in the first instance his mission was a diplomatic one. Scotland at that time was divided between the kingdom of Dál Riata, which was an expanding Irish colony, and the territories of the northern Picts. Just a couple of years before Columba was exiled from Ireland the Pictish King Bruide fought and killed King Gabhran of Dál Riata and reclaimed much of the territory that had been lost to the colonists.

Iona, where Columba and his followers founded their monastery, was more or less on the border between the territories of Dál Riata and the Northern Picts. Furthermore, as a member of the Northern Uí Néill ‘royal family’, St Columba was related to the Kings of Dál Riata. It’s likely that St Columba’s relationship with the Picts was more akin to that of an ambassador seeking to bring reconciliation where there were conflicts and at the same time trying to protect the interests of his kinsfolk. Given that he himself had been exiled for his violent refusal to be reconciled with St Finnian and King Diarmait, it seems fitting that he was to give so much of his life striving to reconcile others and foster peace.

Reconciliation was also a significant part of the spiritual service that St Columba and the monks of Iona sought to offer. Many of those who came to the island came as penitents seeking absolution, and the path to absolution could be hard one on Iona. Some of the penitents were sent to the Columban monastery on the island of Tiree as a penance for their sins, and sometimes they were sent there for many years. Yet however ‘tough’ the remedy with which St Columba treated sick souls, there is also something of the ‘gentle Columba’ to be seen in many of his encounters with those who sought his counsel; we see someone with a real insight into the sufferings of the human heart, and with a deep compassion for those sufferings.

The pilgrimage I’ll be starting in just over a fortnight is shaped by the legacy of a man who was sent into exile as a penitent, and those will be three of the themes I want to try to explore on this journey: exile, penitence and pilgrimage.

Hauntings

More expenditure coming up. Having discovered last Sunday that my walking boots were no longer fit for purpose (don't ask me what a new pair of Meindl boots costs), yesterday I discovered that there was a rip in my waterproof trousers. Off to Hemel Hempstead today to get a new pair. It would have been cheaper to make this Sabbatical a two week all-inclusive jaunt to Rio on some spurious pretext like 'exploring the intersection between traditional animistic religious practices and the Anglican celebration of the Eucharist in a contemporary urban context.' That would have done it. 'Intersection,' 'contemporary' and 'urban' are winners every time; just like adding the word 'artisan' to a product is good for an extra 20% on the price.

Anyway, I've gradually been digging out bits of walking kit from the bottom of the wardrobe in the spare room, some of which have lain largely undisturbed for the past fifteen years. Hauntings.

I'm trying on different bits of old kit each time I go out for a walk, working out what still fits (a surprising amount to be honest), what doesn't, and what's just perished with the passing of the years. This morning when I put on a recently retrieved base layer I noticed a slightly odd smell. No, it's not what you think. After half an hour or so I realised that it was carrying the fragrance of the washing powder that my mum used to use: I must have been visiting her the last time I wore it. I was making myself a coffee when I made the connection. I stopped. She was close again, and once again I was reminded of how much I miss her.

Just a few minutes later I was flicking through my waterproof prayer book; everybody should have a waterproof prayer book! I found a letter in the back from someone I used to know. I shouldn't have read it but I did.

5460 days ago

'I know I have said this to you before, and will doubtless say it again, but I am so proud of you for doing this pilgrimage. Proud feels like the wrong word to say as if I had some role in 'creating' it, but I think you know what I mean. I have absolute confidence that whatever this walk throws at you, you will be able to overcome it and not let it overcome you. Although I do also think that 'not letting things overcome you' will be one of the hardest challenges for you personally.

The walk will be tough, and it will hurt and you will be lonely at times. I think you are expecting those things. It's when other things go wrong that you will need to dig even deeper...

I'm very jealous of you doing this sabbatical. Not because I have any desire to walk 350 miles across Scotland in 21 days, especially in February, but because you are actually doing what started out as a half baked idea two and a half years ago. You've been able to do it partly because you've had the opportunity, but more importantly because you have had the drive to make it happen. And that's what I know will get you to Lindisfarne. This was your dream that you have made reality and you will see it through. And if you are ever feeling like you won't, or just need some words of encouragement you know that I am only ever a phone call away. And if the phone doesn't work just talk to me in your head.'

Fifteen years ago. Indeed.

My ideas are never 'half-baked'.

New Boots, Prayer Books and Polaroids

On Sunday morning I was delighted to wake up to the sight of snow on the ground and a forecast of heavy rain to come. An important part of these next three weeks is about checking that my waterproofs keep the water out, and my thermals keep the heat in. If anything's not working quite as it should I'd rather find out now than when I arrive in Ireland.

Sure enough, I discovered that my waterproof coat needed re-proofing, which wasn't the biggest deal ever. The biggest deal ever was discovering that my hiking boots no longer repel water, they let it in, a lot. On further inspection I found a few cracks in the leather and around the seams which meant that new boots were going to be needed. Before making the sort of journey I'm going to be making in February I'd want to make sure that my boots were well and truly walked in, not head off with a more or less brand new pair. So, my 'training walks' are now less about getting as fit as I'd like to and more about introducing feet to boots and boots to feet and making sure that they can play nicely together.

On Wednesday and today I took my new boots out for a walk. There's a little bit of chafing on my right ankle but nothing especially out of the ordinary. Walking the boots in means walking a lot more slowly than I normally would and even stopping now and then. I posted a Reel on Instagram as I walked, reflecting on the times when maybe slowing down or even stopping is something that all of us need to do.

I don't like stopping when I'm on a long walk; I get myself into a bit of a 'slow and steady wins the race' kind of a mindset. You don't have to go fast, but you do have to keep going. There are however two things I carry with me which slow me down in helpful and health-ful ways.

When I made my pilgrimage in 2010 I put together a little prayer book, with sets of readings and prayers to be offered in the morning, at midday, afternoon, evening and night. It's a set of prayers that I still often use privately today (and semi-publicly when I'm walking with my son, Barnaby). One of the things I'm very strict about is stopping at noon for Midday Prayer and three o'clock for Afternoon Prayer. So it is that I've found myself saying my prayers in the torrential rain on an exposed hillside, under a motorway flyover coming out of Glasgow, pressing myself as far back into a hedgerow as I can as endless tourist buses career along the rather narrow A83 towards Inveraray (if you're on a tourist bus, all roads lead to Inveraray). It's important to me that on these pilgrimages life fits around prayer and not the other way around, as can so often be the case.

The other thing I carry which prevents me from just putting my head down and stepping smartly through my surroundings, is my camera. I might write about photography in a later blog. In fact, I'm sure I will. Apart from the births of my two children the arrival of photography in my life is probably the best thing that's happened since 2010; indeed, there are probably days when those two children feel that in fact I'd rank my camera ahead of them in my affections! Having that camera in my hand keeps me connected to my surroundings and attentive to all that I can see. Each time I take a photograph it's an act of thanksgiving for God's good gifts in Creation, in it's own way a kind of prayer.

What keeps you connected? What helps you to keep going when the going isn't good? It's always good to stop sometimes, remember and give thanks.

 

(Re)Introducing A Pilgrim's Cairn

Dad climbing Conic Hill

Where to begin? There are several beginnings.

The beginning that's at the forefront of my mind this morning is that only three weeks from today I'll step out of The Station House Hotel in Letterkenny and make a nineteen mile round trip to Gartan Lough in County Donegal, the birthplace of Saint Columba. Those nineteen miles will, hopefully, be followed by around four hundred and sixty more miles as over the course of twenty-four days I make my way around the Irish coast to Belfast, then up the Scottish coast to Glasgow, along part of the West Highland Way to the tip of Loch Lomond and west to Oban, before crossing Mull to Iona where Saint Columba founded his famous monastery. I need to get a lot fitter. I've lost about a stone since Christmas, which is a start, but there's plenty of work to do. How fit can you get in three weeks?

This journey has many beginnings. In 2010 I made a pilgrimage from Iona to Lindisfarne, inspired by Saint Aidan who was sent from that Scottish monastery to try to educate the English. My dad drove 'back up' for the first half of the walk, and joined me on foot from Balmaha to Drymen. In Glasgow I was joined by my friend The Venerable Paul and my wife Susie. Paul was to walk with me, intermittently, for the rest of the journey, but only once we'd convinced him that he didn't need to carry the tent that he'd brought with him and which was really weighing him down too much. Susie spent a cold and wet Valentine's Day walking along the River Clyde from Glasgow to Bothwell. Along the way I was also joined by her brother Tom and by my Uncle Jimmy. When I was offered the opportunity to make a second such pilgrimage in 2020 I revealed the poverty of my imagination by planning to walk... from Lindisfarne to Iona. Dad was all set to drive back up again. No doubt Susie would have come and joined me at some point along the way. And then Covid happened and the walk didn't.

Arrival. Lindisfarne 2010.

Which brings us to 2025 and another beginning. Offered the chance to make a pilgrimage again, my first thought was to resurrect my plan to walk from Lindisfarne to Iona; I literally had every mile of the walk mapped out, everything was ready to go. However, a lot has changed since 2020. My marriage has failed, my dad has died, so much that was precious has faded or gone; there's been a lot of loss in a short space of time. To revisit so much of the walk that I made in 2010 would be to walk too many miles with ghosts of the past, unhappy ghosts. However, I'd long wanted to spend some time in Ireland, so I decided to map out a walk inspired by St Columba's journey from there to Iona, beginning with that visit to Gartan Lough. It's a bit further than I intended. Actually, it's a lot further than I intended. Have I mentioned that I really need to get fitter, quickly?

Not everything has been about loss since that 2010 pilgrimage! In 2011 my son James was born, and two years later he was joined by Barnaby. The privilege of being their father has been one of the greatest pilgrimages of all; a journey of discovery, of challenge, of delight. More often than not, the significant changes that happen in our lives happen over time, gradually. However, when I became a parent, everything changed all at once and it was awesome and beautiful. So, I'm delighted to say that The Venerable Paul is going to bring my two boys up to Scotland for the February half-term, and together we'll continue our journey.

And lastly, this blog. I felt a lot of guilt about taking a three month Sabbatical when I left my North London parish in 2010. It was an area with a lot of deprivation, plenty of people couldn't afford to take a holiday at all, and here was the Vicar sloping off for three months. I decided that if I at least shared my experience through some words and pictures, that would be something. Also, I knew that I wanted to write up my journey, and a blog seemed like a good way of producing a first draft. So A Pilgrim's Cairn was begun.

In truth, I can't wait to begin this latest beginning. It will be a journey of miles. It will be a journey of many kinds. I know I will arrive in Iona. I hope there will be other senses of arrival too.

the last day of the year - looking for stars

This morning I preached my last homily of the year (and my last homily for three months) to the very lovely Tuesday morning congregation at All Saints, Berkhamsted.

I talked (inevitably) about my forthcoming pilgrimage across part of Ireland and Scotland, and reflected that the three key figures are: 1) it will be 487 miles. 2) in 24 days. 3) I'm 56.

This will be the first walk I've made where I take no maps with me at all and rely entirely on the rather wonderful OS mapping app. There's a little bit of me that worries about the phone suddenly not working, or getting dropped in a loch, or the entire Vodaphone network expiring suddenly. There's a little bit of me that's usually worrying about something.

I contrasted my hi-tech pilgrimage with the Magi, travelling now, through their nights, following a star.

Over the course of the past six years a lot of the stars which guided me have faded or vanished from my sky. It has been deeply disorientating; hard at times to maintain a sense of where and who I am in the present moment, far less where I might be heading.

My hope for the coming weeks of my Sabbatical is that it might be a time when I come to recognise the new guiding lights in my disordered sky, so that I might step forward again with confidence, a sense of expectation and joy.

What are the stars that guide you?