A walk of many beginnings and one end?

Day 5: Lochgoilhead to Carrick Castle

Distance: 5.2 miles (64.3 total)

Time: 1 hour 48 minutes

Today had many beginnings. It began with my friend Paul getting me into long distance walking in 2001. It began with being brought up with a love for Scotland which is both nostalgic and true. It began with a phone call to my brother at half-time in Watford's last home game of the season (1-1 versus Sheffield Wednesday, although it felt less exciting than 1-1) to check that he was okay with my last minute plans. It began with me sitting outside a pub in Lochgoilhead with my Uncle Jimmy as we walked The Cowal Way together, and me seeing a little bus bearing the destination 'Carrick Castle'. It began with the happiness and laughter that used to pour out of my mum whenever she would tell stories of her childhood holidays in Carrick Castle. Parking in a farmer's field in Whistlefield near Garelochead, and then loading up a rowing boat with everything that was needed for a family holiday; she would laugh describing all the pots and pans that her mum would fill the boat with. They would row across the lochs and spend the holiday in not much more than a hut, which was fed by water running off the hills; when the water stopped flowing they would have to head upstream to find where leaves had blocked the flow. Her favourite story involved a time when she had been standing in Loch Goil, gutting fish which her dad and brothers had caught; flinging the guts over her shoulders, she got the fright of her life when her mum shouted at her to get out of the water, as a shark was swimming up behind her, drawn by all those tasty fish innards. Yes, perhaps today's truest beginning was in my mum's happiness and laughter.  

The day began with us sitting on bar stools waiting for the rest of the family to join us for this last walk to where Granny had spent so many of her childhood holidays, and what would be her final resting place. In a loch, nestled between the mountain. The walk today was unlike the other days in three ways. First of all, we've been up in the hills and glens whereas today we walked on a road along the lochside. The distance today was a mere five miles, whereas the other days it has been ten to eighteen miles walking. The people we were with today really made a difference as we walked with three of Granny's nieces, a great-nephew and we were joined by her younger brother, Uncle Jimmy, and one of her sisters-in-law, Aunty Maureen at Carrick Castle itself; it just felt right that we were together, it's what Granny would have wanted. However, there is one thing that did not change. Midges. Today's Midge-Day Prayer was at a whole new level, and for the first time in mine and Dad's history, we had to skip the second half of the prayers and go straight on to the Our Father as we were getting eaten alive.

If today's walk had many beginnings it had just one end. As the week had gone on I'd become increasingly focused on (I say 'focused', I mean 'worried about') the 'how' of returning Mum's ashes to Scotland. This morning I just knew in my heart that what I most wanted to do was to find a strong stream running into the loch, so that she would be drawn away into the deeper waters. Just below an old stone bridge, we gathered together at the edge of a stream; I could hear Mum telling me to stop and listen to the beautiful sound of the water. James, Barnaby and I had all carried a part of Mum's ashes across the sixty miles of our pilgrimage. The boys and I took off our walking boots and socks and walked into the stream and together we poured the light grey ash into the clear flowing water. My cousin Jacqueline played a verse of 'Amazing Grace' on her bagpipes, the last piece of music we'd heard at Mum's funeral. Nothing had been planned. Everything was right. We dried our feet and put our boots back on. Today's walk was inspired by one of the most beautiful and loving (and funny!) souls I have ever known, and for as long as we share the stories she shared with us through tears of laughter, and seek to show others the love and compassion that she showed us, and for as long as we try to live out that love in simple acts of practical kindness, then this walk of many beginnings will not end for a very long time to come. Oh. And for as long as we smile when we hear a bit of Cliff Richard on the radio, then she's still walking with us wherever we go and whatever we face.

Today was a good walk it was definitely a 9/10 also it was really cool for everybody to come and join us and it was very fun yea. The only thing is there were so many midges but it wasn't that bad because i didnt get bitten so it was fine. OH and the bagpipes were fantabulous.

THIS WILL BE ALL THE END.

 

It's time to end this walk

Day 4: Arrochar to Lochgoilhead

Distance: 11.9 miles (59.1 total)

Time: 5 hours 45 minutes

Tomorrow: It's time to end this walk.

I'm learning to walk differently. When I walked in February it was boots on, head down, complete the miles. Partly because the miles to be completed each day are slightly more reasonable on this walk, and partly because B and I are trying to persuade Walker Number 3 that these hikes might actually be quite fun, I've been open to all sorts of new experiences: we've been to cafes, we've not started a walk until after 9, we've even stopped to enjoy the view. Yesterday I remarked to Barnaby that maybe in future I could go on shorter walks and take my camera and enjoy both my favourite hobbies; to me this was quite the breakthrough moment, but the look that my youngest gave me rather suggested that this was not exactly rocket science. This new-found adaptability came into its own today, when we decided at the last minute to change our route. The original route for today was going to take us over The Brack, quite an exposed and steep peak, but with 30+ mph gusts predicted and rain setting in for most of the day, we decided to change tack and follow The Cowal Way to Lochgoilhead instead. We still had quite a climb, we were still on quite an exposed peak, and we still struggled to stay upright in the fiercest gusts, but it was a far more children-friendly day than it might have been (these things are all relative!).

As Dad taught me, some days no matter how many waterproofs you're wearing, you are still going to get soaked through. Today was one of those days. The walk started with a steady climb out of Arrochar where we soon realised that today was going to be, one of those days. As I talked about in yesterdays blog, Midges and Midday Prayer seem to come together in a most frustrating way. Today was no different from yesterday, which is why we have decided to officially rename Midday Prayer, Midge-Day Prayer. 

Okay, so I thought B was going to write a bit more, but he's asked me to fill in while he gathers his thoughts, so this is what I have -

- I used to have a boy who would skip, just skip, when he was really happy. Today, making our way through a forest as the rain poured down, I watched him skip ahead of me. Just writing this is making me want to cry.

- As we walked towards the summit of today's hike, the rain got heavier and the wind got wilder. Although James had a waterproof coat with him, he refused to put it on, in spite of my frequent pestering. As we came down off the summit (and the only other people we saw up there were soldiers on training) I chastised James for being the only person I'd seen in a tracksuit top, to which he replied, "And you're the only person I've seen all day in shorts." Busted.
- The walk is nearly over. I hate it when these walks end. Always. And I know that tomorrow I need to return Mum, and that's been on my mind a lot today. She loved being up in the hills (although I don't think she'd have enjoyed them today) (in fact, she'd have given me a right royal bollocking for taking the boys up into the hills in the weather we had). Tomorrow my pack will be a lot lighter. My heart will be a lot heaver; for a time.

As we got closer and closer to the top, the wind picked up more and more. By the time we were at the summit you could barely stand still without getting blown all the way back to Arrochar. It was at this point that Dad(dy) decided that it was time to record my daily 'Bring Me Sunshine'. I think that James would agree with me that we weren't too keen on being up there for too long, but I did it anyway, I think that my loyal fans deserve it. As I was struggling to keep myself upright whilst singing 'Bring Me Sunshine' the wind howled over the hilltops.

Tomorrow is going to be tough. The three of us have shared in carrying Granny all this way, but now it's time to end this walk and bring Granny hame.

James writes:

Today's walk was alright but midges were everywhere. The climb wasn't that bad and when we got to the top it was a little bit windy but me and Barny didn't notice it but father was getting battered about and he was whinging for the whole walk also the walk was a 8/10 and the veiws were pretty cool and yea.

this will be all

Red Flag Means Live Training in Progress

Day 3: Garelochead to Arrochar

Distance: 10.6 miles (47.2 miles total)

Time: 5 hours 13 minutes

Tomorrow: Arrochar to Lochgoilhead (est 10.3 miles)

Funny how a day's walking can turn out. This morning Barnaby and I were joking that with only twelve miles or so to walk, it was barely worth putting our walking boots on. We had a leisurely start to the day and didn't actually set off until almost ten. Some five hours later, when we spotted a short-cut into Arrochar that would take a couple of miles off the day's walk we were eager to take it. Some days the miles just fly past, and the last couple of days had been like that; "What, we've done seven miles already?" Today was the opposite and it seemed to take forever for us to reach the halfway point of six miles, and then we seemed to be stuck on six miles for hours. Why it felt like that I have no idea, because weather-wise it was such a lovely day and in terms of the walking itself the landscape was the best of the three days so far, rising and falling through forests and across hills; you might even say that the landscape was constantly undula... oh, wait, that's not for me to say. 

Undulating. The only word to describe today. We started with a steepish climb out of Garelochead followed by a flat couple of miles through active shooting grounds. The red flags (meaning training was happening nearby with live ammunition) were menacing at first, but the more and more flags we saw and the more and more gunshots we heard, the more it all just became part of the landscape. If you are a dedicated reader you will know that we stop for midday and afternoon prayer at 12 and 3. This is normally quite a still peaceful moment. However today it became frenzied as we had stopped by a wee stream in a forest and if you have been to Scotland you would know that that is the perfect climate for MIDGES! The further we got into the prayer the more and more midges joined us. By the Our Father we were surrounded by a swarm of midges. Without saying anything we closed the prayer book and put our rucksacks on (all whilst still praying), we were quite proud of this as we think it was our quickest turn around yet.

Just before B and I share an important announcement, I have to share one of my favourite moments of the day. Looking down at a beautiful view, James remarked, "Is that all one loch?" When I replied that it was, he said, "That's a long loch." It was, of course... Loch Long.

A JOINT STATEMENT OF GREAT IMPORTANCE, FROM BARNABY AND DAD(DY):

This is the first time that James has joined in one of our long walks. We have been absolutely delighted to have him walking with us. Even though he's usually walking about a hundred yards ahead of us as he tunes in to Kendrick Lamar, we just LOVE all being together. When we started this walk we mentioned how happy we were that he was with us and how much we'd love it if he walked with us again. This enthusiasm on our part was not mirrored by James, who repeatedly made it very clear that this was most definitely a one-off event in honour of his Granny. However.... Over the course of today James' attitude towards walking has changed as he has realised that the best way to experience Scotland's beauty is through walking. That is why we are happy to announce that James will be joining us on all walks from this point onwards. We shall now pass onto James to explain more about this... 

Guys this is clickbait I am not gonna join in on any more walks and if i were to do another walk i would walk with people that can actually go my pace so I don't have to wait every 20 minutes or so for them to catch up. Also this walk was an 7.5/10 but there was good views also I wasn't the one that said 'that is a long loch' that was dad. Barnaby will back me up on that also I've finished writing now.

THIS WILL BE ALL.

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The welts on my shoulders have been getting redder each day. The experience of carrying the extra weight of Mum's ashes is creating new walking challenges for me. 

I've been thinking a lot about carrying Mum and about the times and ways in which she 'carried' me over the years; from being literally carried as a newborn, as a child, through to being carried by there being someone there who believed in me when it felt like nobody else did, when I didn't much believe in myself. I think too about the ways in which I have 'carried' my boys, the ways in which I seek to lift them up and to let them know how much they are loved. There's also the careful emotional/psychological algebra of trying to figure out when it's time to not carry them, when it's time to let them walk on their own two feet, and to make their own mistakes, and to fall; knowing that it's okay for them to fall, because I'll always seek to be there to reach out a hand and help them back up again. 

Mum was always there to reach out a hand to help me back up again when I fell; that's what love does. And the painful red marks on my shoulders that I'm getting from carrying her these last few miles is a small act of thanksgiving; that's what love does. 

Barnaby is terrified (James is not impressed)

Day 2: Dumbarton to Garelochead

Distance: 18.2 miles (36.6 miles total)

Time: 7 hrs 52 minutes

Tomorrow: Garelochead to Arrochar (est 12 miles)

Barnaby writes: The day started with us presenting James with the two routes that Dad and I had plotted from Dumbarton to Garelochead. He instantly asked, 'How long is each route?' When I responded with, 'Mine is 16.9 and Dad's is 18', he replied, 'The shorter one'. Dad's route would have consisted of climbing up a hillside and following the ridgeline all the way until we needed to drop down into Garelochead. However... my route was mainly down 'A' roads although with a long off-road section through Glen Cruin. My high point of the day was when during the off-road section we were faced with a large stream. I heroically said to Dad, 'Don't fear, get on my back and I'll carry you across this raging river.'

Well, it's difficult to know where to begin with this massive confection of lies and half-truths. It's certainly true that James' decision about our route today was entirely based on distance. It was quite funny to find both boys on their bed this morning, with Barnaby trying to interest his older brother in the routes on offer and James interested in one issue only - distance. That said, Barnaby's route really was rather lovely. The beautifully peaty brown River Leven was punctuated with fly fishermen all the way out to Loch Lomond. Barnaby was delighted to discover that we were going to pass the aquarium he'd visited with his hero, Neil (formerly known as Rabbi Neil). As for the stream in Glen Cruin, someone was definitely carried across, but I think that little Barnaby's memories might be playing tricks on him. And I think it was the stress he experienced as we walked down in to Garelochead that got him so muddled...

As we got closer to Garelochead there was an abundance of signs reading, 'Troops training. Do not touch suspicious objects', alongside a picture of something blowing up. I felt like every step we took was a risk and that just got worse as we got closer to Garelochead. As we reached the highest point of our walk I was intrigued by the [CENSORED BY MOD]. As we got closer I took out my phone to take pictures of the intriguing [CENSORED BY MOD].  On the drop down into Garelochead James noticed an off-road shortcut that I was worried might lead to James' demise. Although I was feeling quite anxious, Dad was more than happy to say 'Go on and see what happens.' As we joined the main road we saw the big fence around the [CENSORED BY MOD] littered with signs saying 'People who take pictures may get arrested and prosecuted.'

Okay, enough with Barnaby's mealy-mouthed nonsense. As we reached the summit looking down on Faslane Nuclear Submarine Base he took a photo on his phone. He was tremendously excited by the huge base down below us on the lochside. I told him about how excited I'd been as a child, seeing submarines going up and down the Clyde. However, his excitement turned to anxiety verging on neurosis when we reached the base perimeter and B saw signs prohibiting photography. He firmly believes that it's only a matter of time before a couple of burly MOD police burst into the pub we're staying in and cart him off. I just know that I'm not that lucky.

James concludes: The walk was a 7/10 at best. A summary is there was lots of dead stuff and a submarine base and the walk was a mile longer than it should have been so that was not cool. Actually because of that the walk was a 5.5/10 maybe a 6/10. Also we crossed a stream and Barnaby had to carry father over because father didn't want to get his toes wet because he is a baby. 

THIS WILL BE ALL.

Puerile Contests

Day 1: Bishopbriggs to Dumbarton

Distance: 18.4 miles

Time: 8 hours 6 minutes

Tomorrow: Dumbarton to Garelochead (est 18 miles)

One of the really special things about this pilgrimage is that James is walking with us. It's just been such a delight to be walking with both my boys. However, concessions have had to be made to help keep James onside; specifically, we've stopped for something to eat in actual eateries not once but TWICE. Luncheon was taken at a retail park on the outskirts of Glasgow; the boys feasted at KFC and I sat on my own in a Burger King. Later in the afternoon we came across a lovely coffee shop by the canal at Bowling, and James and Barnaby devoured Rocky Roads the calorific value of which I really don't want to speculate on. Those Rocky Roads were the only rocky roads we saw all day, and I'm going to pass over to Barnaby to tell you more about today's walking.

Our day started with Aunty Maureen's loving hospitality which gave us a perfect start to our walk. This walk is a pilgrimage between two places that were a significant part of my Granny's childhood and we realised this was the right time to bring her hame. Most of the day was steady flat path along the Forth and Clyde Canal (which does make it quite a boring walk to talk about). 

Reluctantly, I disagree with my fellow pilgrim, I didn't find today boring at all and it was my two companions who made it so much fun. One of my absolute highlights was when Barnaby tried to introduce his big brother to Pink Floyd's 'Comfortably Numb'; he listened for about a minute and then exclaimed, "What! There's another nine minutes of this?" We also spent quite a lot of our time playing really juvenile word games which invariably descended into a lot of kn*b jokes; with regret I have to confess that I was definitely the best at this vulgar, puerile contest. Sorry Mum.

The highlight of today was definitely having James with us as he has never joined us on a walk further than the front door. His presence was enough even though he was listening to music 90% of the time... Nevertheless, it was nice to have him there walking with us even though he still isn't fully on board with the whole thing. He was the one who encouraged the outrageous outcome of stopping TWICE on this walk. (although I did enjoy the KFC...)

James writes:  I very much enjoyed this absolutely fabulous opportunity to venture out with my fellow peers. Whilst I was, at first, daunted by the many miles I had to walk at the start of this pilgrimage my spirits greatly improved further on in the day. One of the things that slightly miffed me on the walk was my kin, Bartholemew's hair, which greatly resembled a jutting out edge of a cliff; in addition to that he put bountiful amounts of hair product on his hair [THE REST OF THIS SENTENCE HAS BEEN CENSORED BY BARNABY] [OUR ABILITY TO TELL YOU THAT THE REST OF THIS SENTENCE HAS BEEN CENSORED BY BARNABY HAS ALSO BEEN CENSORED BY BARNABY]. [BARNABY HAS NOW ALSO CENSORED OUR ABILITY TO TELL YOU THAT HE CENSORED THE CENSORED SENTENCE.] This will be all.

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When I made my pilgrimage in February my backpack weighed 27 pounds. My pack for this walk is 35 pounds, and it's Mum's ashes which make the difference. We have shared her out, but I'm still carrying most of her. On Saturday afternoon we poured some of her ashes into two Mountain Warehouse flasks, so that the boys can both be sharing in taking Granny hame. Quite how she's added so much weight is a mystery to me, because there was nothing of her. At times today I've definitely felt the difference of carrying the extra weight and my shoulders really hurt tonight. I remind myself that she carried me so far, her love and example carried me to today, and sore shoulders are a small act of thanksgiving really. I'm in Scotland, I'm hiking, and I'm with both my boys, I couldn't be happier. A huge part of that happiness, a huge part of the Dad I am, is the Mum she was.

   

Land of Hope and Dreams (Going Home)

If you were with me as I walked from Gartan Lough to Iona, you've probably heard this story before. My youngest son, Barnaby, walked with me for two days from Drymen to The Drover's Inn (look it up). One of the themes I was reflecting on as I made my pilgrimage was exile, and the related idea of home. Talking to Barnaby about the sense of 'homelessness' I felt, the sense of exile, I made the mistake of reflecting on my mortality. "The problem is", I told him, "when I die, I have no idea where I'd want you to scatter my ashes." He's a quick lad, my Barnaby, and without a moment's hesitation he chirped up, "Wetherspoons?"

The thing is, I'm not entirely sure that he was joking.

Mum would never have had a second's doubt about where she would have wanted her mortal remains to return; for the longest time she always wanted to go back home to Scotland. But she never left Essex. Scotland was always in Mum's heart and hopes, but an ever greater part of her heart was invested in her sons and her daughters-in-law, and her most beloved grandsons. Those loves were home too, and ultimately those loves had a stronger pull on her than the road North. Family meant everything to Mum.

For five years she's been in my bedroom cupboard and while she rested in peace everything I knew to be home fell apart outside her closed door; everything that mattered most to me was denigrated and destroyed. At the last, even the little sense of 'home' that I could hold on to, my own sense of the past and a history of love and family, was painstakingly deconstructed. There wasn't much left. So in January I went for a long walk and Mum stayed shut behind the door.

A pilgrimage can be a powerful thing. When I came back to Berkhamsted everything was whole, and happy and renewed...

...well, I made that bit up. When I came back from my pilgrimage everything that had been destroyed remained destroyed, and almost everything that had been lost remained lost. Almost everything that had been lost, remained lost, except for myself; somewhere between Letterkenny and St Columba's Bay I found myself again.

I found myself again and so at last I can take Mum home. It's time for her to go home. To be honest, I could have driven over the border and scattered her ashes in the first layby I found and I'd have done all that needed to be done, she just wanted to be in Scotland; and to be honest some more, part of her would have found the idea of being scattered about amongst the fast food wrappers and empty drinks cans of an A Road layby ridiculously funny. Anyway, it's not going to be like that. My two boys and I are going to make a pilgrimage from Bishopbriggs where she grew up, to the loch where she spent so many happy childhood holidays. By that loch we celebrated her seventieth birthday with her twin brother, her wee brother, and a lot of family. 

By that loch we'll say thank you to the God and the country who gave her to us, and then we'll give her back.

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In a few weeks' time my boys and I are going to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band at Anfield. The tour is called 'The Land of Hope and Dreams Tour'.

I remember one of the last Sundays when we went to visit my diminishing Mum. We came home and put the boys to bed. I got very drunk. I sat outside and looked at the garden and drank and drank and drank. And as I drank, I listened over and again to a song by Bruce Springsteen: 'Leave behind your sorrows, Let this day be the last, Tomorrow there'll be sunshine, And all this darkness past.'

Land of hope and dreams. We're going home.

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.

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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!

Shelter from the Storm (Parts 1 and 2)

Oban harbour

This Atlantic wind had many voices through the night. It would shriek in eddies outside my bedroom window. It would suddenly thump flat against the drumskin wall and demand that I listen. It would stop long enough for you to believe that its rage had been pacified and then crescendo into the harbour and howl itself breathless. About an hour before dawn the rain arrived; endless handfuls of gravel thrown hard against the glass.

I was due to get a ferry to Mull at lunchtime today, but it was cancelled yesterday evening. I've got  a ticket for the 2pm sailing. My weather apps tell subtly different stories but the main theme remains the same; the wind is going to be like this for large parts of today. Some suggest a slight calming early afternoon, so I could be lucky. If not I'll just have to stay another night in Oban and get an early ferry tomorrow. My plans for getting sleep-ready for an overnight walk to the Iona ferry port are looking increasingly vulnerable. Monday and Tuesday could be two very long days.

The only fixed point in this week is being at the house at 3.30pm on Friday when my boys come home. Everything else is flexible. I'm a pilgrim: I will go to Iona.

______________________________________________

Once upon a time I used to know someone who would tease me for always coming up with 'little theories'; my small attempts to understand and explain all sorts of mundane aspects of everyday life. I was beginning to develop one of my 'little theories' after the tough walks from The Drover's Inn to Lochawe, and from Lochawe to Taynuilt. I'd decided that one of the features of this pilgrimage has been that in different ways its got harder as its gone along, but that each previous leg has prepared me for the next. The more I've thought about it, the more I've concluded that my latest little theory is hogwash. If the walk through Glen Noe had been on the second day of the walk, I'd still have made it (A Pilgrim's Cairn: Many rivers to cross); if the twenty-seven road miles to Buncrana had been the penultimate day of the journey and not the second, it would still have left me foot-sore (A Pilgrim's Cairn: Sore feet and twisted mirrors).

Rest assured, I've got a new 'little theory' and its been inspired by those pesky rough campers who keep plaguing my sense of achievement! I was cold, wet and tired when I finished Friday's leg from Lochawe; cold, wet and tired I checked into my room, hung up my clothes to dry, had a shower and went for something to eat. I'm not so sure how I'd have done if day after day for three weeks I'd not enjoyed the haven of various B&Bs (even if most of them weren't up for doing breakfast at the kind of time that I was wanting to leave), apartments, guest houses and hotels. Those havens made every day a fresh(ish) new beginning.

We all need our havens, our shelters from the storm. Our havens can be friendships and relationships; they can be favourite places or hobbies. We can find our havens in our families, in a Friday evening hour down the pub, in a game of chess or in a soap opera which we watch avidly.

Last night I lay awake thinking about this as the wind howled across the harbour outside. In a relatively short space of time I lost people, places, relationships, communities, which had been my havens. More than that. Not only did I lose my shelters from the storm, but those very havens, those places of shelter had become the stormiest places of all. I still feel pretty ashamed about how low I fell, but I feel I can understand it a lot better this morning. And with that there's a clearer sense of my need to create, rebuild new havens; nobody's going to do it for me.

Throughout it all though, prayer remained a haven for me, even if sometimes all that I could manage was 'Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner' or even just 'Thank you, God, for this new day.'

Never forget to give thanks for your havens, whoever, wherever or whatever they may be.

_________________________________________

Thanksgiving: for the people who work through the stormiest times to get power restored to people, to give shelter to the vulnerable, to protect the most isolated, to get transport networks working again and so much else.

Chewing gum with Taylor Swift

still standing

Day 23: Taynuilt to Oban

Distance: 13 miles (452.3 total)

Time: 4 hours 36 mins

Tomorrow: the ferry to Mull.

Fear of embarrassment would normally dissuade me from sharing what follows, but given that the most popular post on this blog is the one where I confessed to having walked past The Giant's Causeway it's probably a bit late in the day for me to start worrying about embarrassment. In a sense today's gentle walk felt like the end of the main body of the pilgrimage; tomorrow I take the ferry to Mull and on Monday night I start my walk to Fionnphort and the ferry to Iona. After three quite difficult days and some challenging weather, today's leg could not have been easier. As I walked I was very conscious that the final part of this pilgrimage would bring challenges I'd never faced before. I've walked thirty-seven miles and more, but I've never walked through the night. I'm trying to figure out how to re-jig my body clock over the next forty-eight hours to minimise the shock to the system, and also to ensure that I don't spend most of my limited time on Iona in a sleep-deprived stupor.

Which brings me to the image that popped into my head and for which I will no doubt rightly be ridiculed! You know that bit before a big rugby or football match, where they show the players getting off the team bus and walking to the changing room? They're all silent, plugged into their ear buds, chewing gum, barely acknowledging the eager crowds or even each other... well, that's how it felt today. All the preparations that could be made, have been made. I'm as fit as I can be. Today I was just chewing my Wrigley's Spearmint Gum in time to a bit of Taylor Swift as I disappeared down the tunnel to the changing room; you're probably thinking that I'm at risk of disappearing up something at the moment. Trust me, however much you're squirming as you read this, I'm squirming even more as I write it! It's just how it felt.

Sometimes when I ask my boys how their day has been, they'll reply, 'Mid'. So far as I can tell it means fairly average. Well, today's walking was 'Mid'. The countryside was beautiful enough. I was blessed with the sound of birdsong again and there hasn't been much of that over the past couple of days. The weather was a gentle contest between sunshine and rain, and neither particularly prevailed. At times it became warm enough for me to contemplate shedding a mid-layer, and then the sky would sweep slate-grey and the rain would fall in a hurry; by the time I'd retreated into my hood and was all zipped up, the rain would have moved on to other roads, other walkers. I was back in Oban in time for a bit of lunch at the Hinba coffee shop...  Stuart Owen (@pilgrimscairn) • Instagram photos and videos

Time to shower and change, and find a suitable venue to watch the Calcutta Cup match. Do you think that people will think I'm English?

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Thanksgiving: for the hymns of birdsong.

Many rivers to cross

Wayfinders

Day 22: Lochawe to Taynuilt

Distance: 14.6 miles (439.3 total)

Time: 7 hrs 34 mins

Tomorrow: Taynuilt to Oban (est 12.1 miles)

When I walked the Borders Abbeys Way with Barnaby in 2023, he introduced 'Song of the Day' to this blog. There weren't too many surprises; it was usually something by his beloved Bruce Springsteen. If I had to pick a 'Song of the Day' for today's leg it would have to be Joe Cocker singing 'Many Rivers to Cross' (Joe Cocker - Many Rivers To Cross (LIVE in Dortmund) HD). When I'd set out this morning, I'd anticipated that the first part of the walk would be the tricky bit and the rest would be relatively plain sailing; as is so often the case, I was wrong.

The weather forecast for today wasn't great, with gusts of around 50mph predicted and a day full of rain. Yesterday I gave thanks for the fact that it had been either been windy or rainy, but rarely both at the same time. Today it was both at the same time, most of the time; there was a bit of variety mid-afternoon when it was windy and sleety. 

The first four and a half miles were a slow but steady climb along track, away from Lochawe, followed by a steeper climb off the track and up to a ridge looking down on Glen Noe; the name should have been a clue. Those first five miles took about two and a half hours. In the next two and a half hours I managed just three miles. A lot of rain had fallen and was falling. A lot of snow had melted. A map of the Glen shows it laced and interlaced throughout with pencil-thin blue lines feeding into the River Noe. Today every one of those pencil-thin lines of blue was running fast, high and fierce-white. The track of my journey along the Glen looks like the meanderings of someone who'd had far too much to drink trying to find a kebab shop on their way home; repeatedly I had to double-back or climb higher up the hillsides in my search for safe places to cross.

Eventually I came to a fast-running stream which left me with no options. There was a deer fence just thirty metres or so further up the hillside, so I couldn't climb to a point where the stream was narrower. For a moment I had that feeling of not knowing how to go forwards, not wanting to go back, and knowing that I couldn't just stay where I was. Looking for the narrowest, shallowest-looking point that I could find, I plunged my walking poles into the dark water and followed them across; I could feel the stream pulling the poles away from me and it was tricky going. There were three or four further such adventures. I've missed Barnaby very much at times, but I was so glad that he wasn't with me today. Mind you, he'd probably have just pushed me in face-down and used me as a human bridge!

Face-down was about the only position I didn't find myself in on this leg. A remarkable amount of today's travelling was done on my backside as my legs slid away from under me. At other points I was down on all fours just trying to resist the howling wind; I'm not exactly the most aerodynamic shape at the best of times, and definitely not when I've got my rucksack on. Towards the end of the trudge along Glen Noe I was standing surveying yet another section of river, looking for the safest place to cross. I was so pleased when I spotted one, and not too far off my course, that I shouted out, 'Thank you God!' At that exact moment the mud under my left foot collapsed away and I went tumbling down hard onto my side. It's a hard day when you feel that even The Almighty is taking the mickey out of you.

At the bottom of the Glen was a farm and paved road from there to Taynuilt. In Taynuilt I got the train to Oban and I've got the luxury of two nights in the same bedroom; something that hasn't happened since I was in Letterkenny, right at the start of this journey.

The most heartening bit of a hard day was when I came to the end of the paved track which I needed to leave to climb over to Glen Noe. I'm no great climber or navigator and I wasn't sure how I'd get on, finding my way over the top in the right place in these heavy winds and hard rains. Then I turned a corner and saw tall, dark, wooden wayfinders guiding my way to the summit! There's something very heartening about those guides. They remind me that you don't have to know how your entire journey will unfold, you just need to know enough to enable you to take the next steps.

__________________________________________________________

Thanksgiving: the people who erect and maintain wayfinders. The people in our lives who have been and are our wayfinders.

All Together Now: when I made my pilgrimage in 2010 I invited readers of 'A Pilgrim's Cairn' to join in the pilgrimage by making a walk of their own and sharing on the blog how it had gone (A Pilgrim's Cairn: How Was Your Walk?). I'd like to try the same again this time around. Next weekend I've got another of my non-walking ferry days. I'd love it if you'd join me on this journey by making a walk of your own that weekend. It doesn't matter if it's one mile or forty, just walk. If you'd then write in using the comments section at the bottom of each post, just saying something about where you walked, why you chose that walk and any reflections you have on it, I'd be SO grateful.

The Good Pilgrim

Day 21: The Drover's Inn to Lochawe

Distance: 17.8 miles (424.7 total)

Time: 8 hrs and 2 mins

Tomorrow: Loch Awe to Taynuilt (est 13.3 miles)

Let's begin with a big thank you to all those people who have sent so many messages of support and encouragement over the past few days. I've truly been overwhelmed by the number of positive messages I've been receiving. Yep, Barnaby taking over the Pilgrim's Cairn certainly appears to have been hugely popular with most of you.

And rightly so. The pattern over the past couple of nights has been for me to get sent away for a shower, shortly after we've eaten supper. While I've been abluting, Barnaby has been dictating his post to Neil. On my return I get to read the blog, and both times I've been so impressed. Barnaby's descriptions of the journey have been vivid and true. I feel like I write in a kind of monochrome: either I need to share that something hurts, or that some bit of the landscape was 'lovely'. Barnaby writes in colour!

Having Neil and Barnaby here for the past couple of days has been, well, lovely. Just not eating every meal on my own has been a most welcome transformation! Barnaby has been a fantastic companion as we walk, and he's really maturing as a walker. Terrains which in the past would have daunted him and led him to complain about a sore tummy/leg/head/foot, he has entirely taken in his stride. Indeed, he's been keeping me going at times when I've been flagging! It's been great too that we've been together with Neil at the beginning and end of each leg. Having someone there at 'the end of the day' makes such a difference. I am so incredibly lucky in my friends. There has been a lot of laughter.

It was beginning to rain quite hard when the three of us left The Drover's last night and scuttled to our rooms. It rained and didn't stop overnight. It rained and didn't stop until mid-afternoon today. Of course, the rain had to turn up on the day when I had some of the most exposed walking across some of the boggiest terrain. Now and then my boys like to play again of 'would you rather'. The conundrum is posed, 'Would you rather be chased by a herd of marauding elephants or a swarm of angry bees?'. The variations on this theme can sometimes seem endless, regrettably. Today I found myself asking, 'Would I rather have a bit of rain every day over the course of a four week pilgrimage, or four weeks' rain in one day on a four week pilgrimage?'

After about a mile from The Drover's I left the road and followed track up into the hills. It rained heavily. About seven miles in the track rather dissolved into boggy, stumbling, puddled hillside. Here and there, there were indications that someone might have driven a Land Rover through, and for a while I'd try to follow those tracks, but repeatedly those traces would disappear and I'd find myself splurging and stuttering forwards. Thankfully, all I had to do was to stick between two hills and find my way down to a forest below. Visibility stayed good, so that wasn't really a problem, and in some miracle of providence it was either pouring down or blowing a gale, but rarely both at the same time. Once I'd reached the trees it was just another couple of miles before I hit forestry roads and then it was various kinds of paved surface all the way to Lochawe. and the rather marvellous Ben Cruachan Inn.

On Monday, walking the West Highland Way from Milngavie to Drymen, I met a guy who was walking the whole route. I asked where he was staying that night and he said that he wasn't sure. I was in awe. I couldn't imagine setting out on that sort of hike at this time of year and not knowing where I'd be laying my head down at day's end. On Tuesday, walking with Barnaby, I saw a young couple walk past us clearly all set up to be camping along the route. I began to feel like a bit of a lightweight. Why couldn't I do the sort of really tough travelling that they were doing?

But we all have our own journeys to make and our own challenges to overcome. I know that there will be people suffering from appalling depression, who overcame far more of a challenge than I did today, just to get themselves out of bed and dressed. There will be people struggling with chronic pain, who achieved far more than I did, just by putting the kettle on and making themselves a cup of tea. We all have our own pilgrimages to make, our own hills to climb and heavy weather to endure. 

The good pilgrim doesn't compare their journey to anyone else's. The good pilgrim knows that in the love of God we're all just making the one journey. The good pilgrim simply tries to do what they can to help others make their way along the road that they have to travel. Just like Barnaby and Neil have done for me over the past few days.

____________________________________________________________

Thanksgiving: For all the Good Pilgrims who have genuine hearts.

_______________________________________________________

All Together Now: when I made my pilgrimage in 2010 I invited readers of 'A Pilgrim's Cairn' to join in the pilgrimage by making a walk of their own and sharing on the blog how it had gone (A Pilgrim's Cairn: How Was Your Walk?). I'd like to try the same again this time around. Next weekend I've got another of my non-walking ferry days. I'd love it if you'd join me on this journey by making a walk of your own that weekend. It doesn't matter if it's one mile or forty, just walk. If you'd then write in using the comments section at the bottom of each post, just saying something about where you walked, why you chose that walk and any reflections you have on it, I'd be SO grateful.

Barnaby continues to undulate (Neil talks some sense)

Day 20: Rowardennan to The Drovers Inn

Distance: 15.2 miles (406.5 total)

Time: 8 hrs 25 mines

Tomorrow: The Drovers' Inn to Dalmally (est 17.4 miles)

Barnaby writes:

When Neil dropped us off at Rowardennan, I was raring to go and a little bit nervous as the walk I was about to embark upon was said to be one of the hardest legs of the West Highland Way. As the snow held off, the day began with a catastrophe when my bladder was leaking (not that bladder, my water bottle). Finally underway, we had an undulating path around the Loch, we had already made acquaintance with a little robin that seemed to show its face every time we stopped for a snack and a drink. Our assumption was that it was the spirit of Granny coming to guide us to the infamous Drovers Inn, as we felt she had been watching over us during this walk.

 The majority of the day was filled with some tough-going ground - there were lots of roots and rocky terrain. Just to add to our burden, the path was constantly going up and down…undulating! To top it off, Daddy was whining the whole way about his ‘sore’ shoulders and arthritic knee. It was then that I felt that it would be better if I stepped up and was encouraging instead of being the one constantly saying “How long to go? How long to go?” Maybe I’m growing up!

 After a few hours of this challenging terrain we came face to face with a ‘wee’ family of Scottish mountain goats, including a bairn that can’t have been more than a few months old. Heroically, I stepped up to the plate and shielded Daddy and as we cautiously made our way past the goats (I may have been cowering behind Daddy the whole time!) luckily the kid had run off earlier and weren’t viciously charged down by the feral mountain goats – what a way to go that would have been.  There was one goat with quite the pair of horns that was unfazed by us and seemed to be staring at us and saying ‘are you going past or are you going to carry on hiding behind the rock’.

 After that intense encounter with the goats, the route continued similarly along the banks of Loch Lomond for a couple of hours. Finally reaching the tip of Loch Lomond we were on the home stretch and we were BOTH looking forward to a nice pint of Guinness and possibly some good company with Neil (Neil’s note: who was patiently waiting and had ordered the drinks already) and several bottles of J2O.

 Finally reaching the Drovers Inn we were glad to finally have found somewhere to settle down, eat Halloumi fries with NO SALAD. I’m sad to say that today will be the last day walking with Daddy for this half-term but I’ll keep on thinking of him as I head back to England and we have promised to top up his miles to 500 when it gets back so I can serenade you with the Proclaimers! In the meantime, Neil has come up with the brilliant idea (Neil’s note: that was Barnaby’s words, honest) of singing ‘Bring Me Sunshine’ on our flight back to Luton at full voice! I’m sure you’ll be sad to hear that it will be back to Daddy’s boring blog from tomorrow, farewell followers…

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Neil writes:

This morning began with a recitation of Psalm 96 together and I was very moved by the experience of verse 11 ‘Let the earth exult’ as I drove around the Loch in the opposite direction to Stuart and Barnaby (they headed North and I went South from Rowardennan). I was really struck by the permanence of the rock formations and how they would have been the closest the ancient world could get to a sense of permanence and eternity. Not for nothing was this landscape an inspiration to finding a sense of God’s steadfastness – our Guardian who will not let our foot give way and who neither slumbers nor sleeps. May the Lord guard your going and coming from now and evermore.