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.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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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.

silly, sublime, sacred

Grafitti, Belfast

Day 11: Larne to Belfast

Distance: 23.4 miles (239.9 total)

Total ascent: 1,716ft (17,722 total)

Tomorrow: Ferry to Stranraer

Mum and Dad told me all about the vagaries of dating in Glasgow in the fifties and sixties. If someone caught your eye, early on you'd ask them which school they'd gone to. If that didn't give you the information you needed, then you'd ask which football team they supported. In most cases, one or other question would let you know if you were trying to make love's great dream with a Catholic or Protestant co-religionist, or if you were trying to chat up someone who belonged to 'the other side'. They left Scotland together when they were in their twenties, but they never forgot that sense of segregation and neither of them wanted any more to do with it. Dad ran a joinery company, and I remember his great pride and delight when some Roman Catholic friends in the Essex village we grew up in asked if he would make a Cross to sit atop the Chapel; they were just asking someone who had a set of woodworking tools to do a bit of joinery for them, but it meant so much more to Dad.

In that same village Mum made friends with 'Aunty Rene'. Aunty Rene had grown up in Belfast and was a Roman Catholic. I think it was because they both understood how deep the divisions between Catholic and Protestant could run that they valued their friendship so much. They were also both, in their different ways, absolute forces of nature. When I was in the Cubs there used to be this annual fundraising event, 'Bob a Job' week. We were supposed to do various jobs for friends and neighbours to raise money for the Cubs (or was it for some charity we were supporting? I can't remember). One year Aunty Rene asked me to clean the silver for her church. I remember Mum telling me that it was a really good thing I was going, but it would probably be best if I didn't mention this to my grandpa; I didn't really understand, but I did I was told.

The people we love best are the ones we can turn to when life is at its toughest, but they're also the ones we most want to share our best days with. When we're looking at a beautiful landscape, or seeing something funny or beautiful, or doing something ridiculous (I'll never be able to share the story about that coffee shop in Coleraine), then that small pocket of people who are absolutely closest to us are the ones we most want to share those moments with. 

Mum only visited Ireland once but it was with her great friend Aunty Rene, and in one week they managed to create more stories than most of us can conjure in a month. I can see them now, tears running down their cheeks as they laughed so freely at something that none of the rest of us could even begin to fathom. And because of that one week and who Mummy spent it with, I know she'd be so happy that I've spent time here too. I'd love to tell her, several times each day, how its been and all that's been silly, and all that's been sublime, and all that's been sacred. I believe that she's seen every step, but I'd love to hear her laugh again just one time and tell me I'm doing okay.

Although today's wasn't amongst the most scenic legs of the walk it was one of the best in terms of pure walking. I was soon out of Larne and on Sunday morning quiet country lanes. The road rose up quite steeply onto a plateau, which I walked for most of the day before it lowered me gently down into Belfast. A large part of the walk took me through forestry land where the recent storms had felled lots of trees across the paths; clambering over or under them (can you clamber under?) was not easy, but gave me frequent reasons to giggle to myself at how clumbersome (neologism...) I must have looked trying to get through.

When I left Berkhamsted I was far from confident that I'd get this far. I'd have backed myself at better than 50/50, but not much better. I wasn't as fit as I wanted to be, I'd got a few niggles, I'd had to stop running a couple of years earlier because my knees were knackered, and I was heading off with walking shoes which I'd had for little over a week. I'm not in Iona yet, but walking down into this city I did feel such a flush of pride and it really felt good to feel good about myself.

What do you think? In the original 2010 'Pilgrim's Cairn', on one of the rest days, I invited people to share their thoughts, reflections, questions about this pilgrimage. Tomorrow I've got a ferry day, from Belfast to Stranraer. If you'd like to post any thoughts, reflections and/or questions, then that will save me having to write anything! Plus, I'd really like to hear what you, my fellow pilgrims, are thinking.

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Thanksgiving: Mum and Aunty Rene, and for all the 'Mums and Aunty Renes' who are making friendships today which...

The Pilgrimage Begins: of Celts and their jewellery

From this bank of Gartan Lough

Day 1: Letterkenny to Gartan Lough and back.

Distance: 19.2 miles (19.2 total)

Total ascent: 1952 ft

Time: 7 hrs 4 minutes

The pilgrimage began this morning at Gartan Lough when I threw my wedding ring into the winter-dark water. It was a very hard thing to do. If it had been an easy thing to do, then I probably wouldn't have needed to do it at all.

It has been painful enough trying to come to terms with us having no shared future. In recent months that pain has been compounded by the increasing awareness that we no longer seem to have much of a shared past either. That ring was no longer a token of future hope nor a memento of past happiness, it had been emptied.

I had known for some time that this action (this ritual?) needed to be a part of this pilgrimage, or it would be a journey that took me nowhere. There's a tradition that pilgrims to Iona go to the beach where Columba first landed and throw a stone into the sea to symbolise things that they want to leave behind, but I knew that by the time I reached Iona I absolutely needed to be looking forwards not looking back. Stroove Beach was the next candidate; only four days into the walk, it was the place where Columba left the people and land he loved and went into exile. Last night however, I just knew with sudden and absolute clarity that it had to be done today or it would always be something for tomorrow.

I'd like to think that my Celtic ancestors are proud of me; they were forever chucking their precious metal possessions into seas and lochs and rivers.

The plan when I'd set out this morning had been to spend a little time at Gartan Lough, birthplace of St Columba. Just as I'm hoping to spend at least a few hours on Iona, it seemed right to linger in that place; I'd made good time on the way there so there was no need to hurry away. However, I found myself itching to return to the road. I footered about for a bit, said some prayers, took some photos, but I just wanted to be walking again.

Climbing away from Gartan Lough in bright sunshine it felt like the journey had finally, properly begun. Each step now was a step forwards, a step towards Iona and all that it represents; a step towards Iona and all that I hope to find on the way. There was a wholly unexpected sense of elation and renewed purpose.

That sense of elation did dissipate considerably when I got lost in a housing estate on the outskirts of Letterkenny. Bad words were muttered.

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Thanksgiving:

So thankful for enjoying the most perfect walking weather in a very beautiful landscape. 

But above all I give thanks for the joy I experienced when I came across this shop front...

The Pilgrim Parodied

'A Pilgrim's Cairn' was born of my 2010 pilgrimage from Iona to Lindisfarne. To be honest, I was rather pleased with my writing. At least, I was rather pleased with my writing until a friend sent me the following parody of my beloved 'Pilgrim's Cairn'.

Day: Who Knows?!

Walking from: *insert place here* to *insert place here*

The day began with me in several shades of a bad mood, again. I’ll continue to describe the odd and specific reasons for my bad mood for the next few paragraphs. My foot/knee/leg/heel hurts again, surprised that this is such an issue when I decided to go on a 350-mile walk, but here we are. Still in a bad mood for anyone that’s interested. Something happened to me earlier in the day (or earlier in life), I reacted in a certain way that seemed insignificant at the time. Then whilst walking, something else happened to me and I realised, the thing that had happened earlier had in fact prepared me for the thing that was going to happen later! Funny old life. The countryside is so beautiful and far better than the horrible city where the monsters live. 

Here’s some abuse for the poor soul that’s currently accompanying me on this leg of the walk. Although this is a religious pilgrimage, I’m going to spend an incredibly large chunk of time talking about drink, drinking establishments and the time that drinking establishments open and close. Here are some words of wisdom from my Mum who seems to be the only one talking any sense in this whole book. 

The final and most important takeaway: I was right all along and everyone else was wrong.

As much as it pains me to say it... they weren't far off the mark. You have been warned.

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So, I promise I won't complain about any hurt ankles/knees etc. As it happens, I haven't abused any poor soul accompanying me either, although that's largely because I haven't had anyone to fall out with since I saw my boys off to school this morning.

I arrived in Derry around 6ish and went for a walk around the city centre. Sadly the walk was cut short by a downpour that was as heavy as it was sudden. I took refuge in 'The River Inn', Derry's oldest bar, dating back to 1684 (fact of the day). The bar was empty except for two guys cursing Arsenal and their fans with a vigour that left me speechless with admiration.

Lots of mixed feelings at the moment. Most of the day has been alive with a great sense of exhilaration at finally starting this adventure. However, I'm also growing increasingly aware that I'm going to be spending a lot of time on my own. Right now I'm sitting in a hotel bar. The TVs which are dotted around the place are showing really interesting looking cookery programmes, but I can't hear a word of them as the sound system plays decades of middle of the road music just a little bit more loudly than this largely empty space really warrants.

Although in 2010 I walked the first half of the pilgrimage on my own, my dad was driving 'back up' and was always there at the beginning and end of each day. I think it's fair to say that we sometimes had quite a turbulent father-son relationship; but I'd love to see him walk into this bar right now and order a large glass of Rioja. Within minutes he'd have made friends with people he'd only just met. Then we'd sit at this table together and I'd be so glad to be with him, even if it was just so that we could have a bloody good argument about something, anything, everything.

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' is, about learning to 'sing the Lord's song in a strange land'.

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'.

(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.