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.

 

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.

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.

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!

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.

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…

_______________________________________________

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.

Barnaby's undulating ways

Day 19: Drymen to Rowardennan

Distance: 14.9 miles (391.3
total)

Time: 7 hrs 26 mins

Barnaby writes:

After stepping outside the Winnock Hotel, I was filled with a sense of happiness that I was finally able to join Daddy on this phenomenal walk. The day started with a gradual ascent along a road and after about a mile we hooked a left into a lovely forest where the temperature obviously increased. Daddy and I took off our hats as the inescapable Conic Hill loomed over us and the mild February breeze wafted past us. Walking for a while, we emerged into an open wild green Scottish moorland.

As Conic Hill came closer and closer we prepared ourself for the inevitable climb we were about to face. For those of you who don't know, Conic Hill is a steep incline which marks an important point in the West Highland Way. As we climbed, we noticed that snow patches were becoming more and more frequent until it came to the point where we were trudging through neck high snow drifts (joke) - the snow was about 2 inches deep. We had lovely views over Loch Lomond and across the Loch we could see snowy glens and our cameras couldn't do justice to the view - next time you'll have to come with us.

Looking out we could see there was an obvious snow line circling each of the hills that surrounded us. Half-way up Conic Hill, Daddy took off his hat... he immediately regretted it as the closer we got to the summit the icier the air became. For those of you who are new to this blog, let me tell you we have a tradition that whenever I join Daddy on the walk, we have one point in the day when we record 'Bring Me Sunshine'. For every walk we have done, in the sleeting rain and in the glorious sunshine, we have always done this. Today, was no different as we reached the summit of our walk, Daddy joined me in a glorious chorus (if I say so myself) of 'Bring Me Sunshine'. The social media algorithms deleted his singing as it was an insult to Morecambe and Wise.

After a lot of persuading we had a nice lunch in a cafe, just outside of the hotel we are staying in. But we still had six miles to walk across the bonny banks of Loch Lomond before returning here to for a pint of Ossian - the Scottish equivalent of Guinness!

Weirdly the ascents during the last six miles were harder than the 360 metre ascent up the side of Conic Hill. They may not have been 160 ft giants but they were constant undulating paths. I thought they would never end, as at some points in the last five miles we got quite low and that every incline thought the route was levelling out, but no it was just another hill. We checked how far it was to get to our destination and it seemed to endlessly be stuck on 2.5 miles. Every time we checked Daddy would angrily exclaim, "It was 2.5 bleeding miles, 2.5 miles ago."

Finally we reached our destination and filled up on pizza and J20 (and for some people a pint or two of Ossian). Tomorrow we have what is said to be the toughest part of the West Highland Way from Rowardennan to Inverarnan. Wish me luck!

I have to say, a highlight of today was seeing the beautiful views as a prize for the tough climb up Conic Hill. But more than anything, was spending time with Daddy after a long two and half weeks building up to today. I'm looking forward to tomorrow, for my second leg of the journey.

_________________________________________________________

Thanksgiving: Neil the Driver.

Thin places

My eyes were closed in prayer...

Day 18: Milngavie to Drymen

Distance: 13.1 miles (376.4 total)

Time: 5 hrs 15 mins

Tomorrow: Drymen to Rowardennan (est 14.2 miles)... with Barnaby!!!

Iona is often described as a 'thin place', a place where heaven and earth draw close; a place where we know that angels walk with us. We can also have thin places, or objects, or sounds, or even smells, where the past and present draw close to one another; I touched on this in an earlier post (A Pilgrim's Cairn: Hauntings). I discovered this morning that the West Highland Way is one of my 'thin places'. In truth, I'd had some sense that this might be the case when I posted yesterday's blog. I wanted to find a photo which included all the people I'd walked some or all of the WHW with. Looking at it this morning, the photo of Paul, Dad, Uncle Jimmy and I at the end of the Way, I was conscious of all that each one of them have meant and mean to me and all that has changed in our lives since that photo was taken. There was barely a mile of today's walk which didn't stir some memory, all of them happy, many of them ridiculous, some of them ribald (a big thank you to the Guide Map we used in 2007, which described Ben Goyne as a 'shapely mound'), and moments which were sublime.

After yesterday's machine-like approach to the twenty miles from Greenock to Milngavie, today's was the gentlest of gentle strolls. With only twelve miles or so ahead of me I had a lie-in (nearly half-seven!), pottered about, went out to a nearby cafe for a roll and coffee. It was after eleven when I finally set out; on most days of the pilgrimage I'd already been walking for three hours by that time. There's a kind of obelisk in the centre of Milngavie which marks the official start of the West Highland Way; I've got photos of me standing there with Paul in 2007 and Uncle Jimmy in 2008. I managed to collar three older guys who were leaving the Costa next to it and ask if one of them would take my photo. They asked if I was starting the WHW: I told them all about my walk from Letterkenny and one of them started looking quite pointedly at his watch! Although an occasional snowflake meandered through the air, the weather was mild and the walking was easy. I took my time on the road to Drymen.

I'm delighted to say that Neil and Barnaby will be landing at Glasgow Airport in sixteen minutes and I can't wait to see them both. Last night I had dinner with my Aunty Heather; the first time I'd sat down to eat with another person in three weeks and it was just such a joy.

Thin places. Pilgrimages. 

Journeys can described in lots of different ways, but perhaps principally in terms of whether we think of ourselves mostly as leaving somewhere, or as going somewhere. Somebody leaving a painful place behind will tend to define their journey principally in terms of what or who they're leaving behind. Somebody moving to make some sort of hopeful new beginning or making a pilgrimage, might principally define their journey in terms of where they're going. I'm conscious that my own story of this pilgrimage has changed over the past few recent days. When I was beginning my journey and I was unfit and wearing unyielding new shoes which left many of my toes hidden behind blister plasters, I would tell myself on hard days, 'You're a pilgrim. You're going to Iona.' And that seemed to do the trick. As my destination grows rapidly closer, I've noticed that I'm spending more time revisiting the paths I've walked to get here, the people I've met, the pints I've sunk, the landscapes I've been held by.

How do you define where you are in your various pilgrimages of life at this time? In the pilgrimages of family, of career, of relationships, of aging?

When the present seems uncertain and the future even more so, I think that there can be great value in retracing our steps. Looking back on the journey that brought us to this moment and looking for the 'thin places', the places where we were reminded of all that there is to be thankful for in life; the places where we knew, just knew in our hearts that life was meaningful and good; the places where we knew for a moment that angels walked with us and the love of God enfolded us. 

When we can recognise those 'thin places' in our past, then no matter how difficult life might be in the present, we can walk towards our future with confidence and hope.

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. Go find your 'thin places'.

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Thanksgiving: that easyJet flight EZY285L has safely landed at Glasgow Airport. I'd better go and brush my hair, I've got friends coming.

Will we make stories too?

Me, Dad, Paul and Uncle Jimmy - 2007

Day 17: Greenock to Milngavie

Distance: 20.1 miles (363.3 total)

Time: 6 hours 34 minutes

Tomorrow: Milngavie to Drymen (est 11.8 miles)

This feels like the beginning of the final chapter. The first chapter took me from St Columba's birthplace at Gartan Lough to Derry, via Stroove Beach where Columba had left Ireland to go into exile. The second chapter was every mile from Derry through to today; there have been no major 'Columban' sites en route, it's just been about covering the ground. This third chapter will take me up along the first part of the West Highland Way to Inverarnan and then across to Oban. From Oban it's the ferry to Mull and then an overnight walk across the island from Craignure to Fionphort and on to Iona. I feel a very ordinary combination of a growing sense of achievement, alongside a sense of impending loss when the journey ends. I'm not good with endings.

This final chapter is beautiful and warm with connections. I like connections.

It's very fitting that this final chapter commences at the start of the West Highland Way, because it was making this walk in 2007 that really inspired me to take up long-distance hiking. That year I walked the WHW with my great friend Paul, who'd introduced me to hiking in the first place. His 'gentle' introduction was the Lyke Wake Walk, forty-two miles across the North Yorkshire Moors, all in one day (Lyke Wake Walk The Offical Website of the Lyke Wake Walk Hambleton Hobble Shepherd's Round North York Moors). I was his meek and obedient Curate at the time and just did whatever I was told.

When we'd walked the WHW in 2007, we'd been joined by my dad and my Uncle Jimmy for the final leg from Kinlochleven to Fort William. The following year Uncle Jimmy wanted to walk the whole thing, so we did. For several years it became an annual event for my uncle and I to do one of Scotland's many long-distance walks during the October half-term.

Over the course of those walks we accumulated a wealth of stories about people we'd met, things we'd seen, times we'd fallen out with each other, and that time we accidentally got quite drunk in The Climbers Bar of the Kingshouse Hotel on Rannoch Moor. Invariably, whenever we all met up as family those stories would be told, and a little boy called Barnaby became fascinated by them. Without ever having been on a hike, he'd become hooked on the idea of hiking. In 2022 we did a small local walk, forty-five miles in three days. The following year we walked The Borders Abbey Way in Scotland. Last year we walked The Paul Taylor Way (c) from Berkhamsted to Redditch. Why does Barnaby like hiking? Here's why: before we did that first walk three years ago he asked me, "Daddy, will we make stories too?"

My most recent walking companion is Rabbi Neil with whom I did a three and a half day sponsored pilgrimage last year. Apart from forgetting to warn him that he needed to bring a packed lunch on the first day, it all went very well; especially the visit to Tring Brewery.

Across some eighteen years and several really precious friendships this final chapter begins with a 'coming together' of so many stories, as my friend Neil brings Barnaby up to Scotland tomorrow to walk a couple of legs of The West Highland Way.

You've probably noticed that I haven't said a great deal about today's walk. It was all good. Look on Google Maps and trace Greenock to Milngavie; there's not a huge amount to say. I was pleased with my time and was really driving myself along a bit. At one point I felt just so totally in tune that I suddenly found myself saying, out loud, "You're a ----ing machine." I realised that perhaps I had drifted a bit from the spirit of St Columba, Patron of this pilgrimage. Men, eh?

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. Will we make stories too?

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Thanksgiving: Barnaby's mum for getting him organised to come to Scotland to walk with me for two days. (Do you think I should tell him that there are some forecasts of snow?)

In my garden a fern grew tall

Day 15: Irvine to Largs

Distance: 22.8 miles (329.9 total)

Total ascent: 374ft (21,786 total)

Time: 8 hrs 10 mins

Tomorrow: Largs to Greenock (est 13.4 miles)

At my home in Edmonton I planted a fern in the garden that I loved very much. I'd found it growing in the roof of the parish church when it was still just a tiny curlicue of green. Who knows what breeze blew it up there or what bird dropped it down there, but spores had landed on that roof and found enough light and water to grow. That sort of thing just amazes me endlessly. Whenever I watch a David Attenborough documentary or some other programme about the natural world, I'm always in awe of the capacity of life to persist, to endure: life always finds a way through.

Today's leg did not have best start ever. It's a sad truth that some people have their hearts broken on Valentine's Day; I discovered that my bladder had split. I'd always been slightly suspicious of putting what amounted to a bag full of water in my rucksack and now all my fears found themselves founded. As I left the bed and breakfast I'd been staying in, I'd noticed that a little corner of the rucksack was damp. Within a mile or so the problem had spread and was definitely tending more towards the wet than the damp. Taking the bladder out of the rucksack and giving it a squeeze, I discovered that it had indeed failed the one job it had to do and was leaking.

Things got worse a couple of miles later when I discovered that I'd made my first mistake in the mapping of this walk (missing the Giant's Causeway was not a mapping failure - A Pilgrim's Cairn: nowhere near Giant enough). I came up against an insurmountable obstacle in the shape of the A77 dual carriageway. Thankfully a bit of exploring led me to the National Cycle Route 7 (or 73, it was never entirely clear) which would take me into Ardrossan, from where I could rejoin the Ayrshire Coastal Path all the way here to Largs.

One of the bits of 'growing back to myself' that's been happening on this pilgrimage is rediscovering my capacity to find a way through. There have been all sorts of obstacles along the way, from collapsed roads, irritated farmers, tree trunk strewn footpaths and more, which have been hard at times to get around, over or through, but I've always found a way. Come to think of it, there were all sorts of obstacles before I even got on the plane to Derry, in the shape of leaking hiking boots, injured ankles, insufficient training. Over the past five years or so I think I'd lost faith in my ability to find that way through. Too often I felt lost and couldn't see a way forwards and so didn't dare to take the next step. Too often I began to listen to the voices which told me I wasn't capable of finding a way through even if I tried. And I lost a lot of belief in myself. This is quite hard to write. The boys deserved better than that.

So, without quite as much water as I'd hoped to take with me and in spite of the A77, I had just a great day's walking here to Largs. The oddest part of the day was when I reached a sign on a footpath just north of Portencross which said something like, 'Our armed patrols may be here at any moment.' This isn't what you expect in a farmer's field in Ayrshire. Passing through a kissing-gate I found myself in the canyon of barbed wire, CCTV cameras, concrete and towering white buildings which is the Hunterston Nuclear Power Station; it all felt slightly surreal. I upped my pace a little.

In my garden in Edmonton a fern grew tall.

Because God, life finds a way through, and so does love.

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Thanksgiving: that although we don't always get things right the first time, that's not the only time we have.

Valentine's Pizzas

Day 14: Maybole to Irvine

Distance: 21.1 miles (307.1 total)

Total ascent: 469ft (21,412 total)

Time: 7hrs 48mins

Tomorrow: Irvine to Largs (est 22.3 miles)

Staring at an enormous statue of a mouse in Alloway, I found myself remembering a wedding rehearsal I'd taken when I was at All Saints in Edmonton. As with many of the weddings I took then, both the bride and groom were from Nigerian families. During the rehearsal I noticed that the best man kept nudging the groom and whispering something to him and that the groom just kept shaking his head. Finally the best man broke silence and very gently and very patiently told me that I wasn't pronouncing the groom's name correctly. I was cross with myself for my mispronunciation, but these things can happen sometimes. What I was most upset by was the fact that the groom had not felt that he could correct me. I was the figure of power in all sorts of different ways; mine was the dominant voice and if that's how I was going to pronounce his name then that's just how the world turns.

This remembrance in an Alloway park was stirred because the mouse statue was a celebration of Rabbie Burns' beautiful poem, 'Ode to a Mouse' (Robert Burns Poem -"To a Mouse"). Of course, Burns is celebrated not just for his poetic vision and profound humanity, but because he wrote the words that his people spoke. He took the speech, the thoughts, the lives of his people and turned them into literature. He gave a voice to those whose voices were rarely heard.

What is our true voice? We adopt all sorts of different 'voices' during our lifetimes. Our family background gives us a certain voice in terms of our vocabulary (I'm delighted that scunner, wheesht and eejit are part of my voice!), but it can also instill in us a sense of things that cannot be said, things that mustn't be talked about. At school and college we might 'try on' different voices. I went to the same school as Jamie Oliver and like him we all talked as if we'd been born within earshot of Bow Bells, even though most of us were growing up in comfortable Essex commuter belt villages. In our professional lives and in all sorts of other contexts, we learn ways of speaking and ways of not speaking and thinking. But where in all this do we find our true voice? Which patterns of speech and thought are authentically ours?

Arran on a blue day

Today should have been such a simple and enjoyable day's walking. The first few miles took me downhill along country roads from Maybole to Ayr. When I reached the beach at Ayr all I had to do was hook a right and keep going along coastal paths and beaches until I reached Irvine. Weatherwise it was one of the best days of the pilgrimage so far, and for most of the day my beloved Isle of Arran was never far from sight. It should have been such a lovely day's walking but unfortunately The Noonday Demon (A Pilgrim's Cairn: The Noonday Demon calls me Billy) wasn't willing to wait until noon. Within an hour of setting out, all sorts of angry thoughts started bubbling; anger at myself, anger at others. It all rather took me by surprise. The most insidious voice was the one that whispered, "You know that even if you get to Iona, nothing will have changed." At several points the desire to chuck it in was bafflingly intense: I've done most of the hard bits. I know that change is happening.

For most of the past week I've shared in saying Afternoon Prayer with my friend Paul. We video call and I hold the phone up so that he can see the same view that I can as we pray together. Today, before we turned to our prayers he remarked that this leg must be really easy going after yesterday's twenty-seven miles. I hesitated. There was a great deal of temptation to agree and to point out how lovely and blue the sky was, and how long and empty the beach was. However I decided to tell my friend the truth, that in fact today was being weirdly difficult. After I'd spoken to him in my true voice, things began to feel so much better.

The lowest moment came when my phone pinged while I was walking through Ayr. At once I felt rather uplifted that one of my friends was sending me a message. In fact, it was an advert from a well-known pizza delivery company, telling me about the special offer they had on for Valentine's Day. That was so many different kinds of unhelpful.

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Thanksgiving: for the people who help us to speak in our true voice.

Going the long way around

Ailsa Craig

Day 13: Ballantrae to Maybole

Distance: 27 miles (286 total)

Total ascent: 1,420ft (20,943 total)

Time: 9hrs 45 mins

Tomorrow: Maybole to Irvine (est 21.7 miles)

If most of yesterday's leg most definitely felt like I was in Scotland, most of today's felt like I could have been in just about any rural part of the UK. The day began and ended on the A77, but from Girvan pretty much to Maybole itself I followed quiet country lanes that knotted in and out of one another as they rose and fell with the farmland. Here and there a quiet copse of February-bare trees and I was never far from the sound of rivers and burns, bubbling out of sight.

It was the sound of the sea that accompanied the first dozen miles or so of the walk as I made my way along the A77 to Girvan. I hadn't much been looking forward to that part of the day, but there was far less traffic than I'd been anticipating and most of the drivers seemed happy to share the road with a hiker and often waved a cheerful greeting.

For several years in the early 2000s, Mum and I would take a week's holiday in Scotland and the first of those holidays was in Girvan. It had felt very sad and run down at the time; a one-time resort that nobody really wanted to resort to anymore. Walking through the town today it felt much brighter and much more upbeat. Once again the amnesia of the present moment struck and I so nearly tried to phone Mum, because I knew that she'd be so pleased to know how much the town had changed.

Leaving Ballantrae I walked along the beach at first, and then I had a choice. The route I'd plotted for myself took me away from the A77 and along a coastal path around a headland. But the A77 route was slightly shorter and, you know, twenty-seven miles is a long way, so what's the harm in taking the short-cut? I went the long way around. It was beautiful scenery and an easy track to follow, apart from all the gates I had to cross over, which the farmer had made rather more challenging with the judicious placement of masses of rusty barbed wire. I'm not a pretty sight clambering over gates at the best of times, but when there are just a few inches between the aforementioned barbed wire and my... well, central parts, it can become quite a performance. Still, I'm glad I took the long way around.

We're not often inclined, or encouraged, to take the long way around. How often are we encouraged to buy something on the basis that it will save us time? This cooks quicker. That cleans faster. Learn a new language in four weeks. There are times when I need to make meals quickly, but how much better it is to cook the long way around; put on some Chet Baker, open a bottle of Rioja, invest time in something you love.

One of the things that religions offer us is time to go the long way around. Honestly, if we stepped back from our rituals and services and looked at them in the cold light of day, well a lot of them would seem really weird, and a weird way to spend time. You do what with a candle? You drink wine at what time in the morning? But these rituals take us into space which is sacred because it is not ruled by the laws of efficiency and utilitarianism; there's something gratuitous about practices of worship across faiths. 

We all need to take time in our lives to take the long way around. A spirit of efficiency never inspired anyone to write a poem worth reading. The laws of utilitarianism are put to one side when children become absorbed in their play. And someone once said, that unless we become like little children we can never enter the kingdom of heaven. Children know a lot about going the long way around. If we will have the humility and wisdom to learn from them, children can teach us a lot about going the long way around.

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Thanksgiving: giving thanks for the financial support of The Diocese of St Albans, The Clergy Support Trust and Ecclesiastical Insurance, without which this pilgrimage just would not have been possible at all.

A Rabbi made me cry on the ferry to Stranraer

Day 12: Stranraer to Ballantrae

Distance: 19.9 miles (259.8 total)

Total ascent: 1,801ft (19,523 total)

Tomorrow: Ballantrae to Maybole

Without a shadow of a doubt, today's was the best day's walking of the pilgrimage so far. A little over three miles from my B&B in Stranraer I was walking away from the main roads and onto a beautifully quiet single-track lane that climbed away from the sea and up into the hills. I wouldn't need two hands to count the number of vehicles I saw as I walked. After a mile or two's climbing the road stayed fairly level for the next eight miles or so, curling out past Penwhim Reservoir. Leaving the lane I followed a track up to a summit called Beneraird, after which I was led gently, lazily, peacefully down into Ballantrae with the sun breaking through more fully with every step. This is probably a good time to say something about how lucky I've been with the weather. Almost the entirety of today's walk was on exposed moorland and hillside; in different weather it could have been a miserable day. Today it was perfection. For fifteen miles I neither saw nor spoke to a soul. For some personality types, there's some perfection in that too.

Anyway, you want to know about the Rabbi who made me cry, don't you? Well, before we get to him we need to rewind a bit.

My youngest son, Barnaby, loves long-distance walks; who knows how that happened! When I realized that my pilgrimage took in the February half-term I tried to see if there was any way to get him up to Scotland to join me. One of my longest-standing and kindest of friends, who also happens to be Barnaby's Godfather (and who also happens to be about the only person I know who is as garrulous as Barnaby... did I say that?) kindly agreed to drive Barnaby up to Scotland and to drive 'back up' for him as he joined me for five days walking from Milngaive to Taynuilt. Unfortunately, last week it became clear that this just wasn't going to be possible, and my friend felt so awful about not being able to help. I feel so awful for all that he's going through. There was also a selfish part of me that felt really low that Barnaby wouldn't be joining me on this adventure; I know that it's highly unlikely that I'll ever get an opportunity to do something like this again and I was so delighted that he was going to be a part of it with me. I wanted us to make stories which we could keep for the rest of my days; stories that maybe he'd get to share one day with his children. At first we tried to figure out alternative ways to get Barnaby up to Scotland to join me, but quite quickly I realized that even if we could figure that out, it still wouldn't be the solution we needed; there was no way that my lovely eleven year-old could carry all that he needed for a week and do the walking we were planning to do. We didn't just need to get Barnaby to Scotland, we needed that back up driver too.

It was in Ballycastle, as I was brushing my teeth and getting ready to start another day's walking, that I realised that we just couldn't solve this problem; my reflection in the bathroom mirror had tears on his face. 

Which brings me to my new friend, the Rabbi. Well, he's actually called Neil, and if he wrote something in which he repeatedly referred to me as 'the Vicar' I'd probably send him a sweary WhatsApp message telling him to knock it off. Yesterday morning, having breakfast in Belfast, I knew that this was the day that I'd have to email half a dozen B&Bs and cancel the bookings for Barnaby and his Godfather, and I just really didn't want to do it; coming to terms with life's harsher realities has never been one of my strongpoints. I decided to put it off until later in the day when I was in Stranraer. And then an hour or two later, while I was on the ferry, I received a message from the Rabbi Neil, that made me cry: 'Do you have time for a call? Was thinking about if I can help. Thinking if I fly up with Barnaby to Glasgow and hire a car and then fly back with him... Wouldn't be the whole time but would be some of it and I'd be able to be back up driver for you as well then.' I didn't have any words then and I don't really have any words now either.

For a bit of context, Neil and I have known each other for less than five years. Across that time a really special friendship has begun to grow; but all the same, I never expected anything like this. Ironically, he was one of the very few people I had told about Barnaby not being able to join me, because I knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. There's something about the asymmetry of his generosity and kindness that speaks of the truth of true friendship. If I could ever do anything to reciprocate then of course I would, but it's hard to imagine a similar situation arising. It's hard to imagine that I'll ever be able to truly 'repay' my friend Neil. But that's what the best friendships, the best relationships are about; there's no 'keeping score', there's just generosity, there's gift, it's grace. I'll probably get him a pint when he arrives in Drymen with my son; it's the least I can do.

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Thanksgiving: I'm guessing that you can figure that out for yourselves.

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...

Sod the bus.

The barman's advice was as dispiriting as it was concise, "You're mad, get the bus." Having been well fed at Inish Fusion, it just so happened that the stroll back to my bed and breakfast took me past a bar called 'Annie's'; out of respect for my late Mum I felt obliged to pop in for a pint and a dram. "It's just the main road all the way from here, and bits of it can be dangerous. Sure, I make that commute every day." Having not written up the best leg so far because I'd gotten into a bit of a funk yesterday, it sounded like I had the dullest leg ahead of me: Moville to Derry. Better give yesterday a bit of a write up before I head off then.

It was the morning rain that probably contributed to my blue mood later in the day. It was forecast to be clearing, so I delayed setting off for half an hour or so. In a grey mizzle I made my way out of Carndonagh and most of the walking was along single-track country lanes. On the Sunday morning of a Bank Holiday Weekend I had the road more or less to myself and as I walked the greyness lightened, brightened, and the sky gradually blued. It was going to be a beautiful day.

A lot of this walk is going to be bordered by the sea, and my first glimpse of this companion came as the road curled down towards Tremone Bay. It felt like there was barely a breath of wind, but the waves kept whipping up and crashing down on the slick black rocks; I can only imagine how dramatic it must be on a wilder day. The road curled and twisted, rose and fell until I got to Gortnageeha Craig. Happy days! There I followed farm track up across the peaty headland and for several miles I was off road. I even saw a post giving directions along some trail for hikers! I even saw other walkers!! Wonder of wonders.

However, the hilliness of parts of the walk meant I was making slow progress at times. The beauty of the landscape meant that I was spending a little more time with my camera out too. Combine that with my late start and I ended up having to walk more than I'd have liked to have done in descending darkness. When the light dims and the temperature falls, I can find it a bit dispiriting at times. Every ache, of body and soul, can become a bit more accentuated. Sorry.

I made a little Instagram reel at Stroove Beach, where St Columba left Ireland and went into exile. I don't really have anything much to add to that, and you can find it here:

https://www.instagram.com/p/DFk6XlzN0a-/

This pilgrimage I'm making is about seeking change and growth in all sorts of different ways, and I'm delighted to report that some progress is being made. Those who know me best, know that actually I'm quite an introvert. My initial impression of the good people of Ireland is that introversion isn't so much of a thing here. On my first day in Derry the receptionist in the hotel wanted to know all about who I was and what I was doing. When I popped into Specsavers to get one of those tiny screwdrivers for my glasses, and the lady serving me drew me into the same sort of lengthy conversation, I could feel beads of sweat beginning to form on my brow! Well my dear friends, yesterday as I made my way down off the peat moor and towards Stroove I fell into a great converation about walking and Ireland with a stranger I met along the way... and I initiated the conversation. I know, I'm surprised as you.

I ended the day well fed and watered, and I got to speak to my amazing boys. All is well. So, sod the bus, I'm walking. Today is going to be a good day.

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Thanksgiving: If I had written up yesterday properly, I was going to give thanks to people from church who enabled me to take this time. Bishop Jane, Archdeacon Charles, and my colleagues at St Peter's, especially David, Tim, Chris, Margaret, Carolynne, Anthony, Richard, Tracy, Robin and many more.

Sore feet and twisted mirrors

'there is a crack in everything,
that's how the light gets in'
Leonard Cohen

Day 2: Letterkenny to Buncrana.

Distance: 27.9 miles (47.1 total).

Total ascent: 1771ft (3723ft total)

Time: 10 hrs 9 mins

Where to begin? I could begin with all the bits of me that are hurting, but still chastened by my friend's parody of 'A Pilgrim's Cairn' (A Pilgrim's Cairn: The Pilgrim Parodied) I'm not going to do that... except to say that my feet have taken a pasting. Two days in, one of the frustrations of walking in Ireland is the lack of good old public footpaths. Today has been almost entirely road walking, which is good for my legs and good for the pace I can maintain, but it batters my feet.

Right now what I'm most aware of though is not my aching feet, but that I got through this leg in a reasonable time and in reasonable shape. This will be the third longest leg of the whole walk, and the second longest in terms of walking that I have to do with my full backpack on and I was a bit anxious about how it would go. I know I'm in good shape because I've just got up from my table to order a Guinness and not felt anything crack or pop, and not muttered even the mildest of expletives. The weather has been ideal; in fact, a little after Midday Prayer I had to stop to take a layer off because I was getting too hot. I say a mighty 'Ha!' to all the people who questioned why I was making this walk in January/February (I'm going to come to regret that mighty 'Ha!' before the pilgrimage is completed, I have no doubt).

The focus of this stage of the journey is Strove Beach, the place where Columba went into exile from his homeland of Ireland and began his journey to Scotland. Exile can take many forms.

We all need our truth-tellers, human mirrors. We need those people who can tell us that no, those clothes really don't suit us; tell us that we've got a stray eyebrow hair that really should be clipped; tell us that perhaps we should buy a packet of mints on the way to work, because we're still absolutely reeking from the garlic-heavy supper we enjoyed the night before. It's not always easy to hear what they have to say. Sometimes it can be downright painful to hear what they have to say. However, through years of experience and the belief that we're loved, we come to trust them even when we're slow to acknowledge that yes, they might have a point. 

But what if our truth-tellers, our human mirrors, become like carnival mirrors which show us exaggerated, distorted reflections of ourselves? What if our truth-tellers become story-tellers, telling stories about who we are and who we were, which are fundamentally untrue? It can be so hard to reclaim the truth of yourself, because you have loved and believed the reflection that they have shown you for so very long. It can be so hard not to keep looking into that mirror, both compelled and repelled by the grotesque image it shows you.  It can be so hard to face the truth that your truth-teller no longer is. It is a kind of exile.

It's an exile which reaches its nadir when you clothe yourself in that distorted image and become a stranger even to yourself.

What our heart needs is to be able to see ourselves through the eyes of God, the Truest Truth-teller. We need to look into the mirror that God holds up to us; to see ourselves for the loved, valued, children of God that we are. But how do we actually do that in practice? Religious texts, religious institutions, religious leaders, all have a long track record of holding up distorting mirrors to all sorts of people.

Where then do we find the true vision of who we are in the eyes of God?

I have my answers. What are yours? Use the comments section below to let people know. I hope that some of your answers are different from mine... our uniqueness is one of God's greatest gifts of all!

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Thanksgiving: 

Usually at this time on a Friday night I'd be having a couple of pints with my good friends Charlie and John. I give thanks for both of them tonight. Especially I give thanks that Charlie was on the side of the angels, when I needed some angels on my side.