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.

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...

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.

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.

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'.