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.

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?)

silly, sublime, sacred

Grafitti, Belfast

Day 11: Larne to Belfast

Distance: 23.4 miles (239.9 total)

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

Tomorrow: Ferry to Stranraer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pilgrimage Begins: of Celts and their jewellery

From this bank of Gartan Lough

Day 1: Letterkenny to Gartan Lough and back.

Distance: 19.2 miles (19.2 total)

Total ascent: 1952 ft

Time: 7 hrs 4 minutes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Thanksgiving:

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

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

The Pilgrim Parodied

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

Day: Who Knows?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exile

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hauntings

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

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

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

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

5460 days ago

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

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

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

Fifteen years ago. Indeed.

My ideas are never 'half-baked'.