A walk of many beginnings and one end?

Day 5: Lochgoilhead to Carrick Castle

Distance: 5.2 miles (64.3 total)

Time: 1 hour 48 minutes

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

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

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

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

THIS WILL BE ALL THE END.

 

Land of Hope and Dreams (Going Home)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful (Mothering Sunday)

In 2018 I bought a Panasonic Lumix compact digital camera and began a journey into the world of photography. I guess you could call it a kind of pilgrimage in its own right, and it's a journey that's done me so much good over these past seven years (we'll focus on how much its given me and gloss over how much its cost me, after all, you can't put a price on happiness!). Looking back over the past three months of blogging, I'm slightly surprised that I haven't written more about all that I've learnt from my camera. The need to pay attention to sources of light, to think carefully about how you frame something, to realise how significantly the background/context shapes the image; these aren't just important factors in the creation of a photograph, they're essential to living well too.

At the start of this Sabbatical I'd rather fallen out of love with photography. I wasn't looking at photo books or websites all that often. I'd more or less dropped out of the photography club that I'm a member of. Now and again I'd pick up my camera, but without much enthusiasm and with very little vision or inspiration. I missed taking photos, but not enough to really do much about it. I was dull-eyed.

Realising that conditions for photography might be a bit challenging on a February walk across Ireland and Scotland, I treated myself to a waterproof camera. Heaven only knows how many photos I took over the course of the walk (and how many I subsequently deleted!), but it's been good looking at life through a camera lens again.

And as I've been re-connecting with photography, I think I've discovered how I fell out of love with my camera. It's a theory anyway, and it has to do with the pilgrimage theme of thanksgiving.

I stopped taking photos because I'd stopped taking photos. Profound, eh? 

Anyone who enjoys photography will know that the hobby creates a certain kind of vision; without particularly trying to, you simply find yourself being more attentive to light and shadow, to form and texture, you notice colour and you notice the absence of colour. Every day brings new opportunities to take photographs, and you can choose to take out your camera and capture those moments, or you can choose to walk on by. Over the course of the past year I'd repeatedly chosen to walk past those photo-making moments; and it seems to me that every time I chose to walk past those moments of beauty, I made it less likely that I'd notice such moments in the future. In the language of the Bible you might say that I was 'hardening my heart'.

To take a photograph is an act of thanksgiving for a moment in time and space; for me, it's a kind of prayer. Every time I failed to give thanks for those moments, my eye darkened and my vision grew smaller. I think something very similar happens with living thankfully. The more we forget to be thankful for all that we have and neglect to take the time for thanksgiving, the less conscious we become of all that we have to be thankful for. However, the more we take the time to give thanks for all that we are gifted with every day of our lives, the more we will see to be thankful for.

Look! Beautiful.

We were walking through a forest in Suffolk. I was in my early twenties and was looking at the ground beneath my feet as we walked along. We were talking, I know, but I can't remember what we were talking about. Suddenly Mum stopped and said, 'Stuart! Lift up your head and look around you, it's a beautiful world.'

Just a few days before she died, the boys and I took Mum for a short walk. Dementia had largely bound her in silence, but she recognised us with her smile. It was October: Mum loved the colours of Autumn. As we turned into the driveway of her care home and the end of our walk together,  she noticed some flowers blossoming. Mum reached out her hand to touch them and said, 'Look! Beautiful.' It's the last thing I remember her saying.

I am thankful.

The island at the end of the night

At St Columba's Bay

Day 24: Craignure to Fionnphort

Distance: 36.1 miles (488.4 total)

Time: 11 hrs 42 mins

Tomorrow: the ferry back to Oban, followed by the train back to Berkhamsted on Thursday.

The thing about a night hike is that it doesn't leave you with much to say about the scenery; even Barnaby's peerless powers of description would be tested!

Leaving the hotel at 7.30pm last night, the receptionist gave me a sympathetic smile as I handed in my room key and headed out; I don't think she thought my conclusion to this pilgrimage was a very good idea. Truth be told, I wasn't entirely convinced that it was a good idea either, but it had seemed like a suitably austere and challenging way to end a 'Celtic' pilgrimage and I'm sure St Columba would have been all in favour.

With various bit of hi-vis fabric dangling off me I set out into the night. I did have a head-torch, but I wasn't totally sure what its battery life was and so I wanted to keep that in reserve for as long as possible. It's remarkable how much light the stars shower into the darkness, and for the first eight miles or so I didn't need the torch at all; the borders of the single-track road were usually fairly visible. The left and right sides of the road dipped away slightly where they had been worn by the traffic whereas the centre remained fairly level, and my feet learnt to distinguish the difference most of the time. However, about two hours or so into the leg the stars were shrouded behind thick black clouds, and as the rain fell the wind rose.

Oddly enough, the most challenging miles were the earliest ones. Trying to follow the road without a torch felt mentally tiring a lot of the time; my concentration would weary and I'd find myself stumbling into a verge. My mind played its 'what if?' games: what if you trip and damage your knee, and there's no phone signal? what if this heavy rain turns into heavy snow? There were very few houses on the first half of the walk and that deepened my sense of isolation and vulnerability. At one point I was contemplating walking out for eighteen miles and then turning around and walking eighteen miles back to my hotel: I'd have done the 'mileage', did it really matter all that much whether or not I actually went to Iona?

Around the halfway mark everything became much easier. Although I couldn't really see it, I could hear the waters of Loch Scridain lap against the shore on my right and that sound was a comfort. There were more houses and signs of life, even if most of that life was tucked up in bed and sleeping gently. Although the rain could be hard, it never lasted for more than twenty minutes or so at any one time. With every step there was an increasing confidence that I could do this just fine. Slightly to my surprise the night was full of prayers of thanksgiving; I have so much to be thankful for, so much.

The rainclouds thinned sufficiently for the dawn to creep up behind me grey and weak as I approached Fionnphort. (That's one of my clunkier sentences. For the sake of clarity, it was the dawn that arrived in Fionnphort grey and weak, I was remarkably chipper). Just after 7am I arrived at the ferry-port. I was rather ahead of myself and had a wait of just over an hour for the first ferry to Iona.

On Iona I made my way straight to St Columba's Bay at the south of the island; the place where Columba is believed to have first set foot on the island I had walked through the night to. The weather was beautiful all morning and the brief, intermittent showers brought with them the gift of rainbows. The last time I had been on this island was with my dad at the start of my pilgrimage to Lindisfarne. Between my tiredness, this latest pilgrimage coming to its end, the memories of my late father, and just being on Columba's island, I expected it to be quite an emotional moment but it wasn't really. It all felt right. It was right that I was there. It was okay that I was alone. All was as it needed to be.

My plan had been to post a short video on Instagram marking the journey's end. I would find something to say which neatly and succinctly tied up all the themes of the past four weeks in a dinky little package. I made a couple of attempts at a recording but it was all very half-hearted and I gave up. This was time just to be. This was time just to be with St Columba, to be with his God and mine. This was time to simply be with myself and to believe again that I'm an okay person to be with. 

On rocks that Columba would have recognised, I sat in the morning sunshine and said my prayers and that was enough; that was the only thing that I needed to do.

goal

home

I have a memory but I don't know if it's a true one or not. The football team I played for as a child got beaten just about every week. We were so bad that on the rare occasion that we won, our manager, Jack, would take us to the village pub where we'd be treated to a fizzy drink and a bag of crisps... each! I wasn't a great footballer but I was fast and so I played on the wing. I remember, but I don't know if I do, getting the ball and running for the goal and there was only the goalie to beat; but I couldn't make the shot. I remember feeling overwhelmed by there not being anyone nearby that I could pass the ball to for them to score. There was just me.

This morning after breakfast I went for a short walk around Craignure; it's not really possible to take a long walk around Craignure. Being back here has stirred a lot of memories. Last time I was here it was with Dad, at the start of my pilgrimage from Iona to Lindisfarne. I'm staying in the same hotel in pretty much the same room. I felt a palpable shock when I walked into the room, as if time was collapsing, distorting; for a moment I felt quite disorientated: Dad was dropping his bags in the next-door room, and then we would go for dinner together.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise that this last stage of the pilgrimage would trigger all sorts of emotions; I should have seen it coming, but I didn't. Last night I went to bed very early.

It was on my little walk after breakfast that the memory, if it is one, of that football match came back. Perhaps it carries too much emotion to be true. The Noonday Demon walked with me too (A Pilgrim's Cairn: The Noonday Demon calls me Billy). Why are you doing this? What did you really think you'd achieve?

When I first settled on the idea of walking across Mull overnight it felt like such an adventure; it really energised me, motivated me. Right now it feels a little too big. I'm full of self-doubt and don't believe that these legs really got me this far. Maybe I feel a bit scared: am I scared that I can't finish this journey or scared that I'm about to? 

There's quite a sense of loneliness too; being alone isn't a hardship for someone like me, most of the time.

The last leg of my pilgrimage to Lindisfarne was walked with Dad and Paul, and with Susie. We celebrated together that evening in the pub. The following day we shared in a celebration of the Eucharist in the parish church (A Pilgrim's Cairn: From An Ocean To A Sea.). This night and dawn will be a very different kind of ending. All the themes of this journey feel like they're coming into sharp focus: exile, penitence, pilgrimage and thanksgiving. This is how it should be. This is how it is. It's okay.

From Iona I will bring something back for my sons; they are Home.

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Thanksgiving: So yes, okay, I'm feeling a bit low and confused today - daunted. So thank you for the guy at the hotel who's just been asking me what I'm in Mull for. I told him about tonight's walk. "Och, I walked across Skye one night with a friend. Mind you, we left at midnight and we were both totally pissed." I could have kissed him!

How was your walk? (2025 edition)

Craignure, Isle of Mull

Thank you to those who took part in the 2025 edition of 'How was your walk?' (A Pilgrim's Cairn: How Was Your Walk?)

Here are their journeys.

From Sarah:

I did a couple of hours gardening this morning as the weather was quite mild compared to the last couple of weeks. After lunch Julian & I decided to go for a short walk at Wilstone Reservoir near Tring armed with our binoculars. On the way to the bird hide walking along the muddy path I reflected on what Stuart was having to cope with; the bogs & rivers in Scotland & the driving wind & rain! On reaching the hide we were very lucky to see a beautiful kingfisher sitting on a post. Keep going Stuart; you are doing incredibly well, not too much further to go.

From Anonymous:

John managed two short walks today mostly in beautiful sunshine. His 89year old legs held up! Hope you enjoyed the match even though for you it was the wrong result!

From Michael:

We rose to your challenge and managed a "walk" this weekend.- the first for quite sometime. I've been feeling very lethargic and can't remember feeling so unfit. Come to think of it, I can't remember being so old before! Anyway, we managed about 1.5 miles, walking "round the field" at Castle Hill Farm where we used to walk our dogs (two Irish Setters, which we had one at a time). I'm sure I feel all better for doing it! Tracy took some photos and I took a screenshot of Herts CC footpath map showing our route, but it seems that "comments" only allow narrative". But thank you again, Stuart for the challenge!

From Cath:

Reflecting on the theme of home, I came up with an idea for my own weekend pilgrimage – to walk from my current home to the BT tower, via all the nine homes I’ve lived in since I moved to London at 18. Why the BT tower? Because it’s been the one constant throughout this time, with almost all of my working life being in its shadow, so I describe it as my homing beacon. When I plotted the 15 mile route, I realised I could add in two additional landmarks – my mum’s childhood home, and the hospital where I was born.

This also fits nicely with some work I’ve been doing recently, using ‘place’ and ‘home’ as a way to trigger key memories in people with early dementia. I ask them to think about places they’ve lived in, and to write down the first memories that come to mind, the theory being that this is a really good way to curate someone’s significant lifetime memories. I wondered what memories would come to my mind as I physically found myself in front of each front door. I also thought it would be a good way to share something of my life with Jeff (my husband) and Philip (my youngest son).

My initial interesting observation was that the first four properties we walked to are all within a few hundred metres of each other, and between them they account for most of the last 33 years. It seems I’m a creature of habit and don’t really like moving too far! But I also became aware that the most salient and immediate memories that came to mind – in almost every case – related to beginnings and endings in one way or another. There were other memories too, lots of fun and laughter with friends, lots of eating and drinking, and of course a few painful and difficult moments. But moving in, moving out, building relationships and breaking up, all seemed to jump to mind first. 

I was also reminded how valuable the interaction is when you are walking with others. It was particularly poignant that much of the second half of the walk related to a point in my life when I was only a little older than Philip is now. He listened and asked important questions, and I hope learned something new about me. He was also struck by all the different neighbourhoods and architecture, and found himself wondering what it would be like to live in all of these different places we were walking through. He has a lot of beginnings (and endings) ahead of him. And of course, being his Godfather’s Godson, we had to stop every now and then for photo opportunities. 

Twelve miles in, we arrived at my mum’s childhood home in St John’s Wood. We have taken her there a few times in recent years and she talks about it often. Imagine our shock when we saw that it was all boarded up with notices that it was to be knocked down and replaced with luxury apartments! I looked through the hole in the hoarding at this beautiful but somewhat tired looking old house and couldn’t help reflecting on the parallels with my mum herself. It’s almost as though the place was reflecting her own progressive decline. But I also took some heart in the idea that – from what I could tell – when it is finally demolished it will be transformed into something new and quite impressive.

After that, we traced my mum’s daily walk to school across Regents Park, towards my homing beacon, which is right next to where I began my studies and now work. I popped into the university and saw a sign that said, “it all starts here”, which felt somewhat fitting. After getting some lunch, we walked back to the tube and past the hospital where for me it really did all start. This evening, I sang at Evensong and the first reading was Genesis 1:1. It couldn’t have felt more fitting. Life is full of beginnings and endings. In just 5 hours, I did a whirlwind tour of many of mine. I guess you can’t have one without the other. These transitions make us who we are. 

It really was a special day and I’m grateful for being encouraged to carry out my own pilgrimage. As a postscript though, I was a little disappointed that the rain, which was forecast for about 12 noon, didn’t actually come until much later, just as we were getting home. I was so looking forward to following Barnaby’s example, by sharing our rendition of “bring me sunshine” in the pouring rain!

Chewing gum with Taylor Swift

still standing

Day 23: Taynuilt to Oban

Distance: 13 miles (452.3 total)

Time: 4 hours 36 mins

Tomorrow: the ferry to Mull.

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

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

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

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

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Thanksgiving: for the hymns of birdsong.

Many rivers to cross

Wayfinders

Day 22: Lochawe to Taynuilt

Distance: 14.6 miles (439.3 total)

Time: 7 hrs 34 mins

Tomorrow: Taynuilt to Oban (est 12.1 miles)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barnaby continues to undulate (Neil talks some sense)

Day 20: Rowardennan to The Drovers Inn

Distance: 15.2 miles (406.5 total)

Time: 8 hrs 25 mines

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

Barnaby writes:

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

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

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

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

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

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Neil writes:

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

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.

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Thanksgiving: Neil the Driver.

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?)

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...

Don't shoot! I'm a pilgrim.

St Columba told me to do it

Day 9: Ballycastle to Cushendall

Distance: 18 miles (189.2 total)

Total ascent: 1,591ft (13,969 total)

Time: 7 hrs 1 min

Tomorrow: Cushendall to Larne (est 26.6 miles)

"See, where you're from you have this thing called right of way, but round here we call that sh*te." I can't remember if the sheep farmer told me this before or after he'd let me know that farmers have a right to shoot trespassers. Thankfully the nature of the conversation was much more amiable than the content might suggest. The OS mapping app had definitely indicated that this was a footpath, but the farmer was keen to make sure that I knew that although he'd permit me passage across a mile or so of his land, he could just as easily choose not to. I made sure that I made frequent mention of 'pilgrimage' and 'St Columba' in the hopes of appealing to his possible religious sensibilities, and I was tireless in exclaiming what a beautiful country Ireland is.

The morning had already offered some obstacles. Perhaps three miles or so along the quiet country road out of Ballycastle, I'd come across a load of Heras fencing blocking the road, a big red and white 'Road Closed' sign, and a variety of notices instructing me that absolutely nobody was to enter this area without the permission of the site foreman. I couldn't see a site or a foreman. Inspired by St Columba's disregard for the norms and customs of his day (which, of course, was to get him exiled from Ireland), I carefully moved a section of fencing aside and proceeded on my saintly way. It turns out that one half of the road had collapsed into the Glen below, but I felt confident that even with the combined weight of my rucksack and belly I was unlikely to cause any further damage. However, before I even reached the original cause of the road closure, I had to clamber over two or three trees that had come down in the recent storm. I am not a pretty sight crawling about on my hands and knees at the best of time, but with the tortoise like addition of a rucksack I am the very image of ungainliness.

Once again the day fell more or less into three sections. I'll be brief: quiet country lanes (with collapsed road, collapsed trees and almost collapsed pilgrim) - off-track farmland and forest - more quiet country lanes. Once again the weather was idyllic, except for a hint of rain to come when my friend the farmer was telling me about his shooting rights vis a vis trespassers.

Its been a difficult couple of days and at times the sense of loneliness has felt quite acute; it accumulates slowly like the feeling of tiredness. However, it was another sheep farmer who gave me a really beautiful gift as I came down the Glenaan Road towards Cushendall. She was inspecting fencing that needed to be replaced, but it seems few people in Ireland are ever so busy that they can't share some time for a blether. A conversation about where I'd come from that day and where I was heading, led to my explaining the whole route I was taking from Gartan Lough to Iona. The farmer told me that she'd walked some sections of the Camino de Santiago and was hoping to do some more later that year to celebrate her sixtieth birthday. As we parted ways she called after me, "Good luck for now."

I really loved that 'for now'. It spoke to me of a sense of the present moment being all we have to live in. The passage of Scripture I read at the end of every day as part of my Night Prayer (from Matthew 6) includes the line, 'Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today's trouble is enough for today.' I know that really positive change is happening on this pilgrimage; some of it I can feel, and some of it will be going on in ways that I can't yet perceive. But for all that, I also know that a lot of the things that have made the past five years so tough aren't about to suddenly disappear. But that's okay. I just need good luck for now. God's gift to us today, is today.

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Thanksgiving: the farmer who wished me 'Good luck for now'...

...oh, and the farmer who didn't shoot me, I guess.

nowhere near Giant enough

Day 8: Portrush to Ballycastle

Distance: 23.7 miles (171.2 total)

Total ascent: 1,797ft (12,378 total)

Time: 10 hrs 1 min

Tomorrow: Ballycastle to Cushandell (est 17.3 miles)

Okay, so let's begin straight out with the elephant in the room. As those of you who have been following on Instagram will already know, I am the man who added eight miles to an already fairly long walk for the specific purpose of seeing The Giants Causeway... and somehow managed to walk right past it. I know. Let that sink in. It happened about nine hours ago and it still hasn't sunk in with me. I do remember one point on the coastal path where these two American guys were looking down at the bay below with an expression that bordered on reverence; I peeked down and didn't see anything to write home about, and not wanting to interrupt their reverie I strolled on. It was a couple of miles further along the path when I saw a sign pointing to The Giants Causeway, and it was pointing back in the direction I'd come from. It was too long a day for doubling back on myself so I just had to keep on going. How did I miss a World Heritage Site? Mind you, I've never been that impressed by Stonehenge either, so maybe it's just me.

Like yesterday, today's walk fell rather neatly into three sections. The day began and ended with several miles of road walking. The first section was entirely pavemented, so I didn't have to slow down or stop every time a car went past. The final section had no pavements, but it had virtually no cars either, so the walk into Ballycastle was really lovely. I headed out walking into the sunrise, and headed home with the sun setting behind me. The middle third of the walk was the marvellous coastal path from Bushmills (no, I didn't visit the distillery, I was in a hurry to get to The Giant's Causeway) all the way to Portbradden Harbour. Having grumbled about the lack of off-road walking I've been getting, this was just heaven. The first half was fairly easy going, the second half a little more challenging but nothing too onerous. The views throughout were stunning with the blue sky illuminating the sea; the coast being punctuated throughout with dramatic rocky outcrops. I did, however, make pretty slow progress for some parts of the coastal path and when I got to Afternoon Prayer at 3pm, there was still over eight miles to go, which is more than I'd have liked at that point. I shamefacedly confess that I did, briefly, toy with the temptation of getting a bus. In the end I made slow but sure progress to Ballycastle and supper at O'Connor's Bar.

It was tough going at times today and I'm getting increasingly tired, and increasingly slow to get going in the morning. I'm glad that it's a shorter day tomorrow and that I've got a hike-free day coming up when I get the ferry from Belfast to Stranraer.

A lot of my thinking about St Columba and the other great Celtic Saints, has been focused on their fortitude, their faithfulness, their endurance. I've been thinking too about the ways in which a pilgrimage is supposed to be hard, it's supposed to be challenging. I guess that there's a lot that appeals to me about all that at the moment: St Columba sleeping with a stone as his pillow, all the Celtic Saints praying the Psalms up to their neck in the freezing sea, Harry Lauder singing 'Keep Right on to the End of the Road', and so on and so forth. That narrative of life as struggle and managing to endure certainly has its allure. But I'm a bit over struggling and enduring. I know that has to be part of life, but I'm not sure I want it to be the lens through which I see life day after day after day.

When I was in Derry I visited the St Colmcille (Columba!) Heritage Centre at the Long Tower Church. In their collection they have a facsimile of The Book of Kells. The wonderful illuminated manuscripts created by many of the great Celtic monasteries highlight another dimension to the lives of these Christians. Alongside all the hardship and austerity, there was also a great creativity, a playfulness; the manuscripts have such enduring beauty, and also mischief, little visual jokes. There is a profound effervescence about these texts. Both St Columba and St Bridget are patron saints of poets. Life is not meant to be lived entirely in prose.

Jesus told His followers that one way to learn about God was to 'consider the lillies'. Well you 'consider' lillies by stopping, by really looking at them, by absorbing and giving thanks for their colour, their texture, their fragrance. The God of our struggles is also the God of our joys and delights.

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Thanksgiving: for life.  

Pork scratchings, Deep Heat and tattoos

I'm rooting for you

Day 6: Derry to Limavady

Distance: 19.8 miles (125.1 total)

Total ascent: 777 ft (9072 total)

Time: 7 hrs 30 mins

Tomorrow: Limavady to Portrush (est 22.2 miles)

A couple of nights before I flew out to Ireland, I was enjoying pork scratchings and a glass or two of red wine with my friend Tim, and we were discussing the role our mental state plays whenever we're taking on any kind of challenge. My experience of the past two days' walking offers a perfect illustration of the place of that relationship between mind and matter. Both days were fairly similar in terms of distance and terrain; actually, today was a little longer and the weather a little worse. However, yesterday as I trudged into Derry I just couldn't wait to get to the hotel and get showered and changed. Today, I could have strolled on through Limavady and easily done another five miles without complaint.

Today, like yesterday, my shoulder started playing up around late-morning. Today, unlike yesterday, instead of trying to 'push on through' and ending up making things worse, I stopped in a bus shelter next to a dual carriageway on the fringes of a light industrial estate; I took a couple of ibuprofen, smeared on some Deep Heat and treated myself to a biscuit. As a result I didn't go through a miserable hour or so of really tough going, which was to endure for the rest of the day in a bit of a hangover of despondency.

Yesterday, I sang to keep my spirits up. Today, often in torrential rain, I sang because I was really bloody happy.

Anyway, just a really good day's walking. Although a lot of it was along or near busy roads, it was not the hair-raising (probably not the right expression for me to use right at this moment of time) traffic-dodging saga of yesterday. The landscape was nice enough but the real drama was provided by the weather. I posted a video of the start of my Afternoon Prayer on Instagram. Standing on the edge of a field in some pretty heavy rain, I confidently predicted that it wouldn't be letting up any time soon, only to be walking along in bright sunshine no more than fifteen minutes later.

https://www.instagram.com/p/DFqXSqHOHDI/

Arriving in Limavady I found myself opposite a pub called Owens. It would be rude not to. Walking into a cramped main bar, every stool but one was occupied and everybody was chatting to, with and over one another. I ordered my Guinness and prepared to slope off to the back room which I'd dumped my rucksack in. As the pint was pushed across the bar to me, the old guy sitting next to where I was standing pointed to the vacant stool and said, "You. Sit there!" I just had the loveliest hour.

I'm liking Ireland. I'm loving the Irish.

PS My 'penitential' shaven head is really growing on me (no pun intended), and I quite fancy staying shaven-headed. So, is it still a penance if I like it?

PPS Maybe I'm spending too much time on my own, but... I really fancy getting a tattoo. Any suggestions?

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Thanksgiving: The friends who've been checking in on me and making sure that I'm never walking alone. You know who you are, and I'm so grateful.