Road Rage

Day 4: Oban to Arduaine..

Distance: 21 miles (66.7 total).

Duration: 7 hrs 26 mins.

Lowest Temp: 5ºc

Weather: Blue, white and dry like a Wedgewood plate.

Highest Alt: 523 ft.

Pilgrimages are about the people you meet as well as the miles you put behind you, and so in preparation for this journey I contacted about a dozen clergy along the route to ask if they or anyone in their congregation would be willing to give us a bed for a night. It was a real disappointment to me that I only got two replies. However, I will long be thankful that one of those replies was from Norman MacCullum, Provost of Oban Cathedral.

Last night at The Rectory, Norman and Barbara showed us the most wonderful hospitality: warm conversation, great food, and a dram to cap the night (which thankfully did not conform to the tasting notes on the bottle, which rather bizarrely claimed that it had a hint of creosote about it). Norman grew up in the Western Isles, and he was telling me that when the reflection of the moon lights a strand of water that’s called ‘the path of the soul’.

Today the name of the game changed from ‘trying not to get blisters’ to ‘trying not to get run over’. My entire route from Oban to Arduaine was supposed to be along the A816 – now, I know what you’re thinking, ‘But you’ve spent the last two days walking across an A road on Mull’. The thing is, the A roads on Mull aren’t like the A roads you’re thinking of; in large parts of the country they’d be delighted to be labelled as B roads, and in most places they’d be marked up as ‘Single Track with Passing Places.’ The A816 is like the A roads you’re thinking of, so walking along it wasn’t so much fun. In fact, the traffic was such a shock to the system that I added a couple of ‘long cuts’, just to get away from it.

Cars dominated the day, and they began to make me miserable. The thing I was so missing from Mull was the way that the drivers there always waved at you: and their waves could mean anything from the normal, ‘Thank you for stepping aside’, through to, ‘That’s a sorry looking beard you’re producing, but good on you for having a go’, or, ‘February? Why walk in February?’ Today the drivers tended not to wave.

I started to miss those friendly waves so much. A wave is a little thing, but it involves people acknowledging each other’s existence, and that’s a bigger thing, because it’s also a way of saying that other people matter. In smaller communities, in places like Mull, that acknowledgement perhaps comes naturally, but in larger communities, in places like London, somehow it’s more than we can manage, and what we lose is much more than just a wave.

In the final hour of the day I finally figured out a solution to this conundrum. Instead of raising my left hand to wave, as I’d naturally do, I raised my right hand to the speeding cars, and as they approached I’d say in my heart, ‘The Lord bless you and keep you’, and then I began to look forward to cars coming down the road; it did get quite complicated though when lots of cars sped past together, and I think I probably only got the first and last ones sometimes.

You're proving pretty hopeless as researchers so far - tomorrow I head down through Kilmartin, so I want to hear all you can find out about that stretch; but no more than two comments containing the words 'chambered cairns' or 'standing stones'.

PS Some people are finding it hard to post a comment. Could somebody please post a comment to explain how you post comments? I don't want to embarrass anybody, but it would be great to hear from my Mum...

Not Exactly Wordsworth.

Day 3: East Mull.

Distance: 17.5 miles (45.7 total).

Duration: 6 hrs 3 mins.

Lowest Temp: 3ºc

Weather: Wet-grey followed by blue-grey.

Highest Alt: 732 ft.

Traditions begin when we do something at least twice, and on the third day of this pilgrimage some traditions are developing: when I reach the halfway point of a leg I give a rousing rendition of ‘Praise God from Whom all blessings flow’, and I set off on each leg praying the rosary. This morning as I left Loch na Keal and headed east into Glen More with mountains towering through the rain all around me, the words ‘I believe in God’ burst from me as the joyful acclamation they always should be rather than the limp recitation they so often can be.

Given that this blog is about a walk I feel deeply sorry that I just can’t describe the landscapes I’m walking through. It’s not that I don’t have the words to describe the heights and shapes and textures and colours, all ever-shifting with the ever-shifting skies, it’s that I have too many words; and even after I’d spent every word I could summon, the sentence I would have to offer you would be such a pale shallow thing compared to the truth that is the land.

Quite a few people have been asking me whether or not this is a sponsored walk. It isn’t. Perhaps it should be, but I just wanted the pilgrimage to be an end in itself; it’s hard to explain, and I hope you’ll forgive me if you think I’m being self-indulgent. However, if you want to, there’s nothing to stop you making this a sponsored walk. So, if when I get to Lindisfarne you want to make a donation to a charity of your choice, why not do that?

Those of you who’ve been following this for a while may recall that I’d planned to do all sorts of research before I headed off, so that I could entertain and educate you with wonderfully interesting facts about the places I was passing through. That didn’t happen, so perhaps you could do a bit of research leg by leg and post some useful comments. Tomorrow we’re heading south from Oban to Arduaine – what can you tell me about that.

Just Following the Sun.

Day 2: West Mull.

Distance: 18.5 miles

Duration: 6 hrs 5 mins.

Lowest Temp: 4ºc

Weather: Warm but not bikini warm, followed by wet but not snorkelling wet.

Highest Alt: 200 ft.

Our Lord commanded his disciples, ‘Don’t take anything with you on the trip except a walking-stick – no bread, no beggar’s bag, no money in your pockets. Wear sandals, but don’t carry a spare shirt.’ From thatch to toe, I set off this morning with a hat, thermal top, fleece mid-layer, waterproof jacket, boxer shorts, thermal leggings, waterproof over-trousers, thermal socks, thick socks, and walking boots. In my left pocket I had a gps, in my right pocket I had a waterproof camera, and we’re not even going to start on the contents of my rucksack. In addition to all this, my Dad is taking his ‘driver support’ duties very seriously, and the boot of his car looks like the set of ‘Ready, Steady, Cook’. Not for the first time, I rather feel like I’m letting the side down.

You’ll think I’ve made this next bit up, but believe me. Just as I walked out of Fionnphort this morning, the clouds edged across and the sun came pouring out from the south eastern sky, and I thought to myself, ‘That’s handy, south and east is just exactly where I’m headed on this pilgrimage. As long as it stays fine I might not need my maps at all, I can just follow the sun.’ Three hours later there was no sun to follow.

Rain or no rain, I’m having such a wonderful time. About half way through the day I felt this great surge of thankfulness for all the people who are letting me have this experience: for Meymans, Dave, Delores, and all the other people in N9 whose days are much busier right now, all because I wanted to go for a walk; for Susie and The Bishop for allowing me to go off on this Sabbatical at all; I even felt a spasm of thankfulness for The Archdeacon, without whose encouragement I’d probably still be boring people with my great plans to walk from Iona to Lindisfarne. I felt such happiness that I started to smile – it was at precisely that moment that I discovered quite how chapped my lips were becoming, and what began as a big smile ended as a little swear.

Without doubt the highlight of the day came a mile into the walk when a car pulled up alongside me and the driver leaned across to ask, ‘Would you like a lift or are you happy walking?’. As you can imagine, this was exactly the moment I’d been waiting for, and I couldn’t resist replying: ‘Oh, I’m very happy walking, you see I’m on my way to Lindisfarne.’

Tomorrow I get up among the mountains. If there’s weather about, it’ll be sitting up there.

PS Delighted to see that as I make my journey across the north of Britain, Spurs are preparing to make their way across the north of London to Wembley. Cracking.

On Not Throwing Stones.

Day 1: Iona.

Miles: 9.7

Lowest Temp: 1ºc

Highest Alt: Not very high.

It was a clear blue morning as we drove across Mull to Fionnphort for the ferry to Iona. Having spent so long now reading about that little island and it’s great legacy, it was wonderful to look across the Sound to it, and more wonderful still to arrive on it.

We began by walking the three miles down to Port na Curaich, where St Columba and his twelve companions are supposed first to have set foot on the island they were to make their home. This was the most moving moment of the day for me as I felt so many different kinds of beginning there; it is the place where Columba began a story that was to reach across Britain to another little island off the coast of Northumbria, and therefore the place too where my small story of a pilgrimage was truly beginning.

After saying midday prayer there on the beach we headed back north to the Abbey, and then on to ‘the White Strand of the Monks’, the beach at the north east of the island where on Christmas Eve 986, the Abbott and fifteen of the monks were killed in the last viking raid on the island.

A tradition has grown for pilgrims to Iona to gather two stones from the beach, one of which they keep as a remembrance of their pilgrimage, and the other which they throw into the sea to symbolise a casting away of bad memories or parts of their character which they’d like to renounce. I knew on the beach that I didn’t want to throw any stones into the sea, because there is no part of myself which I want to be rid of, just many many parts of myself which I would like to see transformed.

The great journeys the Celtic Saints made were about their faith, their growth in faith, their transformation, and that’s what I want my pilgrimage to be about too. What I need to be careful about is creating unrealistic expectations of myself though. I know there is a part of me which hopes to walk onto Lindisfarne in three weeks time a so much better person than I am today, but I also know that with very rare exceptions that’s not how we change and grow. I hope God doesn’t get as impatient with me as I do!

Each day as I walk I will stop to say prayers at midday, three and six (although I hope I’m never still walking at six). Each set of prayers will end with the words below which were composed by one of the monks of Iona; if you want to say them with me some days that would be a great gift to me:

The path we walk,

Christ walks it.

May the land in which we are

Be without sorrow.

May the Trinity protect us

Wherever we stay,

Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

The Wrong Island.

“Hi, this is Stuart Owen, just calling to let you know we’ll be on the four o’clock ferry to Iona.”

“Sorry?”

“Stuart Owen, my Dad and I are booked in to stay with you tonight and tomorrow.”

“Oh no, that’s next week.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s next week I’m expecting you Mr Owen, the 9^th.”

“But it’s a walk, I’m going to be half way to Glasgow next week.”

All this on the pavement outside a tearoom in Oban, half an hour before we were due to get the ferry to Mull and then on to Iona.

They say that character is forged in adversity, and if anybody’s character could do with a bit of forging I guess it’s probably mine, so this is the sort of situation which I should be grateful for really.

If you’ve ever tried to book accommodation on Iona at this time of year, or indeed anywhere north of Loch Lomond at this time of year, you’ll know that it’s not easy. It had taken a lot of phoning round to find anyone who could give us bed and breakfast, and now I was a week too early for them, and there was no room in the inn – in fact, when it comes to Iona, I’m not even sure that there is an inn.

Thankfully, the rather nice hotel (and spa) on Mull that we were due to be staying at on Thursday evening has been able to take us in. We’ll go and pay a visit to Iona tomorrow.

The apprehension that I’d been feeling since Friday evaporated the minute I arrived in Glasgow, and now I just can’t wait to get started. Indeed, I’ve been having something of a battle to keep my vanity in check. All morning I wanted someone, anyone – the taxi driver, the guard on the Stansted Express, the man at the oversize baggage counter - to ask me why I was going to Scotland, just so I could reply, “To walk across it.” Before my ego ran completely out of control, I found myself reading a newspaper story about someone who’s preparing to swim across the Atlantic, which helped me to regain a sense of perspective about this pilgrimage.

Without wishing to appear ungrateful for his support, I ought to finish by putting on record the very foolish remark my Dad made as we were driving up to Oban. We were talking about things which it would be a real pain to discover we’d forgotten to bring with us, when Dad chirped up, “Actually, I don’t think I’ve remembered to bring any midge repellent.”

Naming No Names.

This first day of February seems like a fine time to explain why my pilgrimage is taking place at this woefully inappropriate time of year – it’s The Archdeacon’s fault.

Back in 2007, when we started to plan this walk, one of the first things we had to do was find a suitable date. Archdeacon’s being very busy people (most of them, anyway), this involved a substantial amount of humming and hawing as my friend thumbed through his schedule trying to find a month in which the people of Dorset could release him from their cares. February 2010 was that month.

More recently The Archdeacon has quite rightly come to the view that this is in fact a very silly time of year to walk across Scotland, and so he won’t be joining me until I get to Bishopbriggs. Obviously I bear my dear friend and mentor absolutely no ill will whatsoever over all of this, and if at any point my tone should suggest otherwise, you must assume that my better nature has been effected by the bitter cold.

Tomorrow morning I fly to Glasgow, where my Dad will be collecting me; then it’s ninety miles to Oban, the ferry to Mull, thirty-six miles across Mull, and a ferry to Iona. And then dinner.

I’ve been feeling a bit apprehensive since Friday, when I went over my journey plan one last time – it is quite a long way to walk, and there are some fairly long legs. However, I’m sure when I start to cross Mull on Thursday morning it will be with a song in my heart – I just hope it’s a song I know the words to.

Here’s what we’re looking forward to:-

Thursday 4^th Across the western half of Mull, 18 miles.

Friday 5^th – Across the eastern half of Mull, 17 miles.

Saturday 6^th – Oban to Arduaine, 19 miles.

Sunday 7^th – Arduaine to Kilmichael Glassary, 15 miles.

Monday 8^th – Kilmichael Glassary to Inveraray, 22 miles.

Tuesday 9^th – Inveraray to The Drovers’ Inn, 20 miles (most looking forward to).

Wednesday 10^th – The Drovers’ to Balmaha, 21 miles (least looking forward to).

Thursday 11^th – Balmaha to Drymen, 7 miles, with my Dad.

Friday 12^th – Drymen to Bishopbriggs, 19 miles, with my Uncle Jimmy.

Saturday 13^th – Having a bath.

Sunday 14^th – Bishopbriggs to Bothwell, 19 miles, with The Archdeacon (from now on) and Susie (for the day – and I’ve bought her card already, as opportunities to do a bit of shopping are likely to be scarce once I cross the border).

Monday 15^th – Bothwell to Lanark, 18 miles.

Tuesday 16^th – Lanark to Biggar, 17 miles.

Wednesday 17^th – Biggar to Peebles, 16 miles (still don’t have anywhere to stay).

Thursday 18^th – Peebles to Selkirk, 17 miles.

Friday 19^th – Having another bath.

Saturday 20^th – Selkirk to St Boswells, 15 miles.

Sunday 21^st – St Boswells to Jedburgh, 9 miles (still don’t have anywhere to stay here either).

Monday 22^nd – Jedburgh to Yetholm, 15 miles.

Tuesday 23^rd – Yetholm to Wooler, 13 miles.

Wednesday 24^th – Wooler to Fenwick, 11 miles.

Thursday 25^th – Fenwick to Lindisfarne, 6 miles, with Susie again.

This Little I Know About... St Cuthbert - Parts I & II.

Part I.

I have St Cuthbert to thank for the happiest drop of whisky I’ve ever sipped.

One of the most famous stories about St Cuthbert tells how on a visit to Coldingham Priory he was spied walking down to the sea in the dead of night. He walked out into the sea (and remember, this is the North Sea we’re talking about here), literally up to his neck in it, and prayed. At daybreak he returned to the shore, and there two otters came up and dried the Saint’s feet with their fur, and warmed them with their breath.

About thirteen hundred years, I went to Lindisfarne on a retreat led by a decidedly butch priest. He thought it would be good for us all to strip down to our underwear and wade out into the water to recite a few psalms in honour of St Cuthbert; I think it was February. Obedient as ever I joined in with this lunacy: I was glad to discover that I didn’t feel the cold for very long, because it only took a few seconds to become numb. When we got back to our accommodation, a fine bottle of Talisker whisky appeared, a gift from one of the most marvellous nuns that Ireland has ever produced. No medicine has ever restored me to myself as rapidly as that dram of earthy gold.

St Cuthbert’s life encompasses a great historical turning point, because there were two Christian traditions alive in the British Isles in his time – the traditions of Ireland and the north and west of Britain, and the tradition brought to the south of England by St Augustine of Canterbury. These two traditions are usually described as ‘Celtic’ and ‘Roman’, and are portrayed as being quite distinct, but there was probably far more that united them than divided them, and generally speaking the ‘Celtic’ monasteries looked to and maintained strong links with the ‘Roman Church’.

On the night that St Aidan died, a young Cuthbert saw lights in the sky, and took this as a sign that he should enter the monastery Aidan had founded at Old Melrose. Thus, he grew up in the ‘Celtic’ tradition as a spiritual descendant of St Columba. However, thirteen years after he entered Old Melrose, the ‘Roman’ and ‘Celtic’ traditions were to collide and then separate.

One of the differences between the two traditions regarded the date of Easter. In 664, King Oswiu (who had been brought up in the ‘Celtic’ tradition) called a synod to resolve this difference, because he was fed up with celebrating Easter at a different time to his wife, Queen Eanfled (who had been brought up in the ‘Roman’ tradition). The Synod of Whitby witnessed a vigorous debate between the ‘Celtic’ Bishop Colman of Lindisfarne, and the rather odious Bishop Wilfrid, and once the arguments had been concluded King Oswiu ruled in favour of the ‘Roman’ date for Easter.

Bishop Colman and his monks moved out of Lindisfarne, and St Cuthbert moved in.

Part II.

There is much to love and admire in St Cuthbert’s life. Like St Aidan, he sought out the poorest and most needy. Like St Columba, he had a particular care for those who came to him as penitents.

There is also a complexity, a fragility perhaps, about St Cuthbert’s character – just as there was with Columba. On the remote island near Lindisfarne, where Cuthbert spent many years as a hermit, he built high walls for his cell so that all he could see was the sky, and he would not be ‘distracted’ by the view of the sea around him. Given the Celtic reputation for seeing so much of God in the ‘great book’ of Creation, this seems like an extreme kind of withdrawal.

Maybe his desire for complete solitude is not so strange though. It’s probable that the monastic community at Lindisfarne was a deeply divided one when Cuthbert became Prior, in the wake of the Synod of Whitby. Bede described how, ‘Some of the monks preferred their old way of life to the rule... At chapter meetings he was often worn down by bitter insults, but would put an end to the arguments simply by rising and walking out, calm and unruffled.’ I’ll keep that up my cassock sleeve for the next time a Church Council meeting gets a bit out of hand.

Just as my pilgrimage will end at St Cuthbert’s ‘home’ island of Lindisfarne, so some see Cuthbert himself as marking the end of a great journey of faith which began with the arrival of an exiled warrior-Saint on the island of Iona. To Ian Bradley of the University of St Andrews, St Cuthbert is ‘the last great representative of the heroic age of Celtic Saints.’