In Strange Lands.

Given that there were probably more people in the train carriage I travelled back to London in than I had seen on most days of the pilgrimage, arriving at King's Cross itself was always likely to be something of a shock to the system. London seemed overwhelming and I did not feel happy.

Trying to find the links between the Celtic Saints I've been seeking to walk behind and the urban context I'm called to serve in, I've been thinking increasingly about the experience of exile, of being removed from that which is known and understood.

It was visiting St Aidan's, Bamburgh on Saturday morning which started me thinking about exile. It was there that St Aidan is supposed to have died, able to see his island home of Lindisfarne but cut off from it. Separate.

The experience of exile runs through the stories of the Saints I've been studying. St Columba was exiled from Ireland for his part in the Battle of Cúl Dreimhe. St Aidan undertook a life of exile in Northumbria for the sake of the Gospel. St Cuthbert sought out the exile of the solitary life in his hermitage.

Cities are full of exiles. They are the places where those who are fleeing persecution or fierce poverty seek to make new beginnings. For those who seek the exile of the solitary life, cities perhaps offer greater opportunities to live apart from your neighbour than many smaller communities do. The speed and frequency with which urban communities change and change again, can make those who stay put feel like exiles from their own pasts as the world around them is perpetually transformed. Although I've lived in London for most of the past twenty years, it was a village I grew up in, and for all the great joys of round the clock shopping and late night pizza delivery, there are still times when I could happily trade those in for a night sky with more stars and fewer sirens.

A story of exile and return is central to the Biblical narrative, it was something the Celtic Saints sought out, and it is an experience shared by many people in urban communities, communities like Edmonton. There is a thread to be followed, but I'm not sure where it goes.

Hard Core.

Four pints of milk, five litres of tonic water, and The Observer, and for the first time in four weeks I've ended a walk with wet feet. I don't know what it's like where you are, but it's chucking it down in Edmonton.

After saying farewell to Dad and Anji in Berwick, we got back into King's Cross yesterday evening, and went our separate ways - The Archdeacon back to Dorset, me back to All Saints Vicarage, and Susie - Susie went off to a party in Islington... some things never change.

On Friday morning The Archdeacon and I were privileged to be allowed to celebrate the Eucharist at the parish church of St Mary's, Lindisfarne. We offered the Eucharist with thanksgiving for a journey safely completed, for the great saints who had inspired us, and for the life of Jean Wilson, one of the organists at All Saints, who had died while I was in Scotland - I will miss her cheerfulness, her music, and the music of her laughter.

I preached a short homily about the stone I had carried from Iona.

Sitting in that historic church at the end of my pilgrimage, I experienced once again that great and inspiring sense of 'smallness' that I described on my walk from Inveraray to Inverarnan (7DHP) - what a brief moment I am in the great story that we are called to be part of.

Plans to spend a large part of the afternoon exploring the island were scuppered by torrential rain, so after a couple of pints of Blessed Beer in The Ship (we highly recommend The Crown and Anchor) we wandered out to the beach beyond Lindisfarne Castle, howled our afternoon prayers out at the wind that was howling at us, and then got back indoors.

On Saturday we packed up and made our last trip of the pilgrimage, to the parish church of St Aidan's, Bamburgh. As I knelt at the small cross marking the place where St Aidan is reputed to have died I felt that the pilgrimage was now properly ended and it was time to head back to London.

PS I'll be keeping this blog going until my Sabbatical is finished, on Palm Sunday. So, the hard core of you can continue to follow my efforts to relate what I've experienced in the lonely mountains to my life in the crowded city (although I'm off to Islay on Saturday...), and we'll discover whether or not Danny DeVito agrees to play The Archdeacon in the film version of Pilgrim's Cairn.

From An Ocean To A Sea.

Day 21: Fenwick to Lindisfarne.

Distance: 11.3 miles (351.7 total).

Duration: 5 hrs 31 mins.

Lowest Temp: 5ºc.

Weather: Dry grey.

Highest Alt: I really don’t know, couple of hundred feet maybe?

Archdeacon Watch: Growing anxious about the pub situation on Lindisfarne – none found open thus far.

Its been a funny old day, as the saying goes. The Archdeacon and I started out, to his great disgust, headed in the wrong direction, all because I was keen to add a little detour to our journey. I’d like to tell you that those extra miles were to kill the time we had to wait until the tide went out, allowing us to cross the causeway to Lindisfarne, at around two o’clock. I’d really like to tell you that. Unfortunately there was nothing that sensible about my desire to add a few miles. Like the overgrown adolescent that every man basically is, when I realised that with the addition of an extra mile or two today I could reach 350 miles... well, I couldn’t resist. I know. It’s sad.

Although he was huffing and puffing with resentment every step of the way, I got The Archdeacon to the pub around midday, and then made him sit in the beer garden for midday prayer before he was allowed his pint of Black Sheep. Susie and my Dad joined us around half an hour later, and then a little after one we made our way down to the coast and then out to Lindisfarne. From leaving the mainland until we reached the Parish Church of St Mary’s we walked in silence, and then after saying afternoon prayer in the church we looked for a pub to enjoy a celebratory pint in. All shut. Not to be. Thankfully Susie had brought a hip flask with some Laphroaig, so we enjoyed a nip of that instead.

Three weeks ago and over three hundred miles away, I stood on the Mahair on the west coast of Iona and looked out across the Atlantic Ocean. Today I completed this pilgrimage, walking out onto Lindisfarne, a slender strip of land lying low in the North Sea.

As we made our way along the causeway to this holy island, with the sea drawn back on either side of us, I had a strong sense of the way in which the sea had surrounded my journey, as it surrounds the islands which the Celtic Saints so often made their pilgrimages to. For three weeks I have been walking from the ocean, walking to the sea – and although we give them different names, they are of course part of just one great body of water.

This journey is over. My pilgrimage continues, as does yours. And wherever we are walking, whatever direction we are headed, around us on every side there is always that great ocean, that great sea, which we can give a hundred different names to, but which I would call the love of God.

Thank you to those who have walked with me on this pilgrimage, the Pilgrim Driver, my Elderly Uncle, The Long Suffering One, The Archdeacon, and Young Tom; thank you to all those of you who have accompanied me through this blog; thank you to those of you who have prayed for me; and thank you to Mum for snowdrops.

Where shall we go next?

Aidan & Edmonton.

Day 20: Wooler to Fenwick.

Distance: 12.3 miles (340.4 total).

Duration: 5 hrs 9 mins.

Lowest Temp: 0ºc.

Weather: A green and pleasant land? I think Mr Blake must have been holidaying in Scotland.

Highest Alt: 580 ft.

Archdeacon Watch: After complaining of a near-death experience during the morning session he rallied after Midday Prayer and a Mars bar.

Young Tom’s departure was much like his arrival, and he slipped away from us in the dead of night. Actually it was about seven in the morning when he got a cab to Berwick, but as far as The Archdeacon and I are concerned that’s the dead of night.

Today’s was one of the more challenging legs weather-wise, and the meteorological conditions took a significant turn for the worse about halfway through the day, some five minutes or so after The Archdeacon had breezily asserted, 'It’s definitely clearing up now.’

Apologies for yesterday’s fairly downbeat post. The good people of All Saints, Edmonton must be beginning to wonder if they need to start advertising for a new Vicar, I’ve been sounding so morose about this pilgrimage ending. Today I’ve been feeling considerably brighter, and I’ve got St Aidan to thank for the change in my mood.

Walking today’s miles, which have brought us virtually within sight of Lindisfarne, I began to wonder how St Aidan felt as he grew ever nearer to Bamburgh Castle, and ever further from Iona and the people he knew. I guess that we’ve firmly established by now that I’m not particularly qualified to peer into the minds of Saints, nevertheless I’d like to imagine that at this point in his journey St Aidan was feeling those often twinned emotions of anticipation and apprehension: he had travelled across the country at the request of Oswald, King of Northumbria, and it was to be his mission to found a community on the pattern of Iona on this far shore, there was a lot for him to look forward to; but at the same time he was leaving behind so much that was familiar to him.

Some people have questioned what I can possibly hope to find in the lives of the Celtic Saints that might be of use where I serve in North London: at first glance there would appear to be a great deal more than miles which separate Iona and N9. However, the world those Saints worked and worshipped in was very similar to the context I serve in. Theirs was a multi-cultural, multi-lingual, multi-faith society, and they often had to profess their faith in the face of opposition. When Aidan went to Northumbria he was going to a people whose language he did not even speak. He went to them and he walked with them.

I don’t suppose I’ve even begun to figure out what Iona, and Columba, and Aidan, and Lindisfarne, and Cuthbert, and that whole era of Christianity has to offer to the community I serve, but I do believe that those two worlds are much close than they might at first appear.

Those Last Few Miles of the Day.

Day 19: Town Yetholm to Wooler.

Distance: 14.5 miles (328.1 total).

Duration: 6 hrs 27 mins.

Lowest Temp: -1ºc.

Scottish Weather: Majestic.

English Weather: Minging.

Highest Alt: 1180 ft.

Archdeacon Watch: Indefatigable – and goodness only knows I’ve tried to fatig him.

Today I had my second tearful moment – it was when I crossed the border into England. The Archdeacon and Young Tom were far from sympathetic. They wanted to mark the occasion with a verse of ‘I Vow To Thee My Country’, but thankfully they were unable to summon either the words or the tune between them, so for that small mercy I am thankful.

Towards the end of today’s leg we walked out of English hills where a lot of English snow had fallen upon us, into a car park which can’t have been more than a mile from our destination. At this point the designers of St Cuthbert’s Way (which is not the best signposted Way I’ve walked, and I reckon I’ve walked at least three in the last two weeks alone) stuck what I call, ‘an annoying little jiggly bit’ on at the end, so that instead of cracking down the road straight to the pub, we were taken up across Wooler Common and all around the houses – by my reckoning it delayed our first pint by a good half hour or so. It’s not uncommon for the various long-distance ‘Ways’ to include these ‘annoying little jiggly bits’ – sometimes they’re there for some laudable purpose like keeping you away from traffic, other times I think they’re just there to add to the mileage. Whatever their purpose, they’re always particularly annoying when they come at the end of a leg.

At the end of a leg I really don’t want a ‘jiggly bit’ stuck on. It doesn’t matter how far I’ve walked in a day, when I hit the ‘three miles from home’ stretch, then I just want those miles to pass and to get to the end of the leg. Whether its been a thirteen mile day or twenty-three, at three miles from home a certain kind of tiredness kicks in.

As I walk the final miles of this pilgrimage I’m beginning to feel something of that ‘nearly home’ tiredness. Actually, I’m experiencing all sorts of contradictory feelings. Part of me feels the full distance of each mile I’ve put behind me, and I’m just getting tired – it was slow walking today. That part of me can’t wait to see Susie on Thursday and then get the train back home. But there is another part of me which simply doesn’t want this pilgrimage to end, and I feel like turning back and heading once more for Iona. I don’t want to stop walking.

I think the next couple of days are going to be quite strange.

I just don’t want to stop walking.

I know in my heart that the pilgrimage will continue, but I don’t want the walking to end.

Blogging Can Be Bad For You.

Day 18: Jedburgh to Town Yetholm.

Distance: 15.5 miles (313.6 total).

Duration: 6 hrs 2 mins.

Lowest Temp: 0ºc.

Weather: Foggy start, sunny conclusion, with the fleetest of snow flurries in between.

Highest Alt: 1207 ft.

Archdeacon Watch: With his walking sticks tapping incessantly behind me, it’s like being hunted by a psychopathic metronome.

(Sorry about the delay with this post. The Plough in Town Yetholm didn't have wi-fi access. However, that's about the only thing it doesn't have - it's a cracking pub and comes highly recommended.)

The morning began with a big hug from my brother-in-law, Young Tom, who had come up from London last night. His train had been somewhat delayed, and so he hadn’t actually arrived in Jedburgh until long after The Archdeacon and I were tucked up in bed (separately). Once the two of them had sorted out their packed lunch for the day (I just stick to two or three mini Mars bars and nothing else) we were off.

We walked to Morebattle through a persistent light fog which broke as we headed up into the hills. Either The Archdeacon is getting faster or I’m getting slower, but either way the distance between us is narrowing on the uphill sections; often he remains visible to the naked eye.

Young Tom is a keen photographer, and intrigued by our pattern of praying a couple of times during each leg, he asked if I’d mind him taking photos of us at prayer. I didn’t see any good reason to refuse at the time, but I’m now slightly worried that if students of religion in centuries to come think that the photos he took were indicative of any wider practices, then textbooks about Christianity in Britain in the twenty-first century might be slightly inaccurate; it wasn’t all about bearded blokes standing in fields, giggling hard because a couple of RAF Tornadoes were belting through the sky above as they were trying to recite a Psalm.

Around the ten mile mark I found myself getting slightly agitated because I hadn’t had any ‘great spiritual insight’ to post this evening. Instead of enjoying the beautiful scenery and the peace, I was scrabbling about the landscape and our walking together, looking for something, anything, to make ‘a point’ about. Then I remembered Loch Feochan: on the fourth day of my pilgrimage, as I headed south from Oban, I’d found myself busy doing exactly the same thing – instead of simply receiving with joy all that I was seeing, I was constantly trying to frame it for this blog, either in words or through the lens of my camera. Thankfully, as soon as I realised what I was doing I was able quite quickly to turn off my mental commentary and start simply taking the beauty around me for the beauty that it was, and not for what I could make of it.

Blogging can be bad for you. It can lead you to think that you always have to have something to say. Sometimes we don’t have to say anything.

Apparently tonight is my last night in Scotland. I’d thought the funny black line on my map was a train line, but Young Tom assures me that it’s the English border. So, seeing as it’s my last night in my heart’s home, I might just round off the night with a little whisky – it’s a special occasion.

Borders.

Day 17: St Boswells to Jedburgh.

Distance: 12.9 miles (298.1 total).

Duration: 5 hrs 10 mins.

Lowest Temp: -1ºc.

Weather: Hazy shade of Winter.

Highest Alt: 567 ft.

Archdeacon Watch: ‘It’s me age,’ he keeps telling me.

(Sorry for another late post – we actually finished around 2.30 today... but then found a pub showing the Wigan-Spurs game. Get in there Super Pav!).

We are walking among Borderers.

Today we finally turned our back on the River Tweed, which has been our companion for much of our way since we left Biggar, and headed south towards the River Teviot and Jedburgh. These final miles of our pilgrimage take us along St Cuthbert’s Way, much of which follows the old Roman Road of Dere Street.

We are in border country, nearer to England than to Edinburgh, and for many centuries this has been contested country. We’re walking through land that marked a long fought border of the Roman Empire. Its been a line of conflict between England and Scotland, and this morning we passed Ancrum Moor where a Scottish army was victorious in 1545.

Border land.

The Celtic Saints we have been following were border people. Columba’s monastery on Iona was more or less on the border between the kingdoms of the Picts and Dál Riata. They often chose to put their monasteries on islands, border places between land, sea and sky. There are many stories of Celtic monks setting sail for ‘desert places’ beyond the known borders of their world.

When we think of borders, our first thought is of lines of separation, of that which keeps different peoples or places apart. But of course borders can also be thought of as places where different worlds touch. St Columba and his successors sought to live in the border places where our world touches and is touched by that which we call the heavenly. They sought to see that which is beyond our world, in the things that are within it.

And they knew that borders are places of struggle and sometimes conflict. To try to live a life of faith is to live as a borderer. To live as a borderer is to live with struggle.

And lastly, I’ve had a question come in which, although too late for our formal Question Time on Friday, I’m willing to answer because I think it’s an important one. A certain Garrett asks, ‘If your pilgrimage was a film, which film would best describe it? AND, who would you chose to play the starring role?’ The answer is, (not quite answering his question but my own), ‘If they made a film of this pilgrimage, I think I would best be played by Rob Lowe, and The Archdeacon by Ken Davitian’.

PS I ought to say that if you’re ever staying in St Boswells, check yourself in to The Old Manse. We were wonderfully looked after there, in spite of the fact that they weren’t actually expecting us until March 20^th. And not only did Claire take our horrible muddy gaiters in to dry, but she washed them too! We felt slightly guilty each time we sloshed through another puddle on today’s leg.