Old Melrose.

Day 16: Selkirk to St Boswell’s.

Distance: 17.8 miles (285.2 total).

Duration: 7 hrs 18 mins.

Lowest Temp: 1ºc.

Weather: Crystal white beneath our feet and clear blue above us.

Highest Alt: 957 ft.

Situated a couple of miles from Melrose, on a bend in the River Tweed, there is not a great deal to see now at Old Melrose. It’s a beautiful, tranquil corner, hidden away and at peace. If Iona is most decidedly ‘Columba’s Island’, and if most people think of St Cuthbert when they think of Lindisfarne, then perhaps Old Melrose is St Aidan’s place – an overlooked corner for an all too often overlooked Saint.

The story goes that on the night St Aidan died in Bamburgh, a young shepherd called Cuthbert saw in the sky the lights of angels taking Aidan’s soul to heaven, and went at once to begin a new life as a monk at the monastery at Old Melrose which Aidan had founded.

There are many places in the chronology of the Celtic Saints where events coincide. St Ninian is said to have founded his abbey at Whithorn in the same year that his great inspiration, St Martin of Tours, died. As St Columba died, so the missionary St Augustine of Canterbury, is supposed to have landed in Kent.

Perhaps these are just coincidences, or perhaps they reflect an understanding by the historians of many centuries ago, that each new beginning marks some kind of ending, and in all our endings there is the potential for something new to begin.

The days and hours and miles are all passing too quickly for me at the moment. Obviously part of me is looking forward so much to walking on to Lindisfarne, to completing my pilgrimage from Iona, but there is also a growing part of me that doesn’t want this journey to end. Whereas in the first days of this pilgrimage I spent my time looking ahead, now I tend to be looking backwards to all the wonderful experiences that are falling ever further into my past. I needed to visit Old Melrose today, to be reminded that whenever something passes from our lives there is often also something new which is beginning to stir, even if we might not be able to recognise it at the time for what it will be.

Lastly for today, thanks ever so much to my Dad and to Anji for their wonderful hospitality over the past three nights. The Archdeacon and I enjoyed a very pleasant visit to Selkirk Cricket Club last night, where Malcolm bought us a pint, Scone tried to persuade us of the delights of the Cape Wrath Way, and a gentleman by the name of Banksy enlivened the evening’s sport of ‘carpet bowls’ with a wide and varied range of what we assumed were Gaelic battle cries.

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Pete asks: What is going on?

Dear Confused of Brooklyn, I assume that this refers to your earlier comment regarding my clothing arrangements. Most morning’s, what’s going on is this (in order of appearance): boxer trunks (is that what they’re called? You all know the sort of things I mean), Compeed blister plaster, thermal liner socks, thermal top, thermal leggings, thick socks, waterproof leggings, thin top, walking boots, waterproof jacket, gaiters. Most days this has been entirely unnecessary, and what should have been going on was, flip flops, Bermuda shorts, t-shirt, sun-hat.

Cath asks: If you could have one day of your pilgrimage (so far) again, which would it be and why?

Gosh. Visiting St Columba’s Bay on Iona was incredibly moving, as that is where so many great journeys began, in so many different ways, including my small pilgrimage. In terms of pure walking, yesterday was probably one of the finest days so far. However, I’d have to say the seventh day, walking between Inveraray and Inverarnan. It was the day I was most looking forward to, walking up away from Loch Fyne into the mountains, before dropping back down to the top of Loch Lomond. It was a wonderful experience, and what’s more to go back to day seven would mean I still had fourteen days of walking still ahead of me, instead of only seven.

Elaine asks: Why is it you are looking suspiciously like a Russian partisan?

Dear Elaine, you have four weeks to find yourself a new church to worship in!

Michael asks: Is the Holy Spirit nudging you to have as part of our future a book about your experience?

Dear Michael, I certainly intend to spend part of March writing something about this experience. I think I’ll take the days of the pilgrimage as the framework, and expand on some of the reflections that have come out of them. Whether or not I have it in me to produce a book, I don’t know. It would be good, at the very least, maybe to produce some Quiet Day material or something like that. Thank you for all your words of encouragement.

Susie asks: How come you have had endless days of beautiful weather and stunning scenery, and when I joined you I got rain, Glasgow and a litter strewn Clyde?

Dear Susie, God knows that frail sinners need a lot of encouragement if they are to make good pilgrims; so, for most of my journey He’s surrounded me with warmth and beauty, but when we were together, He left that up to you.

Do I Look Like I Might Know The Answer?

As promised earlier in the week, today's the day you can post any questions you like about the pilgrimage.

At 5pm I'll settle down with a large glass of wisdom, and do my best to answer.

But pilgrimage questions only - no, I don't know how the General Election will turn out, whether or not we're in a 'double dip' recession, or where Spurs will finish in the Premiership.

Look forward to hearing from you.

The Archdeacon Addresses An Anxious Nation.

Day 15: Peebles to Selkirk.

Distance: 18.7 miles (267.4 total).

Duration: 7 hrs 35 mins.

Lowest Temp: 0ºc.

Weather: Have given up trying to find new ways of saying ‘perfect for walking’.

Highest Alt: 1748 ft.

‘I now know that one of the most significant things in being priested is that you get to give the notices at the end of mass’ said The Pilgrim after his ordination. This was said in that distinctive period in the church’s history when Pilgrim was a Curate and I was his Vicar. You need to know that the notices were not used primarily to convey information about the events of the coming week but more specifically for Vicar and Curate to abuse one another. Given this history you will not be surprised at the appalling treatment that I have received so far in this Blog however you might be a touch surprised that The Pilgrim has allowed me loose on it!

Another couple I know also walked to Lindisfarne however not from Iona but from Bristol where they happened to be priests. They realised that along the way they met people who they later they realised were angels – i.e. people who almost miraculously brought help at time of extreme need. I would like to say that I have also met an angel in the form of the blessed Roy who, as you will know from the Blog, has the very distinctive experience of being The Pilgrim’s father. Never mind what he has done for The Pilgrim he has enabled me to get this far. When the range of necessary and important equipment that I had wisely brought proved to be too heavy a burden and frankly too much a source of merriment for The Pilgrim, he travelled 70 odd miles to relieve me of: my tent; sleeping bag; sleeping bag liner; cooker; pots and pans; kitchen sink; and dog basket. I feel privileged to have my walking style compared to his, which has if nothing else panache and I am now being given wonderful hospitality by Roy and his wife Anji.

Today’s walk, which even The Pilgrim admitted was the best walking day so far, was from Peebles to Selkirk. The thermometer read –3 and the car journey from Selkirk back to Peebles (we stayed with Roy and Angie last night) was initially through thick fog, however as has been proven several time the weather forecast was largely inaccurate and the sky cleared and temperature rose (a bit). An easy walk for 7 miles down the Tweed led to the impressive Traquair House – a sign proclaimed it the oldest inhabited house in Scotland in which 27 Kings have stayed. The Pilgrim also told me that the gates have remained shut since the last Stuart was on the throne and will only open when the next one ascends – he said this with a wistful look in his eye, which I think might be something to do with personal ambition!

We then launched out on a stunning section of the Southern Upland Way, which took us up to the highest point on the whole pilgrimage – some 1,760 feet. It is The Pilgrim’s tradition to sing Praise to the Holiest in the Height every time he reaches a high point over 1,000ft. We actually did this twice (only the first verse as neither of us can remember any more) as there was some dispute about the which point was the highest, however we did sing it to two different tunes. When going up hills (which I love) I am prone to focusing totally on getting to the summit and therefore so often miss what is around me on the way. I loved every moment of today and realised that getting to the summit was of little significance compared with the scenery that I was walking through and actually also the very special and cherished conversation I was having with my friend. We hardly abused one another all day!

While I am writing this he is in the bath with a G and T, which frankly is not in the spirit of Aiden as far as I can see.

Tomorrow is a rest day. He’s off with the help of the blessed Roy to stand up to his waist in the North Sea at Coldingham, with some vain hope that an otter or two might come to his aid. I’m doing a far more sensible thing and going to play 18 holes at Peebles with my old friend David Sceats, the Episcopal priest in Selkirk.

Finding Lost Paths.

Day 14: Biggar to Peebles.

Distance: 17.9 miles (248.7 total).

Duration: 6 hrs 40 mins.

Lowest Temp: 0ºc.

Weather: Perfect.

Highest Alt: 700 ft or thereabouts.

Archdeacon Watch: He took a little rest today, but is now full of beans and raring to go – and tomorrow he’s writing the post.

Dr Beeching is not what you would call a popular man in this part of the world. The Borders were particularly hard hit by the rail line cuts of the 1960s, and the loss of local lines is still keenly felt.

Most of my walk today was along one of those old rail lines. It was beautiful walking, on a clear cool day, with the Tweed as my companion for most of the way.

Walking the lost line stirred in my imagination thoughts of all those many people who would have passed this way by train: those for whom it was just the regular commute and those who took particularly special and memorable trips across this way. I’m not sure that Pilgrim’s Cairn has many readers this side of the border, but if there’s anybody out there with particular memories of travelling by rail the line that today I walked, I’d love to hear them.

In a sense, this pilgrimage is itself a kind of walking ‘a lost line’. Once there would have been significant traffic between Iona and Lindisfarne, as monks, bishops and princes made their way back and forth between the two, carrying news of battles lost and hearts won, news of great events and domestic gossip.

The walk from Biggar to Peebles evoked in me so many different senses of ‘paths lost’.

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, that time when Christians seek to follow Christ into the wilderness places to struggle with temptation. Lots of us will be giving up chocolate, booze, fags or whatever else. Perhaps Lent is also about rediscovering ‘lost paths’, about finding again a true path which once upon a time we were walking, but which somehow has been lost to us; a time for finding our way again.

On Friday I have my second rest day. On my last rest day I encouraged all of you to go for a bit of a walk, this time I thought I’d let you rest, and instead give myself a job to do. Quite a few questions have been posted on this site over the past few weeks and I’m really sorry that I haven’t had the time to answer them – at the end of each day there’s only just time to re-hydrate, clean up, eat, go over the next day’s walk, (perhaps re-hydrate a little more), and then bed. So, as with the walking last weekend, I’ll put up a sort of ‘blank’ post on Friday morning, and if you want to post a question you can do it then, and I’ll try to answer as best I can around 5-ish.

See you tomorrow my friends, sleep well - I know I will.

Luggage.

Day 13: Lanark to Biggar.

Distance: 17.4 miles (230.8 total).

Duration: 7 hrs 37 mins.

Lowest Temp: 2ºc.

Weather: All around us but never on top of us.

Highest Alt: 825 ft

Archdeacon Watch: Glad not to be on the bus, mostly.

Last night we were wonderfully looked after by the Revd Dan Gafvert, who taught us a lot about Lanark and about Lanarkshire. It was great to be able to stop, for the second and last time on this pilgrimage, in someone’s home.

This morning The Archdeacon declared himself fit for service once more, so off we set. Now, in my defence, I’d like to put it on the record that over the first few miles of each leg I really need to keep going just to work out the various aches and pains I have in my right foot (everything else, I’m delighted to say, continues to work well – well, as well as ever). Stopping and starting makes me sore. Here ends the case for the defence.

By the time we’d made the two miles to New Lanark, The Archdeacon had introduced a series of pauses to our progress, as he’d mucked around with his clothing, faffed about with his rucksack, and had the inevitable long minutes of fiddling with his walking sticks. I prayed the Rosary, and tried to think good thoughts.

Then we reached New Lanark itself, a wonderful heritage site which is well worth a visit. The Archdeacon disappeared into the Gift Shop and Visitor Centre. This is a walk, a long walk, popping in to Gift Shops and Visitor Centres is something we just don't do. However, I rustled up as much Christian charity as I could muster and waited. He didn’t reappear. I continued to wait. Still no sign.

I began to have a tantrum in my head: ‘What’s he up to? He’s just making this walk harder. It’s like having another pack to carry.’

And then I stopped. Comparing this person, parson and friend to my pack made me realize just how stupid I was being. I remembered that my pack contained only the essentials for the journey, and that all the people I’ve been privileged to share this pilgrimage with are essential to it.

What’s more, all the people I’m privileged to share life’s pilgrimage with, are never extra weight – they are essentials, without which no pilgrimage is worthy of the name. It's only my poverty of love which makes others feel like extra weight, and the more I can learn to love, the more I will understand that the people I encounter are never weights but gifts.

And lastly, I wish to defend The Archdeacon from expressions of sympathy which he has received in recent days. He is a proud man who would be deeply distressed to think that anyone is feeling sorry for him. In the ten years of our friendship that’s a distress I’ve never caused him, and nor do I intend to in the ten or so days ahead, as I drive him over Glen and Ben (Scottish terms for landscape, not people we’ve met).

PS The Archdeacon has managed to organise for us to celebrate the Eucharist on Lindisfarne at 10am on Friday 26^th February. As I always put when advertising forthcoming events in the service sheet, ‘all are welcome’.

Never Stop Again.

Day 12: Bothwell to Lanark.

Distance: 19.8 miles (213.4 total).

Duration: 7 hrs 22 mins.

Lowest Temp: 2ºc.

Weather: Just like that song by Crowded House.

Highest Alt: 651 ft

The Archdeacon smells better than I do. That’s largely because whilst my journey to Lanark involved nearly twenty miles of walking along the occasionally elusive Clyde Walkway, his involved two bus trips, costing £1.69 and £3. Perhaps I should explain.

When The Archdeacon arrived in Bishopbriggs on Friday evening, I was rather dismayed to discover that he’d brought a tent and a sleeping bag with him. Given that our journey was going to be taking in a series of hostelries and bed and breakfasts these seemed rather superfluous, and I tried to persuade him so, but he was not to be persuaded; The Long Suffering One tried to persuade him that they were unnecessary encumbrances, but he was not to be persuaded; my Uncle and Aunty tried to persuade him that they were unhelpful burdens, but he was not to be persuaded.

So, off we set on Sunday morning, me with my spare pants and a change of socks, and The Archdeacon with his tent and sleeping bag, and who knows what all else.

Curiously enough, The Archdeacon and my Dad walk in very much the same way. They both tear off as fast as they can for as far as they can, before coming to a sudden breath-shuddering halt; at this point The Archdeacon tinkers obsessively with his walking sticks and rucksack straps, in the belief that if he gets them perfectly set he will Never Have To Stop Again.

We first realised something was wrong at lunchtime. He’d been keeping up a good pace, but when he removed his waterproof jacket there was actual steam rising from his clothing – owing to the space taken up by the tent (and sleeping bag), he was having to wear virtually every item of clothing he possessed. “I’m feeling a bit hot”, he observed.

It was at the thirteen mile mark that he really began to flag. The Long Suffering One was deeply sympathetic and helpful. I just wanted to hit him with one of his tent poles and then smother him with the sleeping bag.

Anyway, he soldiered on to Bothwell. This afternoon he met up with my Dad, who took away several kilos of utterly pointless baggage, and so he’s going to have another go at being a pilgrim tomorrow. Keep him in your prayers, and perhaps see if you can’t get a Mass offered up for me.