Dispelling the pilgrimage myth, a Cambridgeshire lass skirts the boundaries of home

It has been a very hot couple of days, with sunscreen and sunglasses and rolled up trousers to make shorts.
The morning I left Bedford, the mother and 5 year old daughter in the room next door in the little hostel/ill-equipped B&B I was staying in were getting ready for school, in their temporary one-room living space. A young couple upstairs, he in hi-vis work clothes, she heavily pregnant, were working out the day ahead of them. It was not a place for holidays. 
I joined the old Cambridge to Bedford railway line, now a cycle route, alongside the Great Ouse river. It was already hot and an hour and a half in I stopped at a little riverside cafe at Danish Camp for some lemonade. The river eventually parted ways with the railway line and I followed it the rest of the day to St Neots, along dappled tree-lined paths, the birds singing and the blossom out, and boats slowly ambling in the water breeze. The Ouse Valley route, before entering St Neots, took me alongside the A1. Literally walking up the A1. There was a footpath, but, still, it wasn't the most pleasant of walks. I entered the south end of Eaton Socon/ St Neots, and saw a non-descript chain pub in a Travelodge. I really needed a pint by then and found myself chatting to a local landscape maintenance freelancer, who seemed to know everyone in there. He introduced himself as Tony, and quizzed me about my walk, and very kindly bought me another drink. It was a lovely and alive conversation, about being outside, walking, pollution, caring for the planet, people, life.... I thanked him as I left to find the campsite. It was right on the banks of the river, and they were only just drying out after the river burst its banks at Easter. I wasn't surprised, having seen the precariously high level of the Thames in Streatley and Goring back then. They found me a freshly mown patch under a tree that had just about dried out, and the man on the lawn mower remarked that it was good to have 'proper tents ' back! (ie. ones you can't sit up in). I sat outside the tent on the grass long into the evening until there was no more light, and had to find my hooded fleece. There were midges. I got my first midge bite in April in Cambridgeshire. This was not meant to happen. 
Today my map had the village I grew up in on it. I mean, it was on the other side, the East sheet, and very far East so a good distance away. But I was holding it all day. And I feel closer to home here, in Cambridgeshire, and the people feel like my people and have the same non accent and love the flatlands and the big skies. 
I left St Neots, crossing back over the A1 again, and headed north to Grafham Water, already in heat oppressive and bright. The bridleways all day were lined with hawthorn blossom, running straight lines between fields of potent yellow, under a slightly hazy but uninterrupted blue sky. Grafham Water felt a little poignant, being the last place I had seen, and bid a long agonising goodbye to, my last boyfriend/partner (I never know the proper term), in very different weather and mood. Today I rested at a cafe and took a cold drink down to the mirror like waterside, where boats were slowly ambling in the silky blue. 
North of the A14, along a (relatively) high ancient track, Leighton Bromswold sat dappled under an avenue of big trees. The church, famous for being restored by George Herbert, was locked, as had many before it have been in this part of the world. Even the bench I rested on was chained to the ground. I headed then directly north, past the strangely placed Hamerton Zoo Park - strange in its remoteness on one of the quietest roads in the UK - and turned up on the final footpath into Steeple Gidding. The church here is redundant, stripped of furniture, under charity care, and therefore open, devoid of anything to steal. It is beautiful in its coolness and simplicity - maybe much like how it started its life. The final, familiar, track, lined with blossom, entering wood, soared over by kites, windswept by the unbound breeze, took me to my destination. 
And so I am writing this from Little Gidding. This may negate the title a little. I was greeted warmly and told to make this my home for the night - this whole house in this little place, which I have to myself. The warden encouraged and welcomed me, remembering our last encounter six months ago. 
After making tea, I went into the little church, where a huge bumblebee was mooching about in the cool. It's understated but serious, in a very simple manner. The Eliot quote from the famous poem hangs on the wall: 'You are not here to verify, instruct yourself, inform curiosity, or carry report. You are here to kneel, where prayer has been valid.' In other words, Shut up - silence will do. For someone who creates a lot of liturgy and makes a lot of music, this speaks to me most powerfully. I didn't kneel, but I didn't need to say anything, apart from 'thank you' - to the place ... The window of the vestry, which has painted on it Nicholas Ferrar's words, 'It is the right good old way you are in. Keep in it', was propped open by two books, one by Robert van de Weyer, the other by J Philip Newell. This made me smile a little. Above the chancel arch is the inscription 'Pray for the peace of Jerusalem', painted a very long time ago, but as much needed now as ever. 
Outside, after locking up the church, red kites soared above me, ten at a time, the late afternoon sun magnifying their redness. 
I have been welcomed back to this soul-place (much like a soul-friend). I rediscovered Little Gidding only a few years ago, when I had moved to Leicestershire and had a car for the first time, and realised it wasn't far away. I have visited every 18 months or so, just when I need to. This is the place where my sister and I were baptised, Rachel aged 10 and me 8. I remember it, in the little brass font, which is now locked away in a cabinet in this house. 
There is a way in which some places reappear in our lives, often not for the most obvious reasons, but remain on the periphery, quietly, inviting us in every now and again. My soul feels at home. I can't say that about any other place really. 
But ... this to me is a mystery. I don't attribute it to a divine being, or a message in the universe, or anything other-worldly. It is deeply human, and deeply mysterious, as human life is. When people began to know that I was setting off on a very long walk, it was maybe easier to understand it by attributing my craziness to the need to go on a pilgrimage, or a walk with God. I understand that, and if it makes a seemingly irrational abandonment seem acceptable, that is ok. But it's just a very long walk. I don't really know the reason why I'm walking now (well, I kind  of do), and I don't have an end goal in mind apart from a geographical one. I pass through places. Sometimes they resonate, sometimes they are familiar, sometimes they are wild, sometimes unwelcoming, sometimes truly welcoming. I don't pray while I walk, because I don't pray. Unless I walk while I pray, in the sense that we all have an unknown depth which is constantly searching for its home. In my work I have always tried to be as authentic as possible, whilst thinking deeply about what things say to people, and also realising that it's not all about me - that different things are meaningful to different people and utterly important. I am not sceptical enough to dismiss mystery, which every faith, or non faith, has their own language, expression, art, music, literature and ritual for. All of these are valid because I don't hold the whole truth (I'm not sure I hold any of it), and they speak of the beauty and the pain of mystery. And I know that because of this, if the work that I do authentically invites people to experience the mystery, to take them outside themselves to see the world and care for it, and to invite them to be more truly themselves, then I am ok with that. It has not always been this way - I as much as anyone have been on a very interesting journey to get to this transitory place. The point is to look, be aware, listen, wait. Which is what I am trying to do. And you are probably too. So either I'm not on a pilgrimage, or I am, or we all are. 
I just happen to be here ... 
I'm the words of orthodox Bishop Kallistos Ware, 'if only we learned to take off our shoes, we would realise that the whole world is a thin place'. 

So, as TS Eliot said: 
'We shall not cease from exploration 
And the end of all our exploring 
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time'. 































Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bright, silent water, snow scattered mountains, the ladies in the van, and the 1000 mile point

I have been thinking about what I wrote on Wednesday morning, and I realise I may have come across as a little disparaging about the West Highland Way, for which I apologise. I was in a rush and didn't start out from Tyndrum until 10, by which time every other walker had responsibly packed up and left. I love the West Highland Way and of any walk (and I have walked it twice in full and twice in part) this one has had the most wonderful encounters and momentary friendships, with a camaraderie which has always been encouraging and often hilarious. And I will always recommend it to people as it is a stunningly beautiful walk. I suppose this time I wondered whether it really was too crowded, made too touristy, and had perhaps somehow lost some of its sense of adventure. That is probably a reflection on me more than anything, as I wasn't quite prepared for the amount of people (or midges). I am very grateful though for the company of Jeff and Steve, the taciturn Dutchman and his fat...
Read more

Going with the flow, led by a small cow through sweet scented hillsides, and the Slap in the haar

I have reached the Central Belt, and am now in the most populated latitude of Scotland, being misled by weather and wondering how many miles are possible over the next couple of days. 62 days of walking in, I am now able to visualise most of the way to come.  The weather has mostly been hot, almost oppressively so, although I am reluctant to complain about it, as it is better than snow and hail. Friday morning dawned misty though on the St Cuthbert's Way, as I crossed Ancrum Moor back to the path. This is where a bloody battle took place after Henry VIIIth ordered the massacre of men, women and children, as a result of the Scots not agreeing to marry off their infant Queen Mary to an English prince. My retaining of history is sketchy, but all is quiet there now, with the remembrance of the troubled times marked only by an information board. Lilliard, of Lilliardsedge, is a disputed possibly mythical figure, coming some two hundred years after the Battle, but is said to have defeate...
Read more

Edgelands, the crossing, and the power of mist

In the edgelands, the boundaries which are fixed blur the sense of identity, and the location of place, in relation to where you think it is in relation to how far north or south you feel. I have moved through the northernmost parts of England and am now in the southernmost parts of Scotland. Life in the edgelands is sparse, strange, sometimes harsh, always quietly welcoming.  I left Bellingham in bright sunshine via the very early-opening post office to send my precious folder of music and my penny whistle and recorder home. I had put a lot of suncream on and my legs were licked by a very small dog in the queue. Up and out of the little town suddenly it feels huge and empty. After a high farmyard the moor opens out, seemingly endlessly, with dense dry heather and narrow paths. Here the sparsely placed signposts are held up by a pile of stones, in the middle of the peat, silhouetted for miles on the brown horizon. It was warm and hazy so the views weren't clear but ahead lay an alm...
Read more