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The Saint's Way

21/6/2019

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Picture
This was our toughest challenge yet: a three-day pilgrimage across Cornwall, from Padstow on the north coast to Fowey (pronounced Foy) on the south. It’s around thirty miles, with the odd diversion thrown in, and we planned to do it in three days which put the distances within our capability. But what made it tough was that we were carrying everything we needed for the three days, including tents and sleeping bags – which made for heavier rucksacks than we’d been used to.

Long ago, pilgrims and other travellers used this route to avoid sailing through the dangerous waters off Lands End. Much of it had been long abandoned and forgotten until the 1980’s, when the discovery of ancient granite stiles led to it being resurrected as a path for hikers. Different times, different purposes. But the signs of its original purpose were still there. Much has changed over the centuries, but there is also much that remains.

Such as the River Camel estuary and the tidal creeks we crossed as we headed out of Padstow – though the obelisk on the hill above is a relative newcomer, a monument to Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee in 1887. As we wound our way through farmland and forest, past churches and villages, up towards the higher land in the centre of Cornwall, we found older markers, granite crosses that had once shown the way. On Saint Breock Downs we came across the oldest thing yet – a standing stone, set up in the late Neolithic or early Bronze age. Somewhere between 2,500 and 1,500 years old.

Celtic pilgrims and traders would certainly have seen this as they passed by, and perhaps wondered as we did about the people who had set it up, and why. Did it mark a boundary? Was it a meeting point or a burial site? Did people gather here to worship or to trade or to settle disputes. Perhaps all of these, perhaps more besides.

Now it stands alongside a wind farm, giant turbines overshadowing the old stone. But it will probably still be there when they are gone.

Our second day of walking took us to the highest point of our journey, on Helman’s Tor. From there we could just make out the sea and the south coast. The north coast was also supposed to be visible from there, but we couldn’t see it. Perhaps on a clearer day. But we could see Rough Tor and Brown Willy (the highest point in Cornwall) marking Bodmin Moor to the west.

There was a Neolithic settlement nearby, though we didn’t have time to look for it. But, on top of the tor itself and just a few paces from a trig point, a cross had been carved deep into the rock – another mark of the past. People once came here to worship, probably did so even before the cross was incised into the granite.

We went on through some ancient woodlands and over granite stiles, set in place by those who had lived here a thousand years or more past. Walking through history.

I found myself wondering about these stones, markers of routes and places but also markers in time. They had their purposes, of course. The stiles and stone crosses were there to help the travellers, to say to them ‘this is the way’. But they said more than that – the fact that they were crosses also proclaimed a faith. And to those who travelled on pilgrimage, perhaps they gave reassurance and encouragement, saying “Brother, Sister, you are on the right path! God bless your journey.”

On a still deeper level, they simply say ‘We were here. Our names are long forgotten, but by these markers you know that we once were.’ Even the standing stone, who’s true purpose has vanished into the past, still says that. They remind us that we are inheritors of this land and that many other feet have trodden these paths. And no doubt many others have cursed their blisters as they did so – though perhaps my ancestors had tougher feet than me!

There is a need we have as a people – sometimes as individuals – to do something that marks our presence, that tells others that we are, or were, that leaves a sign to say that we existed and had our place in the world.

As we walked on through rain and sun, the sea once again came into view, and eventually Par beach passed beneath us.

Along the way, along all our ways, our path was decorated with lavish colour. Intense green of grass and moss made a backdrop for reds and pinks and blues and whites and yellows. Campions and Dog-rose, Cornflower, Cow Parsley, Foxgloves, Dandelions, Buttercups, Daisies, Clover and others we couldn’t identify with any certainty.

These too have endured. Not as individuals, of course, but wild flowers in general have been here longer than our history records. They were painting the landscape before people were around to appreciate their beauty. Not that the flowers cared how they looked. If they had had the capacity to think about it, their only concern would be that they should attract the pollinators. It wasn’t until people came and saw them, and wondered at their intense, fragile yet constantly renewed loveliness, that they became beautiful.

Perhaps this is our legacy as a species. Not our monuments and markers, but that we have been able to bring appreciation of the world into the world. That we can appreciate the beauty of a universe that did not know it was beautiful before we saw it so.

Strange to think that such an ephemeral thing may be the best and most enduring of all our markers. But there it is: standards and ideals of beauty change from individual to individual, from culture to culture – but the concept of beauty, the sense of thrill and wonder when we see it, the uplift of our soul in its presence – these are things we share.

Not only do we appreciate beauty, but we seek to recreate it in many and various ways. I noticed it particularly in the stained glass windows of churches we visited along the way, where the brilliant colours we had seen along the paths were captured and organised and arranged to tell stories and record messages. In beauty, the God who created beauty is acknowledged and worshipped. And by recognising beauty, by creating our own beauty, we fulfil part of our purpose in being here.


How strange, therefore, that we can also create so much ugliness, and destroy so much that is beautiful. How awful to think that our legacy as a race may not be the beauty we have seen and appreciated and created but the detritus of our civilisation – slag heaps and plastic waste and polluted air that could destroy and outlive everything we ourselves found wonderful.

We finished our journey in the narrow streets of Fowey, and like the Pilgrims before us, we took to the water. Though not across to the Continent! Just over the estuary and then a slow climb up one last hill to our final camp site.

This was the Saints Way. A journey across Cornwall that was also, at many points, a journey into the past. We walked on ancient roads, and touched lives that were lived before us, and found that we had much in common.

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The Aquae Sulis Way

5/6/2019

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The Churchyard at St Marys
Tellisford Weir
Frome meets Avon
Aquae Sulis means the Waters of Sulis. Sulis being the Celtic goddess of sacred water and healing: so Aquae Sulis = Waters of the Goddess of Waters.

This Pilgrimage was all about water.

We started from Frome, and followed the course of the River Frome northwards. Sometimes at a distance, sometimes right by its banks. Along the way was a lot of water.

St Mary’s church was surrounded by it. Built out on a lake, and accessed by a bridge, it was a restful place to stop and eat. Before moving on, and discovering a downside of so much water – mud! The path – fenced off on either side at this point – was ankle deep in glutinous green, thick and sticky mud. Annie found a way across the fence and avoided it. After all, if the people responsible for the path wanted us to stay on it, they should maintain it better. I couldn’t argue with that, but it was too late to act on that insight. I was already carrying a pots worth of clay on each boot.

There are better uses for water than making footpaths into swamps. As in fonts. All the churches we passed had one – some were locked or in use, preventing us from checking directly, but it can be said with some degree of certainty that the fonts were there. Fonts are as integral to a church as an alter and a pulpit. The receiving of new life into the church (whether new-born or newly re-born) is a vital part of the church’s ministry; the sacred water a symbol of the spiritual cleansing of the soul.

We came across another good use of water when we reached Tellisford. Here (as at several other places along the Frome and the Avon) a weir has created a deep pool. Add a broad adjoining meadow and a hot sunny day and you have a perfect place for swimming and picnicking. We stopped to rest and watch adults, children and dogs variously swimming, splashing, laughing and barking.

Beyond the weir we took a diversion to our overnight stop. The hospitality was warm and welcoming. The water our host provided was cold and welcome. I drank a full glass straight down.

Next morning we shouldered packs and headed back to Tellisford to pick up the pilgrimage where we’d left off. Pausing to look over the picturesque bridge, where another traveller pointed out brown trout lurking in the shadows of the bank. Then up to the churchyard of All Saints where – it being Sunday - we celebrated communion. We had a Nakd bar for our bread and water (what else?) for our wine. Our memories served us for liturgy and the daily Richard Rohr reading, emailed to our phones, provided the sermon. It more than sufficed for an act of worship – though perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to conclude with a hymn, especially as I couldn’t remember the words.

On again, beneath gathering clouds that promised yet another aspect of water. We took refuge from the first shower at Iford Manor – coffee and cake being a better prospect – but it couldn’t be avoided altogether and as we proceeded, we got damper. A diversion through soggy woodland to find a well was less than successful: there were no signs, no proper path and the GPS trail terminated in a pile of brambles. In compensation, we did see a deer, and a bird-of-prey (a hawk?) flew over our heads and off into the trees. There had once been a Carthusian Priory down by the river, so a well was not unlikely, but it was not proven either.

The well was unnecessary. The woods were wet enough without it.

Past the Castle at Farleigh Hungerford, which we first saw from a balloon, a year or two ago. Then on to Freshford, where the Frome flowed into the Avon. The joining of waters, sharing together and growing as a result. Annie dipped her feet in the water: on the far bank, a cow did the same, while swans cruised gracefully by.

So we were walking alongside the Avon now, and then onto the towpath of the Kennet and Avon Canal. Water as transport, a highway for people and commerce.

Crossing the river by the Dundas Aqueduct (water over water) the on-off drizzle decided to stop messing around and do a proper job of soaking us. We sheltered for a while beneath a tree, but the rain was hammering through the leaves and we still had a long way to go. There was nothing for it but to get wet. And wet we got.

Squelching along the canal towpath in wet boots wasn’t too bad, but climbing up the final hill at Calverton was the hardest stretch of the route. The rain, having satisfied itself that we were properly drenched, moved on, allowing a little sunshine to come through the trees in Bathampton Woods. But the path was rough and progress was slow, with slippery wet stones and tree roots to watch out for at every step. However, yesterday’s mud had been washed off my boots.

Back down to the canal for the final stretch. But we were struggling now. Wet feet threatened to produce blisters, and we hadn’t had a proper meal that day.

Then a spiritual Oasis in the desert: physically, a narrowboat on the canal, run by Canal Ministries, and a friendly invitation to stop, sit, and be prayed for. Refreshment comes in many forms.

Renewed, we stepped out again. Down through Sydney Gardens, across Pulteney Bridge, and finally, Bath Abbey. Journey’s end. The centre of what had once been the town of Aquae Sulis, right next to the ancient Roman Baths of Sulis Minerva: Celtic and Roman Goddesses celebrated in one temple, built where the hot mineral waters bubbled up from below. Hot water for bathing, relaxing, blessing. It must have seemed like a miracle to those who first discovered it.

Hot water is still a miracle. Not that we had access to the baths, but it was only a short bus ride home to a soak in hot water – not provided by the springs but by our boiler. Less of a miracle in its production, but still miraculous in its beneficial effects. A blessing, however come by.

Water is so many things. Used in blessing, too much of it has us cursing, but without it there is no life at all. A play-place for children, a workplace in the past when barges were the major transporter of bulk good. A refreshing drink, a rich environment for wildlife. A shaper of landscape. Symbolically, a spiritual cleanser, sign of the Holy Spirit.

Water flows. It falls from the sky or bubbles up under pressure from below ground, but then it flows. Sometimes gently, almost imperceptibly. Sometimes rushing, roaring, falling over rapids and falls. But always flowing, always moving, always seeking to find its way to the sea.

Along the way it provides many services. It provides homes and habitats, gives life and brings growth. It sustains and plays, it carries barges and pleasure boats - but always it flows. That is its nature, that is what it must do to be. Where it does not flow, where it cannot move, it becomes dead and stagnant. It must flow to live.

I take that as a metaphor for spiritual life. Our souls must be allowed to flow, to move, to seek their way to God. Along the way, they can be many things to many others. We can provide life, bring joy, help others in their work, even bring beauty into the world. But we must flow. We can flow together, and share in the journey, as rivers join their strength, as pilgrims travel together. But we must flow, and move ever closer to God.

This was our Pilgrimage of Water.
Water flowing.
Canal Ministries
Bath Abbey
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    Paul Trembling

    Husband, father, dog owner, Christian, writer, and incurable daydreamer.  In no particular order of importance - they are all me.

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Photos used under Creative Commons from h.koppdelaney, BitterScripts, psicologiaclinica, x-ray delta one, Erik Daniel Drost, jonny goldstein, guzzphoto, inkknife_2000 (5 million views), Coletivo Mambembe, Doctor_Q, tmib_seattle, Howdy, I'm H. Michael Karshis, h.koppdelaney, Menage a Moi, Click*64, Su Bee Buzz!, Susan WD, World Around Richa, h.koppdelaney, gavin.lauchlan, garrettc, polandeze, Alan Cleaver