Augustine Camino 2020

This 'tattie holiday' offers an opportunity for preparation for my and my husband's Chemin d'Assise pilgrimage in 2021 in very many ways.  We will walk the Augustine Camino. We will walk for a week,  from Rochester Cathedral, via Canterbury Cathedral and numerous ancient churches in the 'cradle of  English Christianity' to Ramsgate, where Augustine landed from Rome in AD597.  We will carry loaded rucsacs, and sleep in hostels and B&Bs (no campsites open this coronavirus struck autumn).  And I will write as we walk. I don't know what I will write.  I don't know how my body will cope with the walking and carrying. I don't know what and who we will meet along the way to write about. But I am hopeful.

Embodying faith: I often talk about my joy in the embodiment of faith, in the 'drama' of the church year.  I love the involvement of all my senses in my faith: singing, seeing, praying, physically moving, smelling, tasting, and experiencing emotional responses. I hope that this pilgrimage will further embody my faith and break down barriers between my spiritual life and my physical life. This isn't a new hope, but it is a living hope. I hope that walking will increase my awareness of God's presence everywhere, and will allow me to 'feel' that presence in my aching limbs, my dripping hair, my warmed sunlit skin, my throbbing toe. 

Blogging: I love to write.  But I don't.  And I love telling stories. But I don't do this much either. And I have never written a blog! So, I hope that this 'mini' pilgrimage will give me a chance to try out blogging. To see what works, and what doesn't. To find my way around a blog site. To tell stories. No pressure. No followers (yet!) But lots of hope. Andiamo!

Day1

As we explore, and wait for the Cathedral Canon who is to bless us as we set out, my connection with this ancient place of pilgrimage feels forced and lacking affect. The worn pilgrim steps are now protected by a wooden staircase structure. In an attempt to really connect with those who have gone this way before me, I crouch and push my fingers through gaps at the edge to touch the ancient stones. I am saddened; these dead stones somehow don't (won't?) become interior 'living' stones.  Nevertheless, my hope remains that rather than the dead dusty stone that for now seems all that is within my reach, connection to this heritage will come alive in the steps ahead.

Towards the end of our walking today, we walk for several miles alongside a quarry.  Every few metres the high fence warns us of the danger we will encounter should we stray over the boundary line: very deep water; unstable ground; quarry workings; heavy plant machinery.  The fruiting trees beyond the fence suggest there is potential for life within, but we are not welcome. "Keep out!" the signs shout at us.  As the rain pours down, the cars speed by beside us, and darkness descends.  It could seem like the bleakest part of the day, but I find myself smiling broadly, and a spring enters my step.  

We approach Aylesford Priory where the gates are firmly locked.  The priory has welcomed pilgrims since its establishment in 1242, but coronavirus has caused so many doors to be locked shut to so many people, and so it is here.  We are unable even to pitch our tent in the grounds, so walk on, drenched, tired, but excited to pick up our packs (and sticks) again tomorrow.

Day 2

In the days and weeks leading up to this walk I had worried about my physical ability to carry a loaded rucksack and walk miles each day.  I’d never done this, and whilst I am well accustomed to long days of walking, carrying a loaded pack was a new and rather daunting prospect. 

But as I take up my pack and walk today I am struck by its familiarity.  Our three children were all carried for many miles, through city streets, and up Scottish and Lakeland mountains - I have done this before! The body memory is strong, and welcome, as I recall early parenthood. But the joy-filled memories become more melancholic, as I reflect that this October ‘tattie holiday’ is the first for over 20 years without our children in tow (or on our backs). Because of this freedom, we are thrilled to be able to walk this week.  But I am led to wonder what my load is now? What am I carrying? Too many spare clothes and heavy books, most definitely! But I also carry grief: for my parents; for my husband’s pre-brain-haemmorhage brain and life; for our young love for one another and our youthful dreams. Surely Augustine grieved for Rome, for his network of family and friends there who he knew he was unlikely to ever see again. Is this central, or common at least, to pilgrimage? Leaving behind, losing things from our past. Pilgrims in the past would have reached their destination, and then had to turn round and walk back home.  We don’t have to walk back, but the journey home will take 2 days.  Is there a movement during that turning, moving from reflecting on the past to looking to the future?  A repentance almost, in the sense of a turning to face a new direction? For now, I am left with my melancholy, palpably aware of things, people, opportunities that are gone. 

Day 3

A day of getting lost searching for paths whose ways are hidden after harvest ploughing.   Spent crops, and tractor tracks entice us onto false ways, and we find ourselves marooned, with boots of clay and frustrated spirits weighing us down. But we keep going, and a friendly man with his well loved weather worn cap smiles encouragingly, commenting, ‘A little path across the muddy field would be nice wouldn’t it. If only farmer Giles would drive his tractor to show us the way…’ We all need a Farmer Giles now and then.

Day 4

Most of our walk is along footpaths, often indistinct, but away from roads and vehicles, and frequently through beautiful ancient woodlands surrounded by autumn gold.  But today we find ourselves walking along a frighteningly windey road with no pavement and occasional large lorries in both directions.  The consequences of Simon’s brain traumas include one sided complete deafness, and some processing difficulties, and this road is terrifying. He has no directional sense of the approaching traffic, and finds it impossible in the midst of his stress to make decisions about crossing the road, or trying to get himself off the road. We eventually work out our strategy: I am in control, and will tell him exactly what to do, and when to do it. He mustn’t question my instruction (because then it may be too late and incur even greater danger for both of us). ‘Trust me. Put yourself in my hands. Don't question. Just follow my instructions’ is our strategy. Simon is constitutionally hard wired to question orders. I am constitutionally hard wired to consider everyone's opinion and definitely not impose my own without discussion. This situation, and our strategy for survival, invoke challenge and stress for both of us. But we survive, and hug, and walk on, onto a beautiful woodland path.  Oh, thank God.

In Faversham, an old man of the town is intrigued by our big packs, and sticks, and perhaps our  Scottish accents. What are we doing here in his hometown? Each question formed with care, and each answer eventually acknowledged and affirmed ... ' ... Yeah. ... That's it ... '. We can’t hurry this conversation - it takes time. Wittgenstein wrote that our mind functions optimally at 3 miles an hour - walking pace - and that walking is the means of knowing.   And here today this walking paced conversation suits us very well.  But I wonder how many meetings I curtail, or miss altogether, as I hurry through my life, rushing on to my next, more important, meeting.

Day 5

As we walk this morning we see a mother and child out with their pony.  The pony is small and stocky, and the child seems tiny.  He is wedged in, like a chestnut in its seed case. Surely this young child could hardly sit upright unsupported on a soft carpet. But in this saddle the structure is there and so sitting just happens. The child is becoming familiar with the horse's movements, enjoying where they are without a care for how to stay on the horse, and their trusted parent is guiding the pony in the right path. Is this how we are as children in the church, in our faith? We enter, many of us, as young children, and enjoy community, friends, activities that are fun and match our needs, guided along the way by our elders.

This tiny child’s saddle will soon become constricting. As they grow they will naturally leave such constraints behind, and want to test limits. They will most likely fall off, maybe several times, but will hopefully climb back on and go on to enjoy new places and challenges as they ride through life. Dogma or faith that does not allow us to grow, to question, to experiment, to explore, and to climb back on, will constrain and frustrate us. We will outgrow it, and we must surely, inevitably, leave it behind.

We arrive in Canterbury in time for Evensong.  We are excited.  We get our first glimpse of the cathedral from outside the city; pulling us towards it, as it has surely done over the centuries as pilgrims have walked, or ridden, here. But reaching the Cathedral gates we are locked out. A few others are also hanging around in the street wondering how to break through this huge wooden door that bars our way. Minutes pass, people come and go in the street, but no-one enters. There is a tiny brass doorbell - we joke that this is the way to gain entry.  But several minutes later a local who knows, shows us that it is! A door within the door is opened, and a guard, in uniform resembling police, questions each person who dares to ask to enter. St Peter in disguise?

Once seated in the Cathedral, distanced from all others, the scale of this place astounds me. The stone feels familiar, and the grandeur is certainly matched by the trees and skies we have walked under.  Half of the girls’ choristers are singing, and their ethereal voices fill the vast space.  But my sense of disconnection remains. Am I witness to a polished performance, or am I encountering God? I’m not sure. I sometimes think I am more comfortable with the God I meet in a sip of chalky water when I’m feeling hot and tired, or the lingering smell of a fox that has crossed this path before me, than I am in this place.

Day 6

Leaving Canterbury, we visit Saint Martin of Tours church. In anticipation of being in this ancient place of Christian worship, in continuous service as a place of Christian worship since the 4th Century - before Augustine ever arrived on these shores, I really feel excited. It's on our way out of Canterbury but, disappointingly, it's closed on Mondays. Again I am left to wonder where God is to be found. I recognise the historical significance of these places; the stories are here where we're walking, but they feel remote and inaccessible. My heart’s desire is to be involved, connected, a participant with others who desire to know God, and instead I feel like a tourist, an observer.

I sit for a while in Saint Martin's Churchyard, the ancient stones supporting my back.  I look out on Augustine Abbey, and beyond that the Cathedral.  All are ancient, showing a succession, moving from a small 4th Century church to the bigger Abbey, to an enormous walled, defended Cathedral.

All these places have locked us out.  I wonder, does the grandeur that we build to glorify God actually hide God, making encounter more and more difficult? I can almost hear bolts being shot, scraping and thudding shut. The heavy, studded ancient oak doors, impressive in so many ways, actually feel almost violent, or at least carrying the threat of violence, if we should dare to try to cross those thresholds.

Day 7

Our final day of walking, and our emotions are mixed: relief that we have managed to walk, to carry our packs, and to navigate the sometimes hidden path; sadness that soon we must begin our return journey home, and begin to look forward to whatever comes next; and eager anticipation to reach Pegwell Bay in Ramsgate, Augustine’s landing place.  I am singing as I walk. Yesterday we visited Fordwich Church, dating from the 11th Century.  Although not regularly used for services, it remains consecrated, and near the altar we found propped a large Taizé icon of the cross.  We stood, singing the Taizé song, Herre visa mig vägen,  Lord show me the way.  This song has become our anthem along this camino.  And singing, in this ancient church, at last it felt like prayer.

Augustine Camino haiku

Rochester canon

blessing, sends us on our way

... seek and you shall find

Clay clogged feet

heavily weigh every step

searching for the path

OS map lightens 

the route to Augustine's start

 ... our pilgrimage end.