Many, many years ago - and a rapidly fading memory is refusing to divulge just how many it was - when joints were nimbler and floors softer, a bright spark said "If the youngsters can go on Pilgrimage, why can't their parents?" Those youngsters have grown up and gone away to make their marks variously on the world and that same bright spark is still popping up on an annual basis with his leitmotif, "We've got to get to Canterbury!" We, hapless fools that we are, dust off our boots, big out our wet weather gear (no matter that it's mid-summer) and prepare to suffer an inordinate amount of pain, exhaustion and sleep deprivation and follow him.
Why do we do it? Surely to goodness we have experienced everything that pilgrimage has to offer? Aren't we tired of dragging our mud-encrusted boots across newly ploughed fields through lashing rain and howling wind? Aren't we fed up with spending the long pre-dawn hours listening to the Symphony of Snoring and Other Assorted Night Noises? Three years ago I swore (like Sir Steve Redgrave after his fourth Olympic Gold medal win) that I would never, ever go on another pilgrimage. I've done two more since then - madness, absolute madness.
And then a few months ago Terry hove over the horizon again gently muttering about doing another leg of the circuit to Canterbury. Some jumped at the chance, others of us were - well, slightly less enthusiastic, but ultimately game. What none of us anticipated was that we would experience so many 'firsts' after all this time. It was the first time we had used Cathy Winrow's new school bus (more comfortable than previous models) and the first time I had realised that the hill from the Swan roundabout towards the A34 was so steep. The bus struggled, but came into its own going downhill!
When we arrived in Chichester we found that our accommodation for the night was in an absolutely enormous house which had once been the Archdeacon's residence and was waiting to be turned into a Convent. We could nearly have had a room (and a bathroom) each, but the pilgrimage spirit came over us and we cosied up a bit. Tom and Tony shared a room that was considerably larger than some of the halls we have stayed in previously. Another first. And yet another one - it is the first time we have walked away from a place of pilgrimage, or walked to our incumbent's previous parish, and had a drink in his previous home. Then half an hour out on the first morning there was another one. We lost a pilgrim to a job. Thanks to modern technology Jon had a phone call asking him to be in Gateshead on Sunday evening, so on Saturday afternoon Alastair drove him home and off we went. One down, fifteen to go!
That day we walked from Chichester to Arundel, right through Walburton, the village that Fr John grew up in, where he did his newspaper round, and where he sung as a choirboy. We were able to visit his childhood parish church (which is lovely) and a very nice lady offered us drinks. The area around the village is curious and parts of it seemed desolate - I kept feeling that I wouldn't be in the least surprised if some wild-eyed woman with crazed hair and long fingernails leapt out through a hedge and told us we were doomed. It didn't happen though. John said that it was a very ancient area with a lot of superstitions - in one vilage they don't shut their doors because they believe that the devil wanders round disguised as a black dog, and if it finds doors closed it curses the residents. Hmmm.
Lots of firsts flooded our way that evening. We all slept in a church (but spread out thinly); we had the most minute kitchen which was the most well-equipped ever, though little of the equipment worked, and we managed to blow up the bits that did. It was fortunate that our chef de cuisine had thoughtfully organised a barbecue in the churchyard that evening. It was cooked by his sous-chef, the admirable Jamie (who with help actually did all the cooking, the first time we have had a full-time chef under the age of 26). Arundel church is a church of two faiths, Roman Catholic and Anglican, divided by a gate which has only been opened about seven times in its 500-year history. Ironically, there is a prayer for Christian unity at the gate. We worshipped that evening in the Roman Catholic Cathedral (first number eight) - a truly beautiful place.
Next morning we thought that the first of not having to struggle into wet weather gear was about to come under threat, but the mizzle went, the sun came out, and off we set on the hike to Steyning. We were up on the South Downs Way for a large part of the day, and very lovely it is too. It was a long and varied day, past gallops, chalk quarries, up hill and down dale, through woods and fields, and past rivers. And here I must claim a small personal victory - my treatment of Tom's blister on one of his feet worked better than his own treatment of the blister on his other foot! Such as small acheivement, and such a glow of success - forget all those miles walked - this is what makes one sleep easily on pilgrimage!!
Steyning Village Hall was a cracking place and it had the added virtue of being near to Frances' mother's house. So, all the women went off for a welcome shower during which time the mean managed to fit in a wash, a trip to the pub, and got the supper going. Very impressive.
After 8.00am BCP next morning we were off again, and up onto the South Downs Way where we met a real live shepherd herding some real live sheep with one trained and one learner dog. Apparently he had been 'lent' the sheep by a local farmer, but before that he had had to train his dogs using bushes which can't have been the most satisfying experience for the dogs. We've met a lot of sheep in our time, some of them extremely stupid, but never a shepherd.
And so on up to Devil's Dyke for lunch, and then a long trail through Hove and Brighton to St Peter's Church where John had arranged for the organist to greet us with a magnificent rendition of Bach's Tocata and Fugue (another first - our own personal triumphal entry music). Tony summed it up neatly by saying that it sounded more triumphal than we felt, but it was magical!
After a short service (which many people dozed through!) we were off walking again - just when we thought it was all over - to John's old house for a very welcome and generous drink supplied by his friend who is verger at St Peter's. Then it was back in the bus and head for home. All over, and another link in the pilgrimage chain from Oxford to Canterbury. We might be in our dotages when we get there, but with Terry cajoling, conniving and convincing we may yet do it!!
Margaret Blaine
Thursday evening, the school bus to pack
With clothes and bedding, and lots of Kit Kat
A blessing from John, the ritual splash
The verger's too slow, he's wet in a flash
Into the bus, we're off on our way
To Chichester and Brighton, I hear them say
The archdeacon's house, so big and empty
But one thing's for sure, there's bathrooms a plenty
Breakfast is early, communion at eight
Things go awry, we set off late
We reach the pit stop, according to plan
There's one small problem, where is the van
Dinner that evening, bangers and wine
Served in a graveyard, a strange place to dine
Inside the church, the choir are singing
All we can hear, are church bells a ringing
Four furlongs we go, along the racetrack
But Terry's gone wrong, we have to turn back
Up on the Downs, a strange play on words
We follow in line, watching the birds
A wedding we spy, at some stately pile
Then Steyning is reached, we rest here a while
Ladies have showers, men to the pub
The ladies return, to find jolly good grub
Ready for bed, to have a good night
Someone keeps snoring, right through to day light
Pilgrims awake, church hall to clear
Curry smells still linger, Oh dear
Villages with flowers, fuschia and stock
Sheepdog in training, herding his flock
Lunchtime is early, we're at Devil's Dyke
The pub's so plastic, you know the type
Downhill from here, along roads and streets
The Church of St Peter, people to meet
The organ is playing, what a wonderful sound
But for foot weary pilgrims, it's Nirvana they've found
The end of the journey, or is it the start
For Terry is planning, the very next part!
Peter Wright