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| As usual, crosses and calvaries punctuated the route . . . |
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| . . . though other wayside 'shrines' were more kitsch than ecclesiastical. Is it my imagination, or does Snow White resemble the Virgin Mary? And where on earth is the seventh dwarf? |
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| I was walking through a soft and gentle countryside of lush valleys and peaceful villages. In small fields between the woods grew beans and a nice mix of cereals — barley, wheat, maize — and cows grazed in the riverine meadows. The roadside verges were full of wild flowers — columbine, poppy, willowherb, woody nightshade, St John's wort — and wildlife included rabbits, herons and a solitary egret. It was a dull, damp day, but I relished the novelty of these early stages of the walk, whatever the weather. People I passed were curious and kind. I was again reminded of the fact that most people are well-meaning and generous, if only they are given the chance to be so. It's the pilgrim's role to give them this opportunity! In Alquines the owner of the bar-shop-post office asked if I would like to take a rest and gave me a free coffee. In Bouvelinghem a woman opened up the church for me (note the Flemish-sounding name — we are not far from Belgium here, and I would soon be walking through the fields of Flanders). In Quelmes another woman filled my water bottles. All in all, I was enjoying myself immensely. |
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| By late afternoon I'd reached the abbey at Wisques, home to an order of Benedictine monks. They have a tradition — as do all the Benedictine communities — of hospitality, and give food and shelter to visitors, pilgrims and those seeking a meditative, spiritual retreat. I was made most welcome by a tonsured and cowled Père Pierre, who carried my staff (or rather Leki walking pole) up to my room. It was simple and comfortable, with a shower and WC next door. At 6 o'clock I attended Vespers, which was a dramatic, theatrical affair — lots of chanting and deep bowing from 14 monks in dark habits — and then at 7.30 joined them in the refectory for dinner. One interpretation of the Rule of St Benedict decrees that meals should be taken in silence, which I found strange and difficult to get used to at first, though after a while I relaxed, stopped trying to make eye contact and just concentrated on eating. I found to my surprise that it was actually quite enjoyable not to have to think of something to say. And there was always the intoned religious lecture to listen to, which reverberated through the refectory and lasted the length of the meal. All around me the monks were attacking their plates with gusto, licking them clean. Dinner was unpretentious, nutritious food, prepared and served by the monks themselves: bread and cold soup, boiled eggs, a dish of greens, a dressed salad, plums, a glass of water, half a glass of wine. |
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| This was the view from my room, looking out over the central cloister or courtyard. The monks are only allowed to enter this courtyard for a brief period each day. Each day is exactly the same for them, a day regulated by the 'horarium': strictly ordered periods of work, prayer, eating, sleeping, spiritual reading and the daily religious offices. |
