The Journey Is Home

Blog friend Roselle Angwin has recently written an excellent post about pilgrimage. I love the idea that the need for pilgrimage may exist as an archetype in the human collective unconscious, and that the art of living . . . is about recognising that every moment, every action, every journey, every destination, is sacred, if approached in a spirit of presence, with soul.

Photo courtesy of Roselle Angwin.

the journey is home

A constant stream running under my conscious thoughts is my preoccupation with the notion of pilgrimage: what it means in our 21st century world, how to do it in a secular society, and why it's important.

This stream bubbles to the surface each year around March, as my heart starts to fill with the forthcoming writing retreat that I lead on the magical and sacred Isle of Iona each April.

When Chaucer was writing in English (a departure from Latin) in the late 14th century, April was a traditional time in mediaeval England for making pilgrimage.

'Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
(That slepen al the nyght with open eye)
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes . . .' (Chaucer's original Prologue)

'When April with its showers sweet
Has pierced March drought unto the root
And bathed each vein in liquid power
From which new strength creates the flower;
When the soft West Wind with sweetest breath
New life has breathed in copse and heath
In tender shoots, and the young sun
In Aries half a month has run,
And small birds start Spring's melody
(Nightbirds who 'sleep' with open eye),
Then nature stirs the hearts of each
To make folk long for pilgrimage,
And travellers to tread new shores,
Strange strands, set out for distant shrines . . .' (my 'translation') 

And so we too set out to some kind of stirring — for restoration, for renewal, or on account of some undefined longing.

Pilgrimage comes from the Latin peregrinus, which in turn means a wanderer, a traveller, a stranger. (I love that it also names a bird, a falcon.)

Although of course it has been associated with established religion, I believe that the need for pilgrimage exists as an archetype (maybe for renewal, remaking) in the human collective unconscious. We could call the 'hero's journey', the motif, as Joseph Campbell saw it, behind most of the world's great myths, or the journey of the Fool in the tarot, as an expression of this universal archetype. Wikipedia tells me that there's a book written on this: Jean Darby Cleft & Wallace Cleft, The Archetype of Pilgrimage: Outer Action with Inner Meaning. The Paulist Press, 1996. ISBN 0-8091-3599-X.

And that's a beautiful definition to my mind: outer action with a corresponding inner purpose or meaning. 

This is the journey to fuller consciousness, wholeness. 

For me, the art of living is something to do with making every moment count. (Or rather, the aspiration to do so.) And it's also about recognising that every moment, every action, every journey, every destination, is sacred, if approached in a spirit of presence, with soul. 

Implicit in such a journey is the spirit of openness, of trust, of sharing silence and conversation, solitude and belonging, story and poem, self with self or self with other. Pilgrimage doesn't have to be to a sacred shrine. It doesn't have to have any traditional religious significance.

Something in us longs to rest, to be still even as we're moving, to be fully present in this moment, on our journey on this tiny planet around its star in the trillions of stars in this arm of the spiral Milky Way galaxy. Of course, our lives tend to lead us towards the opposite: towards acceleration, distraction, accumulation of more and more (whether objects, Facebook friends, Twitter followers, or experience) with less and less time in which to appreciate it.

How would it be to slow down, to let every footstep, every breath, every moment really be richly enough?

And so we can quietly follow a longing for renewal while recognising that we don't even have to go out of our front door to make a pilgrimage — though it might be hard to explain to neighbours or nearest and dearest who don't get it that we're 'on pilgrimage' in our silence and slowness within four walls. (After all, what is a retreat but a non-moving pilgrimage?)

Or we go out of our front door not knowing what we're seeking but knowing that the longing is taking us. And we go slowly, embracing with such relief the sense of stillness that will come and visit us if we invite it, even as we're moving.

What we are doing on any journey undertaken with this focus, intent and presence, is bringing ourselves back home. That's all — in its smallness, its hugeness.

ROSELLE ANGWIN

Thanks to Roselle Angwin for permission to reproduce this piece. Roselle's blog qualia and other wildlife can be found here.

Walk On!

The urge to undertake a pilgrimage is both ancient and universal. The Egyptians made their way to Sekket's shrine at Bubastis; the Greeks sought counsel from Apollo at Delphi and the cures of Asclepius at Epidaurus. Quetzal, Cuzco and Titicaca were all sacred precincts in pre-Columbian America. Christian tradition draws the faithful primarily to the Holy Land, Rome, Santiago de Compostela, Fatima, Lourdes, and more recently, to Medjugorje, Bosnia, where the Virgin Mary is purported to appear daily to a group of village seers. In the Islamic world, the pilgrim's obligatory journey or hajj to Mecca is one of the Five Pillars of Faith. Buddhists venture to Bodh Gaya where the Buddha attained enlightenment; Jews bow in prayer before the Western Wall of the Temple; and Hindus bathe in the ash-filled waters of the sacred Ganges. Every religion possesses its prescribed rites and rituals, but pilgrimage, in particular, seems to appeal to an instinctive movement of the human heart. The Latin phrase ambulare pro Deo, 'to walk for God', is as valid for a Christian pilgrim setting out for Santiago de Compostela as for a Muslim drawn to the Ka'ba shrine at Mecca, or a Buddhist circumambulating a stupa . . .

. . . The notion that God or the Absolute can be approached while journeying, I discovered, is all but universal. It is telling, for example, that Yahweh means the 'God of the Way'; or that in Arabic Il-Rah, originally used to signify a migration path, was later appropriated by the Sufi mystics to describe 'the Way to God'. Christ and his Apostles walked the hills and valleys of Palestine. The quest for Zen is also referred to as angya, or 'going on foot'. Early Buddhists were 'wandering alms-seekers'; and their master's last words to his followers were, appropriately enough, 'Walk on!' The potential pilgrim is unlikely to find two better words of advice . . .

. . . Had either the Buddha or Christ chosen a secluded, stationary life, there would be no footsteps to follow. As it was, they both exalted the peripatetic condition, and they both showed us a Path; that one leads to Nirvana, and the other to salvation and eternal life, are two very different spiritual prospects, but in both cases it is the pilgrim, the soul seeking enlightenment, who must set off on the journey. As the Buddha lay on his deathbed, he offered his followers a simple, if telling, imperative: 'Walk on!'

NICHOLAS SHRADY Sacred Roads: Adventures from the Pilgrimage Trail

Ultreia! or Ultreya! is a word deriving from the ancient Galician language (and originally from the Latin word ultra) which is difficult to translate exactly, but means something like 'Walk further!', 'Walk higher!', 'Onward!' or 'Walk on!'. Camino pilgrims often come across this word scrawled graffiti-like in underpasses, on walls and alongside the ubiquitous yellow arrows which point the Way.

Ultra means 'further', 'extreme', 'radical', 'beyond the norm'. The true end of the Spanish Camino is Fistera, Finisterre, Finis Terra, The End of the Earth, the Furthest Point West in Spain, indeed the Furthest Point West in Europe. The romance and promise of the West pervades much folklore, mythology and many spiritual and quasi-spiritual beliefs (eg there's the story of the lost kingdom of Atlantis).

As I approached Toulouse by the Canal du Midi this September, a cyclist on the opposite bank called out to me 'Ultreia!', in recognition, greeting, encouragement and blessing, with one arm held high in the air, the fingers of her hand pointing skywards.

The Solitary Walker 10 November 2008

Day 42: Bourg Saint-Pierre To The Col Du Grand Saint-Bernard

From Bourg Saint-Pierre it's supposed to be a four-hour walk (climb really) to the Col du Grand Saint-Bernard, one of the high alpine passes which link Switzerland and Italy. It took me five hours with breaks. It was a strenuous trek in parts — constantly up, up and up.

Yellow lozenges point the way.

The Barrage de Toules at 1730 m. 

The reservoir beyond the dam. You can see the route I've taken just above the water's edge.

Receding alpine ridges. Halfway down the pine-clad cliff on the right the road has been roofed to protect it from rockfalls and avalanches.

It's sad, I know, but this is the last cow picture. These beasts look formidable!

The path climbed relentlessly upwards, and the scenery grew starker and rockier as the day progressed. The valley gradually narrowed, still shadowing the road — but the path was quicker and more direct than the road, which took a switchback route.

There were pockets of snow on the mountainside — for many months of the year this area lies deep in snow, the road is closed and the path unwalkable.

This stream has eroded steps down into the gorge  . . .

The top of the gorge . . .

Note the ventilation shaft for the road tunnel below . . . 

The stony path crossed this footbridge and wound in and out the rocks, climbing ever higher . . .

Adenostyles Alliariae, a member of the Asteraceae family. I saw several of what were for me unusual plants, including some kind of mountain lily and a yellow flower with opposite lanceolate leaves I thought might have been a type of goldenrod.   

This is definitely Cirsium Spinosissimum, the Spiniest Thistle. There was quite a lot of it growing near the path as it approached the col. As far as other wildlife was concerned, I saw ravens and wheatears, and a small, black and white 'chacking' bird which could have been a black redstart. But the most exciting animals were the alpine marmots, and I saw a few of these. A Swiss walker pointed them out to me first, and I looked at them 'sunbathing' on a rock through his binoculars. Usually you hear them calling before you can see them — like meerkats, they post sentries which whistle a warning at any sign of danger. Once I disturbed one quite close to me and watched it run off — it had red and grey fur, and was larger than I'd expected. 

Not far now — St Bernard and a crooked arrow give the direction . . .

'St Bernard guides our steps' . . .

The end is in sight at the top of the cliff . . .

But first there is a dogleg bend to negotiate high above a rocky ravine . . .

 Can you spot the two hikers coming up on the track behind me? They were a friendly American couple — from Bellingham in Washington State. When I told them I had a blog friend who lived there, they remarked that it was a small world.  

Proof that I made it! I scrambled over the top — and was met with a car park. I had a big feeling of anticlimax. For some reason Dylan's line 'There’s a marching band still playing in that vacant lot' (Señor:Tales of Yankee Power) came spontaneously to mind. But there was no celebratory marching band, just a few tourists, bikers, cafés and gift shops. 

Looking across to Italy, which begins at the customs post on the right.

The building in the centre of the photo is the Hospice du Grand-Saint-Bernard. I'd intended stopping there the night with the Augustinian canons (community priests), but the place was undergoing renovation, and was noisy, and busy with visitors. I booked in — then booked out again pretty quickly when I realised I would have to share a room with a stranger who wasn't even a proper pilgrim. I didn't even feel like visiting the St Bernard Dog Museum. Instead I crossed the border into Italy, crossed back again and sat in a bar nursing a beer, surrounded by plastic St Bernard dogs and other tawdry gift items. I'd just walked 1000 km and was thirsty. So I had another beer. Then another. And at 4 pm I took the daily bus back down to Orsières, then a train to Martigny, then another train to Geneva, where I slept in the youth hostel. It was a strange experience in the bus and the train as far as Lausanne, for I relived the latter part of my journey backwards, and at great speed — even glimpsing from my fast-moving cocoon people I'd seen or met briefly en route.

Well, that's it. Including detours, I'd walked 1000 km in 42 days from Guînes just south of Calais to the Italian border. I'd crossed two countries and edged my toes into a third. The next morning I managed to buy a reasonably-priced train ticket from Geneva to London via Lyon and Marne-la-Vallée. The journey was good, but at Marne-la-Vallée the cramped Eurostar train filled up with excitable kids who were returning home from Disneyland Paris. I could have done without that. To escape the din, I closed my eyes and relived the trip in my mind. It had been a memorable pilgrimage in so many ways: such an incredible variety of landscape, of weather, of people. Yes, it was the people who made it special — above all, the people.

I've really enjoyed putting my thoughts and photographs together into some sort of order, and I hope you've had as much pleasure reading about this trek as I have writing about it. Que Dieu vous bénisse, and thank you for your company along the Way.

Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking.

ANTONIO MACHADO

*************** THE END ***************   

Day 41: Orsières To Bourg Saint-Pierre (3)

Hôtel Bivouac Napoléon at the entrance to Bourg Saint-Pierre. Here I met up again with Jürgen and Christina, the German couple I'd shared an attic with in Orsières. We drank a coffee and talked about our day's adventures.

Mural of St Bernard dogs and the church at Bourg Saint-Pierre. Cardinal is the most common draught lager you find in these parts.

Close-up view of the mushroom-shaped supports for this wooden granary or raccard. In Britain we call these staddle stones.

In Switzerland . . .

. . . flowers . . .

. . . are . . .

. . . everywhere.

The Église Saint-Pierre.

More or less the same view in the evening.

Jürgen and Christina had taken a chalet on the campsite, but I chose to stay in a dormitory here in the Auberge du Petit-Vélan. It was modern, comfortable and spotlessly clean, with a wood ceiling and hot power showers. That night I treated myself by ordering a steak in the Petit-Vélan's restaurant (I'd only eaten what I would call 'proper' meat — i.e. steak as opposed to charcuterie — twice in six weeks) and really enjoyed it. Later Jürgen and Christina joined me for a nightcap.   

The main street in Bourg Saint-Pierre. Because of the high altitude (1630 m), it grew quite chilly as the sun went down.

Day 41: Orsières To Bourg Saint-Pierre (2)

The massif . . .

. . . at the head of the valley . . .

. . . seemed to get bigger and grander with every step.

Once I missed a footpath sign and was briefly lost — ending up in a grass meadow with no exit. So I retraced my steps. The scenery was captivating: all around were jagged peaks, pine-covered mountains, steep wooded slopes and lush green valleys, and at my feet were grasshoppers and exotic-looking butterflies and purple autumn crocuses and alpine flowers I had never seen before.  

It was haymaking season, and the sweet smell of new-mown grass wafted from the meadows.

Small tractors with hay turners revolved the grass . . . 

. . . and kept it in line . . .

Sometimes the whole family — including farmer's wife, children, even baby — came out to help, complete with rakes.

A quintessentially Swiss alpine landscape in August.

After this hive of activity in the fields, I passed some real hives . . .

Day 41: Orsières To Bourg Saint-Pierre (1)

A last look back at Orsières. The early morning sun is just starting to brighten the slopes, but most of the village still remains in shadow. 

I had gained an altitude of 900 m, but still had 1600 m to climb over the next two days.

It was a fantastic day's walking through wonderful panoramas: grey, bare-topped mountains with pine-clad lower slopes, snowy peaks, deep valleys, rushing streams and rivers. The temperatures were typical mountain temperatures — very hot in the sun, but quite cool in the shade. 

Doll's house chalet (with flag!).

I walked through the hamlets of Montatuay . . .

. . . and Fornex . . .

. . . climbing higher and higher above the river Dranse.

Distant, snow-patched mountains urged me on . . .

The Via Francigena is signed much more widely and efficiently here. Well, of course — this is Switzerland!

I crossed a bridge high over a gorge — the stream water was now much clearer, and sparkling, rather than a dull milky green — and returned to the valley floor. This is the village of Dranse . . .

. . . comprising the familiar short-spired church and chalet-style houses with overhanging roofs . . . 

It was a tiring route with plenty of ups and downs. Here I'm climbing again — up a switchback road from Dranse . . .

. . . to Liddes, where I sat on the step of this church door to eat my picnic lunch . . . 

. . . of bread (soft on the inside and crusty on the outside with sprinkled grains and seeds), Emmental cheese, red wine (left over from the night before), pumpernickel and lightly-smoked prosciutto. Could any outdoor lunch be better? — particularly with such a grandstand view of the mountains.