WHEN WALKING

Parish Matters

Peterchurch to Craswall: 20km

As I’m packing up, I hear a rattling sound. I think I’d heard a similar sound earlier, so I go to the vestry door at the back of the church and open it. I find Judy, the organist, standing there.

It seems I’d accidentally taken the vestry key instead of putting it back in the key box last night, and there is a community service at 10:30 today. Judy is very nice about it and tells me it’s no problem at all. She had only arrived a minute before I opened the door. I remember the earlier rattle.

Judy is an American, around my age, born in China to missionary parents. She teaches piano, plays the organ, and is very interested in everything. She tells me they’re going to have a parish dinner using only recipes from Hildegard von Bingen’s time. There have been issues finding recipes due to the lack of potatoes and tomato in 12th-century Europe. But Judy has discovered that Hildegard von Bingen was a great fan of spelt, as is Judy, so all will be well.

I ask if I can listen to her play the organ for a bit, and she’s happy with that. She’s preparing for the vicar, Simon, coming back from a retreat on Bardsey Island. She’s not 100% sure he’ll turn up, but she says that if he does come it will be a lovely sermon. He always brings something back for his sermon from wherever he’s been, and he’s always out and about doing things.

Shortly after, a man appears. I greet him and find out that he was the earlier rattler, come to investigate a reported power cut in the church. I tell him it was working when I got there and I don’t think I’ve pressed any buttons I shouldn’t have. He takes this information with polite restraint and goes to talk to Judy.

While they talk, I look at the route ahead and decide there’s time for a service as well. Besides, I want to thank Simon, the driving force behind this whole pilgrimage I’m doing: the one who set it up, the one who goes on pilgrimages to Bardsey, following the route of St Dubricius, the local patron saint.

I tell Judy I’m going to stay, and she is delighted. When I come back from another visit to the village shop, I’m greeted by Simon. Although he is not wearing a dog collar, I recognise him from his picture in Madley church. I checked his picture on returning from the pub in Madley on Friday night, where I had mistakenly accosted a catholic priest out for a drink, and told him we were doing the Pilgrimage. He had been very kind and laughed, “I hope you say a prayer for us lot!”

As I sit with the congregation in the chancel, where last night I was sleeping, Simon introduces me to everyone as a pilgrim on the Golden Valley Trail. Everyone seems very pleased at this, and so am I.

And the sermon is indeed very interesting. Simon, who’s just turned sixty, talks about getting older. He talks about St Dubricius going to Bardsey Island to die, but he brings it round to a more positive theme. I can’t remember exactly how, but he very optimistically discusses the notion of the final third of his life.

There are three hymns, and my favourite member of the congregation, who has the same vocal talent as myself but with more confidence, sings out loud and as high as she can, while the couple opposite, who have come to accompany their aged mother, try very hard to continue singing at all. When Simon announces that we will be cutting the last two verses of the final hymn, she gasps in dismay. I sympathise. It was the only one I knew.

The high-pitched singer is a wonderful woman. She reminds me of Nursey from Blackadder: happy to play the fool and be treated as such, but wise to everything that’s going on. After the service, she corrects my pronunciation of the places along the way. “You-iss ‘Arold,” she says, until I get it right. This will be my stop tomorrow. The people of Ewys Harold will stand in awe when I arrive.

It makes me think of faith, and how I do not have it. But I love the community, and I love places of faith like this. Later I’ll listen to a programme about Hildegard von Bingen, which happens to have appeared on my podcast list, and how she talks about the sacred green. I think maybe that’s something I could look into later. Maybe the people I meet on walks are my community. Maybe what I have faith in is this sacred green. Maybe I should read a book about it first.

The walking is pretty and the terrain variable. I’m very surprised to see two more pilgrims walking up the hill from Peterchurch as I eat my first lunch. After negotiating fields of cows and a bull, overgrown streams, and various other obstacles, they catch up with me again at Michaelchurch Ecsley, in the church where they are staying.

Before they walk through the door, I have already seen their names in a note left for them by a church warden: Josh and Sophie. At last Josh, who lost his credentials yesterday, has appeared, and I happily hand over James’s booklet, with the first few stamps already in place, for him to carry on. A minor storyline feels complete.

The last part of the day is a beautiful walk, at first through woods past Michaelchurch Estate, until I reach another field of bullocks and decide, as they once again run “just being friendly” towards me, not to enter the field. I go back on myself and walk along roads, but roads so narrow they could almost be paths, with the Black Mountains on my left and the Golden Valley on my right. It’s a pleasure to do the extra miles.

Then I arrive at Craswall. No graveyard, just a little church alone in a field, with meadowland around it and beautiful views into the valley. There’s an old schoolroom at the back where I lay down my things, and an old wooden balcony in the church room where I set up my bed for the night.

I see they have heating, so I push the boat out, make a donation and put it on for half an hour to take the chill off. I eat my sandwich on the bench outside, manage to steam a pudding in the kettle, the only implement I have, and settle down for the night in this tiny ancient building, set in the sacred green.