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I post this here, but of course bow to wiser folks for moving it to a more appropriate thread.
It is an article written by an English woman, telling of her pilgrimage, following the steps of an early Christian saint, Cuthbert.
A solitary walk from the ruin of Melrose Abbey in Scotland to Lindisfarne, passing through enchanted woods and beautiful hills and moorlands, produced blisters, sunburn and aching muscles – and led to the discovery that pilgrimage turns our body into a prayer / By MARGARET HEBBLETHWAITE
She who would valiant be
THERE ARE pilgrimages and pilgrim- ages – some on foot and others by plane or bus, some in company and others alone – but a recent walk to Lindisfarne, which was solitary, testing and beautiful, filled me with an extraordinary and unexpected sense of excitement. Lindisfarne is a beautiful, spiritual spot, a “thin place”, where heaven and earth seem almost to meet.
The Lindisfarne pilgrimage is well mapped out and is called St Cuthbert’s Way, beginning in Scotland at the ruin of Melrose Abbey, close to the site of Cuthbert’s first monastery, and passing through woods, hills and moor- lands for 62 miles until it reaches the coast just south of the border.
The priory where Cuthbert lived on Holy Island (Lindisfarne’s alternative name) was founded in AD 635 and Cuthbert was sent there as prior after the Synod of Whitby in AD 664. He later became a hermit on a nearby island, and after that a bishop.
As I read the official guidebook to St Cuthbert’s Way and did my internet research, I got the impression that the standard time for the walk was four days. This turned out to be a misunderstanding, as not a single person I met was doing it in four days. At least one of my friends was doubtful about myplantowalkupto17milesaday,butit was too late to change as I had made all my bookings before B&Bs filled up with people holidaying in Britain. “Never mind,” I said blithely, “I will do it, because otherwise I won’t have a bed for the night.”
I planned the trip for months with eager anticipation. I arranged the transport of my luggage from stop to stop for a modest cost. I bought thick mountaineering socks and good walking boots and wore them in. I got the Ordnance Survey app on my phone, a scallop shell to hang on my rucksack to show I was a pilgrim, and I read Bede’s Life of St Cuthbert. I became convinced of the sanctity of this seventh-century Anglo-Saxon monk, who had a gift for getting on with people (as well as with animals – his icon is an otter), and who was prevailed upon to leave his cho- sen island hermitage to become bishop at his people’s hour of need.
I started a new WhatsApp group to enable me to communicate with family and a few friends specifically for the duration of the pilgrimage, and called them my support team. It was partly to share my enthusiasm, and partly for safety since I was going to be walking for long hours alone and often out of range of a phone signal. I began with a
night in Edinburgh, a local train to Tweedbank, a bus to Melrose, and I walked over to the ruined abbey that evening: unfor- tunately, the abbey was closed for maintenance, but there were still good views from the perimeter.
As I set off eagerly next morning from Burt’s Hotel for the saddle between the two Eildon hills, I overtook (and swapped notes with) three other small groups of walkers, but I was to see hardly any other pilgrims until the end. The walk continued through enchanting woods by the Bowden Burn and River Tweed where meandering paths crossed little footbridges and went up and down steps. I lunched on a bench and took off my right boot to examine the damage. The sec- ond toe, which had never felt very happy about a metal insert in a bunion operation a few years ago, was now feeling very tender and bruised, and I was only halfway through the first day. There was nothing to be done but to give it some air, then wrap it round in sheep’s wool and soldier on.
The afternoon took me to the ruins of twelfth-century Dryburgh Abbey, also closed to visitors, where a woman rushed out to tell me off for climbing into the compound. I had a long trek down the old Roman road of Dere Street (undoubtedly used by Cuthbert), and by around four I was struggling to keep going. Then I came to the tomb of a Scots girl, Lilliard, who fought in the 1545 Battle of Ancrum Moor against the English.
Fair maiden Lilliard lies under this stane Little was her stature, but muckle was her fame
Upon the English loons she laid many thumps
And when her legs were cuttit off she
fought upon her stumps.
If Lilliard can go on fighting on her stumps, I said to myself, I can go on walking with a sore toe and the odd blister. And a blister there was, a very large one on the left foot, as I discovered that evening when I got into a welcome soak in a bath. I dined that evening facing the ruins of a third twelfth-century ruined abbey, at Jedburgh, ravaged by the English at least six times.
The second day I knew would be a bigger challenge, as the hardest, most uphill part is at the day’s end. The route took me through pine forests and alongside yellow rape fields, and to the ruins of fifteenth-century Cessford Castle, now attended only by sheep. Catching a glimpse of a human being in the far distance I was suddenly aware that this was the first one of that species I had seen for four hours. At Morebattle, with its charming Teapot Street, I was pleased to see more humans at St Cuthbert’s church, which operates a wel- come café for pilgrims. I set off again for the steepest challenge up the Cheviot hills, and soon lost not only my phone signal but also the signposting on the ground. It was a huge relief when I again found a waymarker, and not long after that I was at the halfway point of St Cuthbert’s Way on Wideopen Hill, which is also the highest point of the walk, at 368m. The 360-degree views of hills in all directions were spectacular, and would have been more enjoyable had I not been so buffeted by the wind.
The path downhill brought more shelter, and there were still stunning views of rolling hills as far as the eye could see. I began to sing the Taizé Magnificat over and over, and felt supremely privileged to be sharing this beauty with God alone, save for the sheep. The sheep looked at me quizzically as I sang, and said “Baaa”, and I said “Baaa” back, and so we continued praising God together. Magnifying God made me feel good about myself, too, and as I began to see the first signs of human habitation in the distance, I paused and started to cry, because I did not want to leave the hills and lose the sub- lime experience of having God to myself. Now I understood why Cuthbert was so reluctant to stop being a hermit and become a bishop. As I reached my hotel I felt, not exhausted from the walk’s most demanding day, but energised.
ON THE THIRD day, I was high on the moors for hours on end, and I crossed the border into England without noticing it. St Cuthbert’s Way passes by Yeavering, where the missionary Paulinus, sent by Gregory the Great, celebrated a mass baptism of 3,000 people in the year 627, so this
is significant territory for a Christian. I was now becoming an expert on the different varieties of stiles: tra- ditional stiles, wooden ladder stiles, stiles with flat stones set into the wall, and stiles with a window that you have to climb through, like Alice Through the Looking Glass.
I had been a little bothered the previous day by my hair blowing all over my face, so today I had it tied up into two bunches, which felt a lot more comfortable as I walked in the wind. But when I woke the next morn- ing I was dismayed to feel sunburn on the back of my neck, though there had been no sun at all and it had been overcast all day. I did not know that you can get sunburn from the sun’s UV rays even when it is cloudy. This sunburn was at least as much a problem
The sky over the causeway. Left, wild flowers in the priory ruins and, below, St Cuthbert
as the blisters, and soon there was another one of those as well.
The longest distance was on the fourth day. Lindisfarne alternates between being an island when the tide comes in, and joining onto the mainland when the tide goes out. I knew that by the time I reached the coast it would be cut off. I would have to wait until after 8pm to start the walk across the cause- way, so my plan was to have dinner at the Barn at Beal, a detour of 20 minutes, and then walk over in the late evening as the sun set. But at lunchtime I calculated that I would have to speed up my pace if I were not to miss dinner, as I had let my blisters, sunburn, and aching muscles from two days’ climbing slow me down too much.
The route passed the impressive natural structure known as St Cuthbert’s Cave, where the monks are said to have paused with the saint’s remains in AD 875, when they had to flee Lindisfarne as a result of the attacks of the Vikings. Just past the cave was a high rocky outcrop from which the guidebook said you could see Holy Island. It was a clear day, but I had to use my imagination to allege that I could pick it out. However, from this point on, I knew I was on the home stretch, and at each new viewpoint Holy Island was more unmistakeably visible. Anticipation lent speed to my feet, and a good marching song turned out to be “She who would valiant be”, with its triumphant line, “She will make good her right to be a pilgrim”. Before long I was back in human civilisation and passing the final obstacles – the busy A1 road (bring- ing traffic all the way from London), a railway line (where you have to ring the signalperson for permis- sion to cross – initially denied me due to an approaching high-speed
train), a fence marked, “WARNING! BULL in field” (there were only placid cows as far as I could see, but I crossed quickly anyway). And then suddenly, just past 6pm, there was nothing between me and the sight – and the smell – of the sea.
DINNER AT my pre-booked table was a cel- ebration: chargrilled broccoli with miso, tahini, chilli and toasted hazelnut, followed by dressed crab salad, and lots of sparkling water. A couple of hours later, I was able to set off for my final goal, which would take me a further couple of hours. The sky became dramatic behind me as I walked along the causeway, and my shadow lay very long across the sands. There was a moaning: was it the wind? No, it was a huge, heaving clump of seals on the rocks, singing their evening song of praise to the creator, just as they must have done in the time when Cuthbert was a hermit.
The authentic way to approach Lindisfarne as a pilgrim is by walking barefoot across the sands, not in boots along the road, but I had read dire warnings of the danger of doing so after dusk. But three days later I returned to the coast in the morning, read aloud the Crossing of the Red Sea from Exodus, and then took off my sandals to walk to Holy Island barefoot. “Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5). It took over an hour, with sea, sky, wind and sand all around, a line of vertical poles marking the route ahead, light catching on the ripples of the sand, not a pebble in sight, but constant pools of shallow water, surprisingly warm, and the bare footprints of those who had gone ahead leading the way.
As I reached the end of the sands and was putting on my sandals, it was lovely to see more pilgrims arriving, in twos or threes, every few minutes. And, surprise of surprise, a couple of pilgrims greeted me: “Aren’t you the lady we met on the first day?” They had just arrived, after a seven-day walk, and thought I had failed in my intent to walk to Lindisfarne in four days, until I explained I was arriving for the second time.
The ruined priory is the endpoint of St Cuthbert’s Way, set on the southern tip of the island, with nooks and crannies in the ruins, round-topped doorways, broken stair- ways, wild flowers blooming among the stones, and the tall Rainbow Arch soaring up diagonally over the crossing. Tucked away inside the ruin is a statue of St Cuthbert with a kindly, tranquil face and his hands joined in prayer. I knelt on the grass at the crossing of the ruined church and gave thanks for the witness of Cuthbert and others like him, in whose footsteps we tread.
I also climbed up the high rocky promon- tory behind the ruins to look out to sea, with a poem from the prayer sheet I had carried with me daily:
You are the waves on the shore’s glistening stones,
Their sound is my hymn. You are the song of the birds, their tune I sing.
I see a pilgrimage as a way of turning my body into a prayer. Most of us do not pray well enough or often enough, but on pilgrim- age I do not have to do anything clever with my mind: I just reach towards God with my body in a way that is both difficult and simple. It is difficult because I get blisters and sun- burn and aching limbs, but the spiritual uplift comes because of the physical effort, not despite it. It is simple because all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other and go on doing that all day. That action is a prayer because it is a striving towards God, a movement towards a place made holy by the influence of others – the saint who is the inspiration of the pilgrimage, and the many good people who have gone there before me, seeking God.
It is an article written by an English woman, telling of her pilgrimage, following the steps of an early Christian saint, Cuthbert.
A solitary walk from the ruin of Melrose Abbey in Scotland to Lindisfarne, passing through enchanted woods and beautiful hills and moorlands, produced blisters, sunburn and aching muscles – and led to the discovery that pilgrimage turns our body into a prayer / By MARGARET HEBBLETHWAITE
She who would valiant be
THERE ARE pilgrimages and pilgrim- ages – some on foot and others by plane or bus, some in company and others alone – but a recent walk to Lindisfarne, which was solitary, testing and beautiful, filled me with an extraordinary and unexpected sense of excitement. Lindisfarne is a beautiful, spiritual spot, a “thin place”, where heaven and earth seem almost to meet.
The Lindisfarne pilgrimage is well mapped out and is called St Cuthbert’s Way, beginning in Scotland at the ruin of Melrose Abbey, close to the site of Cuthbert’s first monastery, and passing through woods, hills and moor- lands for 62 miles until it reaches the coast just south of the border.
The priory where Cuthbert lived on Holy Island (Lindisfarne’s alternative name) was founded in AD 635 and Cuthbert was sent there as prior after the Synod of Whitby in AD 664. He later became a hermit on a nearby island, and after that a bishop.
As I read the official guidebook to St Cuthbert’s Way and did my internet research, I got the impression that the standard time for the walk was four days. This turned out to be a misunderstanding, as not a single person I met was doing it in four days. At least one of my friends was doubtful about myplantowalkupto17milesaday,butit was too late to change as I had made all my bookings before B&Bs filled up with people holidaying in Britain. “Never mind,” I said blithely, “I will do it, because otherwise I won’t have a bed for the night.”
I planned the trip for months with eager anticipation. I arranged the transport of my luggage from stop to stop for a modest cost. I bought thick mountaineering socks and good walking boots and wore them in. I got the Ordnance Survey app on my phone, a scallop shell to hang on my rucksack to show I was a pilgrim, and I read Bede’s Life of St Cuthbert. I became convinced of the sanctity of this seventh-century Anglo-Saxon monk, who had a gift for getting on with people (as well as with animals – his icon is an otter), and who was prevailed upon to leave his cho- sen island hermitage to become bishop at his people’s hour of need.
I started a new WhatsApp group to enable me to communicate with family and a few friends specifically for the duration of the pilgrimage, and called them my support team. It was partly to share my enthusiasm, and partly for safety since I was going to be walking for long hours alone and often out of range of a phone signal. I began with a
night in Edinburgh, a local train to Tweedbank, a bus to Melrose, and I walked over to the ruined abbey that evening: unfor- tunately, the abbey was closed for maintenance, but there were still good views from the perimeter.
As I set off eagerly next morning from Burt’s Hotel for the saddle between the two Eildon hills, I overtook (and swapped notes with) three other small groups of walkers, but I was to see hardly any other pilgrims until the end. The walk continued through enchanting woods by the Bowden Burn and River Tweed where meandering paths crossed little footbridges and went up and down steps. I lunched on a bench and took off my right boot to examine the damage. The sec- ond toe, which had never felt very happy about a metal insert in a bunion operation a few years ago, was now feeling very tender and bruised, and I was only halfway through the first day. There was nothing to be done but to give it some air, then wrap it round in sheep’s wool and soldier on.
The afternoon took me to the ruins of twelfth-century Dryburgh Abbey, also closed to visitors, where a woman rushed out to tell me off for climbing into the compound. I had a long trek down the old Roman road of Dere Street (undoubtedly used by Cuthbert), and by around four I was struggling to keep going. Then I came to the tomb of a Scots girl, Lilliard, who fought in the 1545 Battle of Ancrum Moor against the English.
Fair maiden Lilliard lies under this stane Little was her stature, but muckle was her fame
Upon the English loons she laid many thumps
And when her legs were cuttit off she
fought upon her stumps.
If Lilliard can go on fighting on her stumps, I said to myself, I can go on walking with a sore toe and the odd blister. And a blister there was, a very large one on the left foot, as I discovered that evening when I got into a welcome soak in a bath. I dined that evening facing the ruins of a third twelfth-century ruined abbey, at Jedburgh, ravaged by the English at least six times.
The second day I knew would be a bigger challenge, as the hardest, most uphill part is at the day’s end. The route took me through pine forests and alongside yellow rape fields, and to the ruins of fifteenth-century Cessford Castle, now attended only by sheep. Catching a glimpse of a human being in the far distance I was suddenly aware that this was the first one of that species I had seen for four hours. At Morebattle, with its charming Teapot Street, I was pleased to see more humans at St Cuthbert’s church, which operates a wel- come café for pilgrims. I set off again for the steepest challenge up the Cheviot hills, and soon lost not only my phone signal but also the signposting on the ground. It was a huge relief when I again found a waymarker, and not long after that I was at the halfway point of St Cuthbert’s Way on Wideopen Hill, which is also the highest point of the walk, at 368m. The 360-degree views of hills in all directions were spectacular, and would have been more enjoyable had I not been so buffeted by the wind.
The path downhill brought more shelter, and there were still stunning views of rolling hills as far as the eye could see. I began to sing the Taizé Magnificat over and over, and felt supremely privileged to be sharing this beauty with God alone, save for the sheep. The sheep looked at me quizzically as I sang, and said “Baaa”, and I said “Baaa” back, and so we continued praising God together. Magnifying God made me feel good about myself, too, and as I began to see the first signs of human habitation in the distance, I paused and started to cry, because I did not want to leave the hills and lose the sub- lime experience of having God to myself. Now I understood why Cuthbert was so reluctant to stop being a hermit and become a bishop. As I reached my hotel I felt, not exhausted from the walk’s most demanding day, but energised.
ON THE THIRD day, I was high on the moors for hours on end, and I crossed the border into England without noticing it. St Cuthbert’s Way passes by Yeavering, where the missionary Paulinus, sent by Gregory the Great, celebrated a mass baptism of 3,000 people in the year 627, so this
is significant territory for a Christian. I was now becoming an expert on the different varieties of stiles: tra- ditional stiles, wooden ladder stiles, stiles with flat stones set into the wall, and stiles with a window that you have to climb through, like Alice Through the Looking Glass.
I had been a little bothered the previous day by my hair blowing all over my face, so today I had it tied up into two bunches, which felt a lot more comfortable as I walked in the wind. But when I woke the next morn- ing I was dismayed to feel sunburn on the back of my neck, though there had been no sun at all and it had been overcast all day. I did not know that you can get sunburn from the sun’s UV rays even when it is cloudy. This sunburn was at least as much a problem
The sky over the causeway. Left, wild flowers in the priory ruins and, below, St Cuthbert
as the blisters, and soon there was another one of those as well.
The longest distance was on the fourth day. Lindisfarne alternates between being an island when the tide comes in, and joining onto the mainland when the tide goes out. I knew that by the time I reached the coast it would be cut off. I would have to wait until after 8pm to start the walk across the cause- way, so my plan was to have dinner at the Barn at Beal, a detour of 20 minutes, and then walk over in the late evening as the sun set. But at lunchtime I calculated that I would have to speed up my pace if I were not to miss dinner, as I had let my blisters, sunburn, and aching muscles from two days’ climbing slow me down too much.
The route passed the impressive natural structure known as St Cuthbert’s Cave, where the monks are said to have paused with the saint’s remains in AD 875, when they had to flee Lindisfarne as a result of the attacks of the Vikings. Just past the cave was a high rocky outcrop from which the guidebook said you could see Holy Island. It was a clear day, but I had to use my imagination to allege that I could pick it out. However, from this point on, I knew I was on the home stretch, and at each new viewpoint Holy Island was more unmistakeably visible. Anticipation lent speed to my feet, and a good marching song turned out to be “She who would valiant be”, with its triumphant line, “She will make good her right to be a pilgrim”. Before long I was back in human civilisation and passing the final obstacles – the busy A1 road (bring- ing traffic all the way from London), a railway line (where you have to ring the signalperson for permis- sion to cross – initially denied me due to an approaching high-speed
train), a fence marked, “WARNING! BULL in field” (there were only placid cows as far as I could see, but I crossed quickly anyway). And then suddenly, just past 6pm, there was nothing between me and the sight – and the smell – of the sea.
DINNER AT my pre-booked table was a cel- ebration: chargrilled broccoli with miso, tahini, chilli and toasted hazelnut, followed by dressed crab salad, and lots of sparkling water. A couple of hours later, I was able to set off for my final goal, which would take me a further couple of hours. The sky became dramatic behind me as I walked along the causeway, and my shadow lay very long across the sands. There was a moaning: was it the wind? No, it was a huge, heaving clump of seals on the rocks, singing their evening song of praise to the creator, just as they must have done in the time when Cuthbert was a hermit.
The authentic way to approach Lindisfarne as a pilgrim is by walking barefoot across the sands, not in boots along the road, but I had read dire warnings of the danger of doing so after dusk. But three days later I returned to the coast in the morning, read aloud the Crossing of the Red Sea from Exodus, and then took off my sandals to walk to Holy Island barefoot. “Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5). It took over an hour, with sea, sky, wind and sand all around, a line of vertical poles marking the route ahead, light catching on the ripples of the sand, not a pebble in sight, but constant pools of shallow water, surprisingly warm, and the bare footprints of those who had gone ahead leading the way.
As I reached the end of the sands and was putting on my sandals, it was lovely to see more pilgrims arriving, in twos or threes, every few minutes. And, surprise of surprise, a couple of pilgrims greeted me: “Aren’t you the lady we met on the first day?” They had just arrived, after a seven-day walk, and thought I had failed in my intent to walk to Lindisfarne in four days, until I explained I was arriving for the second time.
The ruined priory is the endpoint of St Cuthbert’s Way, set on the southern tip of the island, with nooks and crannies in the ruins, round-topped doorways, broken stair- ways, wild flowers blooming among the stones, and the tall Rainbow Arch soaring up diagonally over the crossing. Tucked away inside the ruin is a statue of St Cuthbert with a kindly, tranquil face and his hands joined in prayer. I knelt on the grass at the crossing of the ruined church and gave thanks for the witness of Cuthbert and others like him, in whose footsteps we tread.
I also climbed up the high rocky promon- tory behind the ruins to look out to sea, with a poem from the prayer sheet I had carried with me daily:
You are the waves on the shore’s glistening stones,
Their sound is my hymn. You are the song of the birds, their tune I sing.
I see a pilgrimage as a way of turning my body into a prayer. Most of us do not pray well enough or often enough, but on pilgrim- age I do not have to do anything clever with my mind: I just reach towards God with my body in a way that is both difficult and simple. It is difficult because I get blisters and sun- burn and aching limbs, but the spiritual uplift comes because of the physical effort, not despite it. It is simple because all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other and go on doing that all day. That action is a prayer because it is a striving towards God, a movement towards a place made holy by the influence of others – the saint who is the inspiration of the pilgrimage, and the many good people who have gone there before me, seeking God.
