The following is a daily account
of Fr. Christopher's Pilgrimage to Glastonbury with Tony Stock his trusty
Churchwarden at All Saints' Millbrook in July, 2002.
When you say it quickly, “125 miles” doesn’t sound that
far. Translate that into feet pounding the tarmac and even one mile suddenly
becomes a very long way indeed! Sometime during the second half of the year
2000 Tony Stock came up with idea that he would like to walk to Glastonbury
for the Pilgrimage in July, 2001. “Hmm… sounds interesting”,
I thought, “that would be rather good”. Time to wander the lanes
of old England, admiring the view, spending time in contemplation and meditation,
meeting fellow pilgrims on the way...idyllic! We could even camp along the
way and enjoy peaceful evenings………. And so it was, the idea
of a walking Pilgrimage to Glastonbury was born.July 2001 was to be the time
but all that was shelved following the disastrous outbreak of Foot and Mouth
disease last year. ‘What a lucky escape’ one might have thought
had the plans not been resurrected in 2002. It was alright really because
in January, July was a long way off. Come June, the reality and the imminence
of the walk began to dawn. Out came the maps on one optimistic day and, at
a quick glance, it was obvious which way to go. Over to Plymouth, up the A38
to Exeter via Buckfast Abbey and then follow the M5 as far as Taunton, finally
cutting across to Glastonbury. Looked great on the big map, and even then
growing fears that perhaps it was a ‘fair’ distance were pushed
to the back of our minds. Autoroute express on the computer calculated the
total distance to be near enough 125 miles! 125 miles? ‘125’ now
there’s a number that rings some bells! A 125 event it was to be! 125
miles? Five days spare? Well that’s only 25 miles a day. Set off early,
walk for a bit, rest and walk some more I thought, yeah, not too bad….is
it? Years ago (many years ago actually) I did over 20 miles in one day on
foot. From what I could recall it wasn’t too bad, was it? As our preparations
‘intensified’, Tony and I decided we’d drive the route just
so we had an idea what the road was like and find where we might pitch up
at night. The A38 was very busy but we planned there were many places where
we could deviate onto roads running alongside. We got up to Cullompton and
thought, given the volume of traffic, a quieter route across from Honiton
might be preferable. Although we’d put our minds to rest a little the
full magnitude of the task ahead began to dawn later when I began to pack
a few things into my rucksack. Tent, pegs, poles...wow, that’s heavy
and there’s still a pile of stuff to go in! I’ll have to leave
the CD player and hand held computer, I thought.With only three weeks to go,
despite threats to do so, the pressure of work and not enough time prevented
us from getting out and do some walking to bed in the feet. The turning point
was the St. John Barn Dance when, attempting to avoid dancing for a bit, I
encountered Gus Goodman who gently pointed out the flaws in our planning and
suggested a cunning plan of his own! Within days we had a full back up crew
in place, a revised and more direct route planned by Ray Waldock and we’d
got places to stay overnight. Our back up crew had very kindly offered to
convey our gear and pitch our tents and move them on each day. This was an
enormous relief and opened the way for Tony and I to enjoy the walk, carrying
only basic items. Excellent, all that remained between Millbrook and Glastonbury
were those 125 miles!The first 20 milesBefore we knew it Sunday 7th July dawned
and after Mass at Millbrook we were waved off, albeit slightly later than
anticipated. Determined to maintain true authenticity from the start we declined
lifts to Plymouth preferring instead to walk ‘door to door’. Our
first difficulty manifested itself in the form of missing the 1 o’clock
ferry from Cremyll! This however, provided us with an opportunity to have
a relatively leisurely lunch overlooking the Tamar and say our farewells before
our quest began in earnest.I have to say that walking through Plymouth on
a busy Sunday afternoon was not a particularly pleasant thing to do. The noise
and the fumes were awful and the route out of town very uninteresting. It
wasn’t until we had gone some way beyond Roborough that we were able
to get off the road and follow the footpath that ran parallel with it. We
now sensed that we were on the moor and on our way! Just past the café
we stopped for light refreshment. I consumed some of the water that had mysteriously
increased in weight since leaving Millbrook and finished some of the lunch
left over from earlier in the day. By now it was 4.15pm and Princetown still
seemed miles away! After a short break we resumed our pace and the walking
was rather pleasant. The grass made a very pleasant change to the tarmac pavement.
Our first sighting of wildlife in the form of sheep and ponies made a delightful
change from lorries and cars. We maintained a good pace and before we knew
it we were at Yelverton. Time for another quick slurp of water before following
the signs for Dousland and, unbelievably, Princetown! Little did we know that
the moor proper had a damp surprise in store for us! The gathering clouds
should have given us a clue but our initial enthusiasm had persuaded us that
perhaps they were moving away...As the road began to climb up out of Dousland
the views back over the moor were spectacular against the backdrop of the
dark sky. The air was clear and we could see a considerable distance as we
ascended. Back on the road we constantly had to have our wits about us a cars
and vans seemed to pass ever closer. It was beginning to dawn thatthe age
of the pedestrian was over. The motor car rules and the walker has no rights.
The terrain grew more sparse as we climbed higher and the first spots of rain
had us scrambling through our rucksacks for our wet weather gear. Up on the
exposed moor the wind was stronger and was driving the rain, fortunately into
our backs. Our plodding degenerated to trudging as the cloud closed in and
the rain intensified. We were getting wet and this wasn’t in the plan!
More evidence of poor driving manifested itself as we clung to the edge of
the road and vehicles hurtled past at speeds far in excess of the 40mph moorland
limit. As our spirits sank, out of the gloom emerged the most wonderful of
sights. It was white, glided past us and stopped a short distance ahead. I
thought the angels themselves had taken pity on us. In fact it was Ray and
Lewis and what a wonderful sight they were! They were offering, not a lift
unfortunately, but a very welcome cup of tea! Their assurance that we were
within an hour of Princetown was some comfort as we resumed the walking and
the developing blisters began to twinge. By now it was gone 7.30pm and it
was hard going. The translation of 20 miles on the map into putting one foot
in front the other was beginning to be rather painful and was taking its toll
on the feet. It seemed as though we were never going to get there. ‘Surely,
it can’t be much further’ was the thought that kept running through
my mind. With our heads down we pressed on relentlessly. Any thoughts of a
meditative nature never entered my mind and as for admiring the view, the
visibility was only a few metres, so no chance of that. It was simply a case
of getting the miles behind us. Eventually, out of the gloom we could make
out houses. ‘No, this is too good to be true, it can’t be’.
Yes, the second most glorious vision of the day was the ‘Princetown’
sign ahead of us. By now I was feeling as though I had walked, no hobbled,
125 miles and this was only day one! The ’Plume of Feathers’ must
be used to dishevelled visitors but the sight of two drowned rats falling
into the bar, dripping and groaning, certainly turned a few heads. Having
stopped for a few moments to ask where our tents were I discovered that my
legs had ceased working. The short stagger from the bar to the field seemed
like a conquest of Everest. Nothing a couple of pints of ‘Jail ale’
couldn’t put right, though. The rest of the evening was spent enjoying
a delightful meal and in conversation with a delightful German couple fascinated
by our pilgrimage to Glastonbury and a rather loud English woman from Dorset
whose volume ensured that the entire pub heard what she was saying. She did
us give a pound each for our journey which was a nice gesture.I had imagined
that night would bring sleep in great abundance but the howling wind, lashing
rain and a small but persistent leak put paid to that. In any case, I discovered
that as I ’leaped’ into the sleeping bag I nearly shot out of
the tent and across the field. The sleeping bag against the inflatable sleep
mat was very slippery indeed and I spent the rest of the night trying to stay
in the tent. Oh well, only five more days to go…..
Monday
Had I been asleep the sound of dripping water would most certainly have woken
me. As it happened, I was already awake and, as I thrashed around trying to
manoeuvre in my mummified sleeping bag I felt a damp patch which upon further
investigation revealed the intrusion of water. My sandwich box doubled as
useful means of catching the drips! It had been a wild night. Not in terms
of entertainment but rather weather conditions. The wind howled and the rain
lashed the tent. No wonder I hadn’t slept much. There was nothing for
it except to get up and begin day 2. It was impossible to exit the tent without
getting a good soaking from the porch. I made my way to the shower room but
thought better of it when I got there. The word ‘derelict’ came
to mind as I surveyed the facilities! I sufficed with a good wash. I checked
the time and discovered it was only 7.30am. Shock, horror. I don’t normally
function at this time of night but here I was... washing! Back at the tent
Tony was emerging and the kettle was on. Sheer joy! A cup of tea was never
so welcome. At this unearthly hour we were somewhat surprised to see Ray and
Lewis arriving! Clearly, they couldn’t sleep either. This adventure
lark was already proving too energetic for me. Their arrival coincided with
the start of more rain which was to persist for most of the morning.We departed,
waved off by our intrepid back up team, and thus began another twenty mile
day. Apart from the rain all was well and the first few miles to Two Bridges
fell away nicely. We encountered no other walkers, only sheep. Along the way
we had tantalising glimpses through the mist of glorious Dartmoor scenery.
We trudged on arriving at Postbridge by midday. A wonderful bus shelter on
the edge of the village provided a very welcome resting place. By now another
five and a half miles had taken its toll on my feet and I couldn’t wait
to get my shoes off. We lounged for a while munching odd bits of food we had
found in our packs and sipping water. Some woman nearly fainted when she saw
what appeared to be the entire bottom of my foot falling off. In fact, what
she thought was skin, was the miracle wonder cure for blisters that was peeling
off. She went on her way relieved and I savoured the sympathy for a while.
Even though it was only day two Ray and Lewis had the wonderful knack of turning
up just at the right moment. On their return from pitching our tents at the
next stop they very kindly stopped again and plied us with ‘life giving’
tea. Before long we were on our way again. The punishing pace dictated that
we need to keep moving but we did stopat the post office just down the road
for a rather ‘hot and spicy’ pasty, which we sat and ate on the
’Post Bridge’. More rain prompted our departure for real at about
1.00pm. Early on, hills certainly took their toll on the mileage rate. By
now we could even detect gradual inclines which slowed us considerably. We
climbed up out of Post Bridge and again experienced the wild desolation of
the open moor. It was beautiful in a strange way, despite the cloud and mist.
As we pressed on, we kept our heads down which rather limited any conversation.
By 2.00pm we were passing the Warren House Inn and it was time to tune into
Radio 4 for the ‘Archers’ which I listened to walking along. Our
next stop was in a lay by with two very inviting rocks which proved most comfortable.
We sensed that we were descending off the moor and the scenery was beginning
to change. As we sat admiring the view a car swept past and pulled up sharply
and then proceed to reverse. Its driver got out and introduced himself as
a Daily Telegraph reporter. ‘Pull the other one’ we thought just
as he produced a very professional looking card. Sure enough he was bod from
the paper and he was doing an article on Dartmoor in the aftermath of Foot
and Mouth. Seizing on something I said in response to a question, he lurched
for his pad, and proceeded to ask us all about our pilgrimage. He departed
a very happy man after having got a story and a few shots of us. His departure
returned us to the peace and tranquillity of the moor. We weren’t quite
sure where we were but soon discovered that Moretonhampstead was about seven
miles on. Not so bad, or so we thought. Each mile thereafter seemed to take
an age and it started to rain again. When we thought we were nearly there
another signpost suggested it was still another five miles and by now we were
soaked! Even when we eventually got to the ‘Moretonhampstead’
sign it was still a mile to the village. Civilisation usually means pubs but
Moretonhampstead was the only village with about five pubs all of which were
closed! Now dripping wet and able only to stagger a few paces at a time having
slowed right down, we found a tea shop. A very nice tea shop actually and
we wondered if we ought to go in, looking bedraggled as we did, and dripping
all over their ‘nice tea shop’. More life giving tea was consumed
and a scone, jam and cream —just to cheer us up. The owners were very
pleasant and very sympathetic of our plight. We asked if they would mind if
we lay down and have a kip for a while but they politely declined our request.
We stayed as long as we could but by 6.00pm that dreadful moment arrived when
we just couldn’t stay any longer. As we gathered together our gear and
struggled into our soaking wet coats we clearly looked finished because, for
the first time temptation was put before us. “We could give you a lift,
if you like” said the nice lady. As I was about to say “thanks,
that would be great”, Tony instantly declined the offer and were thrust
back into the rain with another mile and a half to go to our next camp site.
In the absence of an evening meal we decided to visit the local store and
purchased some ravioli and red wine. It all looked a bit complicated to me
but Tony assured me he knew what to do with it. From then on it was all up
hill, or so it seemed and just when we thought we’d gone past the site
and missed it a passing motorist confirmed Rock Valley Camping site to be
a few more painful yards on. We checked in and were immediately offered wine
and food by the kind owner who had also waived the camping fee. Our tents
were a welcome sight as we crossed the field in the pouring rain and the prospect
of the ravioli, cooked on Tony’s gaz stove, with red wine, was most
inviting. The wine was somewhat diluted by the rain falling and dripping from
the trees as we stood and ate in beautiful surroundings. There were few other
campers braving the elements, a couple of German girls arrived and one other
tent completed the campers. Later that evening I took a look at my feet. Not
a pretty sight! “This is it” I thought. I’m not going to
make it. Being a bit squeamish, I could barely bring myself to look at the
blisters which looked horrid. I hate the sight of blood, especially when its
mine. The wonder blister stuff was later applied along with plasters and overnight
it did its stuff. Before turning in I thought I’d go to the house for
shower. I was happily showering away, soaking wet and covered in soap and
froth when suddenly I remembered I’d left my towel downstairs. Very
embarrassed, I had to open the door and yell to the chap to fetch it for me!
So ended Day 2.
Tuesday
I thought not having had much sleep the night before I might have slumbered
rather well last night. It was a blissfully quiet spot with little or no traffic
noise so I should have slept like a baby on a 125 mile pilgrimage. Wrestling
with the mummy sleeping bag all night doesn’t, I discovered, induce
sleep though. The constant ‘splash, splash’ or rather ‘gush,
gush’, on the tent suggested to me that it was still raining outside,
and sure enough, it was. Thankfully, Tony had put the kettle on again and
I rose to a welcome cup of char! The feet didn’t seem too bad this morning
and I almost skipped across the field to greet Dene and Gus who had very kindly
risked the elements to come and support us. They arrived bearing the most
wonderful bag of goodies. Talk about being spoilt! Wine Gums (my favourite),
sandwiches, fruit, mineral water and …’Actimel’. What’s
Actimel? Well, not being a ‘breakfast person’ it is the most delightful
and perfect breakfast for the non breakfast person! It’s like liquid
yoghurt and magnificent. I am now hooked on Actimel. The other thing I was
very grateful for was my normal walking shoes. The highly expensive ‘professional’
walking shoes I had bought specially for the walk had developed a fault which
made walking very (even more) painful. Things were looking up and there was
even a hint that the sun might come out!We said our thanks and farewells and
were on our way at the early hour of 10.15am. The going was initially good
and the sun did come out for a bit. Our route was mainly on roads and I was
finding that the tarmac surface was still very hard and unyielding. The constant
pounding found us leaping onto every grass verge we could find for a moments
relief. Even the thinnest and shortest bits of grass did not escape our notice!
We kept up a good pace and were walking along minding our own business when
suddenly a police car screeched to halt beside us, gave us a wail of the siren
and, to our astonishment, a policeman leapt out and asked if either of us
was carrying a knife! He intimated that they had had a report of a bearded
man brandishing a knife and obviously, Tony, looking very bearded and suspicious,
fitted the bill! In fact we were able to help them with their enquiries because
just a few moments before we had passed a very dodgy looking chap who looked
like he was carrying a machete! They went on their way very happy and even
gave us a toot later presumably returning to base.
It seemed very odd looking out for signs to Exeter. It was almost unreal that
we had got even this far on foot and here we were looking at making Exeter
this very day! I must say though, that as each day was going by every successive
five miles seemed to lengthen and felt more like ten. Nonetheless, Longtown
soon came up and the wall upon which we perched by a busy road seemed a very
unsuitable location to eat the feast that Dene had made for us. Timing was
good though as our stop coincided with the 2.00pm news followed by the Archers!
Before we knew it we were standing on the edge of Exeter looking across to
the cathedral in the distance. What a glorious sight! More unrelenting tarmac
stood between us and arriving at the cathedral though, and again the occasional
grass verge provided welcome relief. A few more spots of traditional rain
and by 3.15pm we were sitting by the West end of the cathedral. My shoes were
off again to cool the feet and I wondered what people thought of us as they
passed us by? By now we were both hobbling, every step was an endurance test.
I was not quite so concerned about what people might think. My only concern
was self preservation and personal comfort. For some reason from here on became
a real slog. I suppose it was the town walking and that unrelenting featureless
tarmac that wore us down. Leaving the cathedral behind us we continued through
Exeter heading for Pinhoe. As I was plodding on I suddenly sensed that Tony
wasn’t with me. I stopped and looked round only to see him chatting
up some young girl. “Not again” I thought, we need to be on our
way. It turned out that by some remarkable coincidence he had met his niece
and was trying to convince her it was him under the newly grown beard!The
road sign indicated that it was five miles to Broadclyst which is where we
were heading for our evening meal before embarking on the final bit to the
village hall at Budlake. Five miles? It felt more like fifty! For much of
the time Tony and I were walking in silence. This was a ‘comfortable’
silence and each knew that we could engage in conversation or not without
fear of upset. Again the scenery largely passed us by as we kept our heads
down and studied every crack in the road that passed beneath us. The traffic
was heavy and we sufficed with the occasional glance at fields and hills along
the way. Eventually we got to Broadclyst and found the post office where we
were to pick up the keys for the village hall. A short conversation with the
lady in the shop revealed absolutely nothing! Her knowledge of the locality
was nil and we staggered out in search of somewhere to eat. Not wanting to
experience the humiliation of being thrown out of the posh restaurant across
the road Tony took a jaunt up the road and found the Red Lion whilst I, once
again, shed the shoes for feet cooling. The sensation of one’s feet
burning up in one’s shoes is becoming a regular but unpleasant one.
My feet actually feel as if they are on fire and every stop, however brief,
causes one’s legs to malfunction. I slide off the wall and crawl to
the Red Lion which proves to be rather delightful! I immediately take the
opportunity to put my feet up and make myself comfortable much to the dismay,
I’m sure, of the proprietors. Sheer joy, reclining in the pub and enjoying
a pint or two and a sumptuous meal. It would have been perfect had it not
been for the 1.8 miles still to go to our resting place for the night!Just
our luck, as we step outside the pub down comes the rain. it absolutely lashes
down and we decide to shelter for while in the hope it may ease off. Eventually
we are on our way attacking the 1.8 miles to the hall. Upon our arrival we
discover that our bedroom for the night is in fact a children’s play
group. Surrounded by nursery equipment, toys and games we set up our beds
with visions that we shall be woken in the morning by hoards of toddlers and
their mums arriving for play school! Our main fear was that we might have
been mistaken for vagrants! Despite the toys we find ourselves very comfortable
and dry. Not a bad nights sleep either. The first for days.
Wednesday
It can’t be Wednesday already, surely? Yep, its Wednesday alright and
I felt like Peter Pan waking up in an imaginary land surrounded by toys, teddy
bears and games. ‘I can fly’ I thought. Then I came to. Hard realitysoon
dawned, though as I caught a glimpse of my walking shoes amidst the soft focus
of the clowns, cuddly toys and mobiles. I rubbed my eyes just to make sure
I was awake because today I think I would have preferred the dream world of
‘nod’ rather than the prospect of more walking. Extraordinarily,
we had fooled ourselves into thinking that today was going to be a doddle.
Less than ten miles we had told ourselves, easy. A quick hop up to Willand
and we can spend the rest of the day resting and enjoying ourselves! Paddy
and John arrived at about ten and by then we were in the grip of total disillusionment.
We chatted and laughed thinking how easy it was going to be...waved them off
at 10.30am and were on our way. The sun was even shining adding to the sense
of joy and gay abandonment. We paused outside our unlikely resting place and
even ran the gauntlet of passing traffic to get just the right shot of the
hall from the middle of the road, such was our confidence and buoyant mood!
And then it hit us. The first mile took an age. Every mile thereafter felt
like ten. The tarmac road rose and pounded our feet with greater impact. The
pack on my back felt as if someone had filled it with rocks, the straps cut
into my shoulders and it was difficult to get into the rhythm and groove of
walking. The traffic, passed even closer than usual, we puffed and we panted
and still the miles dragged. In places the road was very narrow and we had
to keep our wits about us, dodging from one side of the road to the other
and back, frequently taking to the verge and hedgerows to stay alive! By the
time we got to Cullompton the weather had begun to mirror our mood. The storm
clouds gathered, the sky darkened and the rain started to fall—again—and
heavily. We took shelter at a bus stop and waited in the vain hope the rain
might ease. By 1.00pm we ‘dashed’ into Somerfield for supplies
and crawled round the aisles. Tony lost his walking stick (again!) but eventually
found it propped up outside. It had already become quite traditional for Tony
to lose and drop his stick. On several occasions he put it down somewhere
only to forget it when we moved on requiring some back tracking to find it.
Just to cheer us up we bought more wine in Somerfield for the evening forgetting
the additional weight and the fact that we had to carry it! We shuffled out
of Cullumpton in search of our picnic spot which today was to be a bench by
the roadside on the outskirts of Cullompton. The Somerfield sandwiches went
down a treat, washed down with the finest water. Unfortunately, the drone
of the traffic made listening to the Archers rather difficult. But at least
the sun did make an appearance lifting our spirits as we warmed ourselves
in its rays.Before long we were on our way again. The pace could best be described
as ‘genteel’. What pleasant scenery there might have been was
ignored, being overshadowed by our dogged determination to keep our heads
down and get the miles behind us. Again the unrelenting tarmac began to punish
the feet and each successive step became even more arduous. It was like walking
on hot coals, as my feet burnt inside my shoes. I was getting to the stage
where it was becoming more difficult to stop than keep hobbling on. Even the
shortest stop for water or to check the map brought on the now familiar searing
throbbing in the feet, and seizure of the legs. The first few steps after
stopping were very hard. Cranking back up to full ’speed’ took
numerous faltering paces! I can’t describe the joy of seeing even the
shortest piece of grass verge which by now had become more important than
the scenery. Patches of grass, even thick weeds growing in cracks in the pavement,
assumed the status of sacred ground as we thanked God for every blade. The
relief for the feet was enormous and it must have been a very strange sight
watching us hop, leap and lurch from one piece of grass to the next wherever
possible. I discovered that limping on both feet creates a strange and weird
gait!By three o’clock we had made Willand and were on the look out for
the Rectory. Our map, downloaded from the internet, proved very useful in
pin pointing the exact location and before long the Vicar was making us tea
and, yes you guessed it, my shoes were off and feet cooling! After a very
enjoyable conversation with Keith the Vicar, I spent the rest of the afternoon
resting with my feet up and reading in a very comfortable arm chair. I mused
on how warmly we had been welcomed at Rock Valley, Doccombe and then at Budlake
village hall, and now Willand. Without hesitation we had been offered accommodation
and even food and drink. Part of this pilgrimage experience has been to restore
my faith in human kind. We tend to think we live in a time when hospitality
and welcome are things of the past but this is not so. Keith Horsfall opened
up his Rectory at Willand and put his home and facilities at our disposal
without question and for that we were extremely grateful. Our tents were pitched
on his lawn but he would have willingly given us beds for the night. He even
went off fishing that evening leaving us to enjoy the facilities of the Rectory.
The power shower that evening never felt so good. The warm water bringing
back life to those parts of the anatomy only recently discovered.My feet hurt
considerably today but today I feel I have gone through the pain barrier,
whatever that means (total numbness, I think!)! Perhaps though, it was the
red wine just mellowing our memories of the past few days. Reclining in the
tents enjoying our simple evening meal of cheese and bread (and wine) we might
actually have momentarily been enjoying ourselves! Much discussion took place
between ourselves as to why today
the relatively short mileage had seemed so far? No conclusion was reached
so we immersed ourselves in the peace and tranquility of the place, savouring
the moment and pushing out of our consciousness the intrusion of the drone
of the M5 lurking not far distant. For the first time we both glimpsed the
possibility of achieving our goal of making it to Glastonbury.
Thursday.
It had been a cold night and sleep had only come in fits and starts. It had
been impossible to get the constant drone of the M5, which ran parallel with
Willand, out of the mind and there was no let up in the traffic even through
the night. As I emerged from the tent on all fours I discovered that there
was a heavy dew as the cold wetness from the tent flap gradually soaked into
my back. I was compensated somewhat by the fact that the sun was shining and
as I slowly stood upright I realised I felt rather good. That was until I
checked the time only to discover that it was only 7.30am! Groan…! Life
began to ebb back into me once the, most welcome, cup of tea began to infuse
my veins and very being. It was only then that I could face having a wash
and prepare for the day ahead. Keith the Vicar looked bright and cheery as
if he had been up for hours! All very disconcerting.Given our early rising
we were away and on the road by 8.30am! The relatively few miles covered yesterday
meant that today was going to be a marathon. Our bed for the night was some
22 miles distant beyond Taunton, but we didn’t want to think about that
just yet! Initially we maintained a remarkable pace joining the main A38 by
way of a quiet lane for the first mile. Three and half miles were despatched
in the first hour, our sights were firmly set on Wellington for lunch. The
land mark Wellington monument became a navigation aid as we crossed the M5
(via a bridge) and decided on a detour to gain some relief from the constant
heavy traffic. The noise and the fumes were becoming unbearable as was the
blatant disregard by motorists for pedestrians! We basked in the relative
quiet of the lane and were able to resume conversation, walking side by side
for change. Our initial pace slowed somewhat as we settled into the rhythm
enjoying for once the delightful scenery. The sun was still shining, for which
we gave thanks, bathing us and our surroundings in warmth. We passed through
some delightful hamlets and paused for photos along the way but otherwise
kept on going. To our surprise we arrived in Wellington just after midday
and once again stumbled upon a Somerfield in which we were able to stock up
for lunch. The parish church a short distnace further down the high street
provided us with a delightful location to eat and a well placed bench was
exceedingly welcome. By now the sun was beating down so it was a case of on
with my trusty and faithful ‘grundling hat’ and off with shoes
and socks! Tony even managed to find the sun cream which had sunk to extreme
depths in his rucksack! We both made the most of our most comfortable surroundings
and lounged and spread out on the bench whilst eating. That was until the
hearse and funeral cars arrived! The Vicar approached with that look on his
face that said “I hope these tramps move on before anyone sees them
in my churchyard”, and informed us that there was a funeral, perhaps
in the hope that we might move on quietly. We explained what we were about
and he was visibly relieved! A quick look at the Ordnance Survey map borrowed
from the Willand Rectory showed that there was a ‘short’ cut across
fields enabling us to avoid another short stretch of A38. We made our way
in what we hoped was the right direction, scrambled over fences and streams
and struggled through hedges and realised quite quickly that what appeared
to be a well sign posted path in fact fizzled out after a very short distance.
Lost in the middle of a field the mobile phone rang and Tony Gillies confirmed
that we had missed them by minutes at Wellington church! We arranged to meet
up briefly on the A38 once we had extricated ourselves from our present dilemma!
We eventually emerged in an industrial unit and were immediately approached
by a big man who we thought might arrest us for trespass! We were politely
redirected and found ourselves back on the A38 having probably added, rather
than saved, on our mileage for the day!Having waved goodbye to Tony and Gina
our trusty back up team for the day I mused on something Tony had said on
our first day that “this pilgrimage was something of a penance”.
There was considerable truth in that statement. The experience was most certainly
proving to be a bit of a penance but in a strange and perverse way there was
a positive side to it. Again the spiritual dimension of the walk was manifesting
itself in a totally unexpected way. The journeying, the discomfort and pain
mirrored in some ways the ‘Way of the Cross’. There again the
movement from one place to another, encounters along the way, availing ourselves
of food, water and hospitality one could imagine life on the road in the region
of Galilee with Jesus Himself. As I emerged from my thoughts I realised that
once again we were maintaining a good but punishing pace. Absolutely necessary
of course if we were to achieve our day’s objective! As we reached Runwell
on the outskirts of Taunton we paused for water and rest and again the agony
of the feet and the aching legs surged into the conscience. Added to this,
Tony had the unpleasant experience of sitting on a snail, which I wont dwell
on here. Getting going again was desperately difficult but ‘got going’
we did. Taunton was another megamilestone. Walking into the town brought the
almost unbelievable realisation that had made it this far! Unfortunately,
Taunton went on and on and on… Through the town centre we attempted
to follow the most direct course heading for the river Tone and the canal
which run almost parallel. The pavement seemed harder than ever, pummelling
the feet with every step and the packs on our backs increased in weight, with
every step! I thought perhaps I had trodden in some molten lead along the
way and it had set on my shoes! Our next objective was the Bathpool Inn at
Bathpool which Tony Gillies had very kindly checked out for us earlier that
day. Having found the canal, the path went on for ever. By now we had probably
already done over twenty miles and were feeling extremely weary. The thought
of a pint at the Inn probably kept us going, I don’t know how.Falling
into the low slung settee at the Inn I wondered if I would ever get up again?
The necessity to get the shoes off overcame any sense of good manners and
the rucksacks, mindlessly discarded on the floor were another indication of
our fatigue. What a glorious sight this place was just as we were on the verge
of collapse. We lapsed into the relaxation putting to the back of our minds
the three miles we still had to do. Conversation flowed easily as did the
ale which began, slowly to revive us, and the food was excellent. We languished
in the considerable comfort of the Inn explaining to the landlord, who enquired
after our well-being, that we were indeed the intrepid pilgrims on our way
to Glastonbury as explained earlier that day by Tony Gillies! Inevitably,
that terrible moment arrived—we had to leave. Those last three miles
were indescribable. One could never imagine how difficult it would be putting
one foot in front of the other. My ankle was agony and every step excruciating.
I suspect it was the double limp that contributed to the ankle trouble which
induced treble limping, which believe me is possible! Walking dual carriageways
was becoming passé but the noise was awful. I took the opportunity
of conversing with nature just as Sue decided to ring on the mobile—very
inconvenient! Were we becoming delirious? Well, I began to think so. Tony
kept saying he thought he could hear distant voices and so we stopped time
and again straining to listen to these ‘voices’ he could hear!
I couldn’t hear anything, “Don’t be daft” I thought
“it must be the cider taking effect”. But sure enough, I too began
to hear the voices! How weird? Perhaps the walk had taken its toll after all
and we were cracking up! After a few moments doubting ourselves and fearing
the worse our craning led to an investigation of Tony’s rucksack from
where the ‘voices’ seemed to be coming. Standing back, I looked
on as Tony rummaged through his stuff and eventually pulled the voices from
the bag! Somehow, his small radio had switched itself on and the ‘voices’
were nothing more than BBC Radio 4!! It was with some relief that we carried
on vilified of any tendencies towards madness. Once on our way again, the
village hall at Durston was a most welcome sight, emerging from the fog of
fatigue closing in on us on all sides. Joan Perry warmly greeted us and let
us in, informing us that we had just missed the rural dean. “Thank goodness
for that” I thought. The prospect of maintaining polite conversation
did not fill me with joy! We spent the rest of the evening eating bread and
cheese and finishing the wine we had carried all the way from Willand! I must
be mad I thought. Only one day to go but I wish I could stop now but I was
inspired by some prayers and writings that Tony Gillies had given earlier
that day. I wish it was all over—well it will be tomorrow!
Friday
My ankle was absolutely agony this morning. The limping and hobbling had trapped
a nerve or something and the swelling suggested all was not well. At this
moment I seriously thought that I wasn’t going to make another day of
twenty plus miles to Glastonbury! Having got this far though, I wasn’t
going to give up without at least ‘having a go’. Gus and Lewis’s
encouragement spurred us on and it was a joy to see them again. And so it
was, we left behind the relative comfort of our overnight accommodation set
amidst card tables and set off on the last leg of our marathon pilgrimage.
Neither of us had known what was in store or how punishing the task would
ultimately be. Limping on, my ankle dictated a very slow pace as we departed
Durston, barely a mile an hour. For some strange reason though and with considerable
surprise we discovered that we had initially covered a good distance and before
we knew it nine miles had passed and we had made Othery. Here another well
placed bench served as a picnic table for our lunch. Once again our devoted
friends had provided us with a magnificent lunch which we thoroughly enjoyed
in the sun. The view across the levels gave us our first glimpse of Glastonbury
Tor! A moving moment, given the effort and pain that had gone into getting
this far. The tor still looked a long way off though but the very sight of
it provided a much needed spur! The pavement, tarmac and constant heavy traffic
persuaded us to check the map for a quieter route to Glastonbury. On paper
the road across the Somerset levels looked very flat and inviting, avoiding
as it did, more of the A361/A39. It did appear a little farther than sticking
to the main road but we were prepared for a small sacrifice. Little did we
know that this alternative route was to add considerably to our already heavy
mileage for the day.The road from Othery was easy and quite and the sun was
shining warming our backs as we walked. We then veered off towards Henley
walking through glorious countryside, passing farms and animals and were totally
unprepared for the steep hill which confronted us just after Beer. As we approached
the hill the mobile rang and it was Fr. Andrew, our Rural Dean ringing to
see how we were progressing. He enquired why I was puffing and I informed
him of the impending hill. He immediately suggested that as I was being accompanied
by my church warden it was his duty to carry the Vicar in situations of extreme
need! By now we were ambling along, chatting and making what progress we could.
The hill took more out of us but we crawled up it at a snails pace not wishing,
at this stage of the pilgrimage, to expire prematurely. Our efforts were rewarded
with another fine view of the distant Tor and it still didn’t look any
closer than when we first sighted it at Othery. Downhill should have been
a joy but going down was as uncomfortable on the feet and legs as going up!
More slow progress, but we comforted ourselves with the fact that it didn’t
matter what time we arrived in Glastonbury, as long as we got there tonight!Back
on the level on the Levels distance took on another dimension. The long flat
road across Butleigh Moor disappeared into infinity, seemingly with no end.
And that’s how it felt—never ending. Mile after mile we trudged
on but the Tor never really got any closer. Stopping was excruciating, walking
was excruciating, our senses were numbed as we pressed on regardless. Even
the thought of the end being in ’sight’ gave little comfort or
indeed encouragement. Further doubt set in as we encountered a ‘Road
ahead closed’ sign. “Could we get through”, we thought—the
prospect of retracing our steps was unthinkable. We took the plunge and carried
on discovering the cause of the problem being road subsidence which we easily
navigated. In the distance, shrouded in heat haze, we thought we could see
a car. It was a long time before it appeared to be any closer.Reaching the
car, we could see that the road we needed rose over the Polden hills and after
a brief stop to confirm the route with the local chap sitting in his car we
set off in what we thought was the right direction. We had decided to take
a bridleway up over the hill but it looked almost impassable and certainly
not for the fainthearted. It was wet, slippery, muddy, narrow and well overgrown
with thorns, brambles and stinging nettles, but still we pressed onwards and
upwards! Slipping and sliding we’d gone far enough to ensure that going
back was not an option when we encountered a fork in the ‘path’.After
some deliberation and studying of the ’map’ we elected to take
the right fork thinking it was heading in the right direction! Wrong! The
gradient we encountered was about one in three and it was all we could do
to remain upright. Deep ruts caused by animal hooves added to the difficulty
of traversing the hillside. It was almost a hands and knees job to get up
the hill. More stinging nettles, brambles and overhanging branches hindered
our progress, which slowed to a snails pace. Eventually we emerged on the
summit with a fantastic view of Street and beyond to Glastonbury stretching
before us. Now, for the first time, the Tor seemed a little nearer. During
a short rest for refreshment we studied the map trying to determine where
we were. We looked back where we had come and impressed ourselves with the
distance we had travelled since the hill at Henly. It didn’t help thinking
we were in one place but in fact were actually somewhere else! As a consequence,
we set off in the wrong direction and only after instinct kicked in, did we
sense we were not going the right way. It was about then that I noticed my
ankle was a lot easier. The strenuous effort and acute angle of the hill had
presumably massaged the trouble out and walking was much more comfortable.
A very chatty chap with a dog was able to give us some idea of where we were
and we surmised that we were some way off our intended route. Normally the
odd half mile extra would be of no consequence but today even a few extra
yards was daunting! We gambled on a narrow lane and footpath across fields
leading us back onto the main road and consoled ourselves with a banana!By
now I was like a zombie, and probably looked like one, mechanically putting
one foot in front of the other. Glastonbury was so near and yet seemed still
to be so far away. I kept on mulling over the remaining mileage in my mind,
trying to convince myself that we were nearly there. Back on the main road
the traffic was heavy and the noise and fumes once again engulfing us. It
took us ages to cross the A39. We were both feeling the effects of a long
day and already heavy mileage by now and we resumed a ‘heads down’
attitude as we tried to force the miles away underfoot. It was hard going
walking by the main road and Street went on forever before eventually, Clark’s
Village came up. We settled into a steady rhythm, the only way to keep going,
but as we got closer so the Tor began to disappear. Then……. before
us was a most glorious sight—the ‘Glastonbury’ sign. As
we made our approach we moved into formation so that we would both cross the
line together! The enormous sense of relief of making it to Glastonbury was
momentarily overshadowed by the thought that we still had a mileand a half
to go to the camp site! Casting off our packs and lurching for the cameras
to record this special moment, we were euphoric and wallowed in the success
of our achievement. Passing motorists must have thought us mad. For a moment,
and only a moment, I forgot the sore feet and aching legs and savoured the
moment. I wish we had had the strength to carry some champagne because had
we have done so this is the moment we would have cracked the bottle. As it
was, it took some time for the true magnitude of what we had done to sink
in. There had been, I must admit many times when I thought we, or should I
say, I, might not make it. And yet here we were walking into Glastonbury—it
was a great feeling. The last mile seemed like a hundred and I thought I would
drop before making the camp site. Nothing would stop me now. I would have
crawled the last mile on all fours if necessary! In the last mile Tony tripped
once again, the cleats on his boots catching and sending him headlong. Not
able to stop I continued slowly on expecting him to catch up in a few moments
driven on by some ‘discomfort’ of which I was blissfully unaware.
Instead he was delayed trying to undo the laces! At last, though we arrived
and the sight of our tents in the camping field of the Isle of Avalon camp
site was most welcome indeed. The time was 6.30pm and I fell to the ground
and lay there exhausted staring into the sky while Tony went off to do the
necessary. The relief, for both of us, was phenomenal and the thought that
tomorrow I didn’t have to walk twenty miles washed over me and bathed
me in a feeling of utter joy! This, and having made it at last prompted a
small celebration of more wine!
Later, we decide to make our way to the ‘George and Pilgrim’ for
another celebratory drink and for something to eat. I suddenly realised that
we would have to walk into town! “Mad”, we must be “mad”,
I thought. Only a short while ago I could barely stand nevertheless, we wandered
to the pub only to find that the food had finished. Instead, we made do with
a couple of pints of very nourishing ale. We spent an enjoyable evening musing
on our achievement and soaking up the atmosphere of Glastonbury. True to form
there were some weird characters in the pub singing dancing. One chap looked
as though he was in trance, gyrating to the music, but seemed to be enjoying
himself nonetheless. A taxi was the order of the day for the return trip to
the camp site, where we literally crashed out for the night. Sleep overcame
me and was only interrupted when I investigated a pain in my leg during the
night which turned out to be my mobile phone on which I had slept having forgotten
in was in my pocket!
Saturday—Pilgrimage Day
Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny and we
recalled a conversation with the old fellow on the levels who had informed
us that in all his years, and there must have been many of them, it had never
rained on the Glastonbury Pilgrimage. Sure enough it was fine but the gathering
clouds looked ominous. In the ecstasy of not having to walk far today we were
lulled into a false sense of time. We thought we had plenty of time to wait
for the dew to dry on our tents before packing them away. After all we deserved
a gentle morning. Before we knew it the mobile was ringing frantically and
in my momentary absence Tony couldn’t work out how to answer it! Several
calls later and we discovered that the parish coach was minutes away and we
still hadn’t started to pack! We glanced up to see Jill and Sue wandering
down the camp site looking amazed at our still standing tents. Some frantic
activity followed and helped by Simon, all was packed in a few moments and
was soon being carted off to the bus. In our exuberance I had forgotten that
my feet were still hurting rather badly but I was determined that that small
matter wasn’t going to spoil the day of the pilgrimage. We were greeted
on board with applause and cheers and we both soaked up the moment of fame
with great alacrity!The bus moved off and in no time we were parking up in
the town. The Mass began at midday so some of our group made their way to
the Abbey. The priests robe in a large tent before forming up for the procession
into the Abbey for the start of the concelebrated Mass. Old friends are spotted
and priests make their way to greet one another whilst hoping for a stole
and chasuble from the stewards. The theme of this year’s Mass was ‘St.
Francis’ and ‘The Peace of the World’ and the president
was The Right Reverend Andrew Burnham, the Bishop of Ebbsfleet. I thought
I coped rather well with the procession and hopefully the hobbling was well
disguised! I was glad to make it to my seat and was looking forward to sitting
back to enjoy the Mass. When it came to the distribution I was summoned to
help administer the sacraments so my ‘rest’ came to an abrupt
end! The procession back was tolerable, the emotion of the occasion taking
over and overshadowing any discomfort.There was barely time to eat our lunch
before it was time to make our way to the start point for the procession of
witness at 3.00pm. This is always an awesome experience. The ‘Pilgrimage’
virtually takes over the town for the day and the High Street is packed with
people, some sitting on chairs by the road side, others standing and waving.
Inevitably there are the inquisitive tourists and those wondering just what
is going on! The atmosphere is tremendous and it is impossible not to get
caught up in theinfectious emotion. The sight of so many robed clergy and
servers extending far into the distance is a remarkable and an unforgettable
one. The stunning colours of the vestments, the sound of the music, the smell
of the incense in the air from dozens of thuribles and just the buzz of the
moment all contributed to the sense of awe. We gathered with our team of servers,
choir members and friends from St. John’s, Plymouth and St. Paul’s
Charlestown to form the lead party. At the appointed time, just like clockwork,
the procession started on its way down the High Street. The band were playing
‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, people were waving and a great sense
of joy prevailed. The procession snaked its way into the Abbey where Christians
have gathered for so many centuries. The sense of continuity and unity is
tangible. The ancient ruins have seen ages come and go, kings and queens,
war and peace, decline and revival, and here we were, witnesses of the living
faith gathering in this ancient place once again to worship God. I peeled
off, whilst our servers processed into the sanctuary to take their positions.
I was lucky to get a seat in the shade out of the searing sun. Solemn Sung
Evensong is a glorious office. One can just lapse into the worship and immerse
oneself in the beauty of the music and chant. Evensong was followed by Benediction
and I hoped that my fellow priests were aware of the state of my feet as I
declined to kneel but remained seated for the Blessing!And so came to an end
a remarkable experience. It was still difficult to comprehend that Tony and
I had walked to Glastonbury. Much of it seemed like a dream. The certificate
we were each awarded went some way towards convincing us that perhaps we had
after all completed the walk. In the days and weeks to come we were to discover
that the pilgrimage had indeed made a considerable and lasting impression
upon us.
All that remained was to gather with our party members and make our way back
to the bus for the journey home.
As we reclined in the bus on our way back to Plymouth and Millbrook, looking
out at scenery we had walked through and landmarks we had passed on our pilgrimage,
I thought to myself “it’s actually quite a long way to Glastonbury”!
Almost the next thing I knew was Sunday morning.
© Fr. Christopher Epps