Cautionary Pilgrim. Nick Flint
taking a swig. ‘I am Pilgrim, this is Scribbler.’ I felt in awe of this living embodiment of the spirit of the woods, but found the courage to ask ‘Do you know whether you would like to join us on a walk through Sussex?’
‘Certainly,’ she responded, and immediately divining that perhaps the three of us were not best organised asked ‘Now we won’t make many miles before dark – have you given thought to where we might lodge tonight? It was true we were weary and the light of day was fading. In answer to our blank looks and mumbles she gave a reassuring smile. We were led downhill by her to where signs of human habitation showed us to have arrived at the outskirts of the village of Duncton. Walking single file along a footpath we emerged onto the main road opposite the church near where we waited. Before we knew it, a large shining vehicle like Elijah’s fiery chariot had stopped, doors were flung open and we were on our way to a nearby cottage. This turn of events came about through the network of church and community in a small village where trusting folk still welcome the stranger and revive them with good food and wine.
Much of the evening was spent planning the next stage of the walk in which we had found ourselves thrown together. We passed the book round, read extracts aloud to one another and pondered many aspects of the tale, each of us identifying with one or another of the companions.
But were there actually four of them?’ Who Knows suddenly asked. She appeared to know enough of the subject to see how certainly each of the characters was in all probability a facet of the author’s personality, interests and temperament.
Belloc took the name ‘Myself, Grizzlebeard was a philosophical man of the world, Sailor and Poet simply described two of Belloc’s favourite occupations. ‘Perhaps the other three are nothing more than a literary device; mix them together and out could come Grizzlepoet, Mybeardself or Sailbeard!’
‘You might as well ask whether the church’s doctrine of the Holy Trinity is a mere device.’ Pronounced Pilgrim thoughtfully ‘I say it is how the story of God is experienced. It may not be coincidence either that the Gospels give us four familiar but distinct faces of holiness to ponder.’
‘When HB and G K Chesterton first became friends they were described by George Bernard Shaw as ‘the quadruped Chesterbelloc’ said Scribbler.
‘Belloc was a Christian thinker of course.’ I said leaning forward to venture an opinion. ‘Maybe his book was subconsciously about his relationship to God in three persons, or perhaps the four men are the four evangelists Matthew, Mark, Luke and John?’
‘Belloc and his companions consumed copious amounts of ale on their trek’ I observed. ‘D’you think if the other three were imaginary, that he drank for them as well?’
‘That’s certainly as may be.’ nodded Pilgrim, ambiguous as to which of our questions he was answering. Then slowly and deliberately stretching his tired neck and arms ‘Now a challenging walk lies ahead of us in the coming days and I suggest we retire early to prepare ourselves with as much rest as I am confident we will need. I feel sure that our own walk will reveal its own surprises and mysteries.’
TRISANTONIS
Having followed Pilgrim’s advice the morning of October 30th found us ready to resume our walk after an early breakfast. We decided to take a detour through the villages before ascending once more to the Downs. ‘The references in the book to pubs show Hilaire’s sociable side’ said Pilgrim ‘and suggest his route never strayed far for long from human habitation.’ Having said that we encountered relatively few people on our walk where in 1902 villagers would probably have been working outdoors in close vicinity to their farms, homes and local employment. ‘ Belloc shows that there is more to Sussex than the Downs’ said Who Knows.
‘Much more – by a long chalk.’ I agreed. ‘It isn’t just about Our Lord walking nonchalantly on the sea or trailing clouds of glory, but coming down and joining us ordinary folk in the valley, sometimes in the shadow.’
Clearly more than the Biblical three score years and ten with grey wispy hair, Who Knows nevertheless had a girlish if autumnal face and a ready laugh that suited our company well. She always walked steady and upright, her eyes fixed on the horizon. She was able to name the birds we passed. She did not fail to miss and greet by name also the wild flowers at her feet, and so our countryside knowledge was enriched and the harder uphill steps made a little lighter.
We stopped after some time at the village of Sutton. At a crossroads there stood the sign of the White Horse, although the pub sign itself depicted a horse that was weathered and grubby with age, this did not detract from a pub in a fine situation and of good repute. From there we found our way to Bignor and rejoiced that the church door was open to admit us to a sacred space the more beautiful for being uncluttered and pleasingly plain. In due course we came upon the village of Bury.
Standing out among more traditional buildings in the vicinity the village school was the first sight to greet us. It appeared to have been very newly rebuilt, with its distinctive sign which from a distance had first looked to our band of tired and thirsty travellers very much like that of an inn. As we drew closer we saw that it colourfully depicted a ferryman or possibly a woman, plying a small boat.
‘In times past a ferry would take travellers across the Arun River at a point further down in the village,’ explained Who Knows.
What a fitting symbol of education as being taken and guided on an adventure by our teachers,’ suggested Scribbler admiring the workmanship of the sign.
‘The adventure of seeing things from another side than our own and taking on board that the journey from death to life is for us all’ added Pilgrim ‘That is something recognised by all religions’
‘The best inns may be places of learning of some sort’ I offered ‘a place to drink deep from the fountain of knowledge.’
‘How very poetic!’ said Who Knows with a broad smile.
This profound mood was broken not long after when we had halted outside a house in the village street on which were fixed an unusual collection of carved faces; a horse, a Jack in the Green, a rather smug looking angel and a mischievous leering character who stuck out his tongue. My companions, it seemed could not resist the temptation to pull faces in imitation of those displayed while I looked the other way pretending not to notice. Eventually as the game appeared to be continuing and their laughter getting loud, I suggested with a polite cough that it was time to move on, fearing that an irate owner of the house might appear at the window at any moment and cause deep embarrassment.
A little further on we came to the churchyard of Saint John’s church. ‘I had expected a dedication to a saint with more aquatic credentials’ said Pilgrim, Saint Peter or Andrew perhaps or….’ At this point I interrupted Pilgrim with a cry of recognition for I found myself looking at a familiar name on a gravestone of a man I had once known; a man terribly knowledgeable about cricket and something of an expert among many other things on the practicalities of looking after goats. Here he rested in peace, close to the wall of the church and within a walk of the river. To see him there brought back grateful memories of his kindness to me. We left him with a quiet prayer.
‘From here we walk down the river for a while towards Amberley.’ Who Knows assured us. Pilgrim looked doubtful ‘Like Saint Peter? ‘he queried mischievously. ‘There is a bridge further down.‘suggested