2017 ‘He who would valiant be … ’ : a brief pilgrimage through England
The first intimation that this was going to be a rather unusual weekend was being given the option of sleeping in the Fitzalan Chapel, the burial place of the Dukes of Norfolk since 1390. I had signed up for a weekend with the British Pilgrimage Trust (BPT) to walk through Sussex from Arundel Castle to Bramber, and I could not resist this opportunity, generously offered by the Duchess of Norfolk, a Patron of the BPT. So I bedded down next to the 7th Earl, who died around 1435 and had underneath him a rather gruesome cadaver as a memento mori.

The actual bodies were in the crypt underneath our sleeping-bags, but any disturbance in the night did not come from wandering phantoms but the all-to-real window-rattling snores from fellow pilgrims who were sleeping off the excellent dinner. The floor was hard, but the sleeping mats did their job and I found my close, skeletal companion rather reassuring as I finally nodded off.
Singing
The next morning we chose our sturdy pilgrim staffs, which reminded me of Harry Potter choosing a wand — these would distinguish us from the common rambler, and became an intimate part of the journey. Many of us had slept, or tried to sleep, in the Catholic chapel, and then we all walked around to the other end of the building, which is an Anglican parish church of St Nicholas. It is possibly unique to have the two right against each other, separated by an iron grid, thick glass, and a door that’s only been opened seven times.
Will and Guy, our guides from the Trust, then treated us to a wonderful song in old English, which would be repeated at the end of our pilgrimage to Bramber where there was another church of St Nicholas. These songs in various small churches on the routes were a highpoint — the fine harmonies echoing round ancient walls set the tone for the whole trip.
Walking and talking
I had expected a few old people like me, but instead there were around thirty of us trudging along in occasional rain through beautiful Sussex countryside. They had a wide range of ages, beliefs and interests, but all liked walking, most liked talking, and all joined in with the somewhat unusual activities.

The route follows the Old Way, a medieval pilgrimage route along what were south coast ports such as Arundel, Bramber and Rye, and then up to Canterbury, and which the Trust is trying to develop as a British alternative to the Camino to Santiago. This spanish route has become somewhat over-popular, although the reason I was doing this weekend was to try and recapture some of the powerful experiences I had when I walked 500 miles of the Camino in 2004.
A major part of that pilgrimage experience is the stories that are told along the way — Chaucer had a lot of material. Our group stopped fairly often, and when walking resumed I would be next to a different person and a new conversation would begin, usually starting with the reasons for being here, and then heading off just anywhere.
In contrast to the wandering conversations, when walking we determinedly stuck to our path and followed our guides, who gave us the huge luxury of not having to make any decisions or look at a map. The route managed to avoid roads as we headed up over the South Downs Way and down to Storrington Priory for the night, where we had the additional luxury of beds and an Indian meal, again being able to avoid having to choose what was ordered.
Rituals and symbols

Will and Guy were excellent guides: not a hint of sanctimony or religiosity, quiet and inclusive, and riveting with their knowledge of song, old customs, and the healing and nutritional properties of plants I would normally just pass by or tread on. They led us in circumambulating yew trees and churches, casting silver into rivers, springs and wells, and various other symbolic gestures that might normally be outside my comfort zone but seemed natural in their company. We were celebrating our ancestors, although when we were all together in a tight circle conjuring up their images, I’m afraid what came to mind was my old Dad, who died last year at 93, saying ‘what a load of bollocks’. He wasn’t greatly into symbolic acts.
Water
Our final objective was St Mary’s House in Bramber, originally a 15th Century monastic inn for pilgrims along the Old Way, and now a finely restored home with a truly extraordinary characteristic: a holy well literally underneath the house. Through a door under the main stairs, steps descend to a large pool of cold clear water, which for centuries has been renowned for its taste and vitality.

So we sang our ‘Water Flows’ song as a round, while we went in pairs under the stairs to see the well and get a sip of the (filtered) water. The power of the moment took me by surprise, as if we were queuing up to take ’communion’ while we all sang together. Very moving, and a most fitting ending to the pilgrimage, and we then dispersed with both joy at our shared experience and sadness in parting.
The songs are still going round my head, and I hope to sing them again on more pilgrimages.

