50ccPilgrim.uk

It doesn't look like an suspicious spot: a small table outside Costa in the Stansted terminal. I slept for a couple of hours on the plane, then three more hours lying on the terminal floor with a bunch of other 'overnighters'. I'm sitting now with a cuppa while I wait for the 5.27am train. It's just gone 4.30. And as I checked a few things on my phone and wondered what to do for the next hour I thought: why not pray? I decided to pray the Jesus Prayer for a while on my prayer rope. Now this bit is, I swear, the unvarnished truth. As I was in the act  of unwinding the rope from my wrist (which takes about 5 seconds) an elderly lady came up to the table and said, "Would you pray for me, father?" Nora is a Catholic, on her way to Lourdes for five days. We had a delightful chat about her upcoming trip, and then I prayed a blessing for her as she travels. This crummy corner of the airport has suddenly become a beautiful place ... ///airstrip.bloggin...

What a jarring experience. After almost a month of travel across Europe, tootling along on Rocinante at 30mph or less, stopping all the time, camping and staying with monastic communities, I'd really adapted to a certain pace of life. A pace where things that matter are allowed to unfold slowly. This evening I stepped into an aluminium tube and, courtesy of Ryanair, was returned almost to my starting point in a little over two hours. Suddenly the weather is totally different, everyone speaks my language, the time zone has changed ... of course, this is just the modern age in which we live. But it's going to take me a little while to readjust. Meanwhile, my train is in 5 hours so I've joined the crowd spending the night sleeping on the terminal floor at Stansted ... ///cutlets.alleyway.important

Thought you all might like a taste of the monastery where I've been staying the last few days. No, it's not the grand buildings in the front of the photo, it's the little one nestled in the trees right in the middle of the picture. The community has rebuilt and adapted an eleventh century Benedictine foundation which was more recently occupied by the Franciscans. There are only five of them at the moment; this is the small chapel where they worship together (with their guests and visitors) three times every day. The refettorio  is where everyone shares the common meals: simple country food, mostly grown by the monks in their grounds, and very tasty. Olive oil is abundant and used liberally in everything. The buildings are surrounded by agricultural land belonging to the monastery. Here, just west of the church, is the sizeable vineyard; round the other side is the olive grove in which the cicadas sing all day. And ...

The single word Silentium  crudely hand written on the wall of the refectory. I'm at San Damiano, one of the last stops on this phase of my pilgrimage before I begin my return to Britain later today. I mentioned in a previous post how Francis prayed in the ruins of San Damiano church and heard Christ speak to him from the painted Byzantine crucifix: "Repair my church." With others, he literally repaired this building - and it shows. The angles on the walls are never quite right, the arches are out of line, there are workarounds everywhere. It's a rough piece of work by a young man brought up as a cloth merchant's son, not as a builder. It became the heart of the early Franciscan movement, first as the home of the friars minor (the 'little brothers') and then as the convent gathered around St Clare. And somehow it's managed to keep its Franciscan character. Small, simple, inelegant and beautiful, rough and delightful. It's one of the few...

The Basilica di San Francesco is impressive throughout. The upper church, with all its sweeping grandeur and the marvellous Giotto frescoes, is inspiring and delightful. The lower church had an intimacy conducive to worship, and it was a real pleasure to be there for the mass yesterday morning. But without question the most moving place in the building is the crypt chapel housing the tomb of St Francis. I arrived again this morning as the mass was beginning but, taking advantage of the fact that everyone was 'upstairs' I went down the stone steps into the crypt where I could sit almost alone (two friars were praying there too). I'm not sure what Francis would make of the Basilica. All that splendour for one who sought simplicity! But the tomb seems so appropriate. Beautiful but not ornate, small, unpretentious, quiet. Around the tomb itself are four niches where four of his closest companions are buried, Brothers Leo, Masseo, Rufino and Angelo, inseparable in de...

Early start this morning: 5.30 rise (4.30 UK time!) with the community, as usual, followed by Matins at 6.00 and a small breakfast. And then, why hang about? I headed up to Assisi and arrived at the Basilica di Santa Francesco in time for the morning mass. Didn't plan that, but it was serendipity at work again, so I joined in. Afterwards I tracked down the Franciscan relics I was most eager to see: his prayer horn. The story behind it is, I think, astonishing and inspiring. Francis lived in the era of the crusades and, as a young man, dreamt of going to the Holy Land to glorify God by hacking Muslim infidels to death. That was the air he breathed, like all his contemporaries. God showed him another option. After his conversion experiences, and after he'd founded his order based on simplicity, love, joy and peace, he did  travel to the crusades ... but with the desire to share Christ, not kill in his name. He ended up in Egypt and, with the naive bravado that seemed ...

Three years ago (or thereabouts) was invited to write a book about contemplative prayer and the experiences of Elijah the prophet. I've been longing to write about this for some time, so it was a welcome opportunity. Unfortunately the process has been so hard. The pandemic and other circumstances at Launde meant we were all under huge pressure for a couple of years after March 2020, and once that pressure began to lift I suffered a breakdown. I was off work for three months, which you might think would be ideal for getting a book written. And so it would, if the breakdown hadn't left my concentration so scattered that I could barely write a text message! Rebuilding from the lockdown years has continued to be hard at Launde, and I've continued to struggle with both physical and mental health. The book has been on the back burner all this time: I was longing to write but simply couldn't. Optimistically I picked up a £25 laptop on eBay to bring with me (somethi...

Visiting the Basilica di Santa Chiara in Assisi this morning was a beautiful experience. The church is far less busy that the St Francis basilica at the other end of town, but it radiates peace and tranquility. Clare was a contemplative, and perhaps that's helped affect the atmosphere of this wonderful church built in her honour. I spent a good hour or so praying in the church itself, then more delightful time in the San Damiano cross chapel. The story goes that Francis was praying in the ruins of the little church in San Damiano, just down the hill from Assisi, when he heard the voice of Christ speaks to him from this cross: "Francis, you see my church is in ruins. Go and repair it." At first he took that literally and rebuilt the little church and a few others. But over time he came to understand that what Christ was truly calling him to was the healing of the troubled church community of his day. The cross now hangs here in the St Clare basilica. Then down ...

This is Andreas, who got to be a bit of an angel yesterday - but not to me, to Francesco, who was travelling to Assisi on the same train as me. And this time, I got to join in the angel game! I arrived at the platform at Roma Termini with seconds to spare before the train pulled out. As I rushed to the door there was a fella there trying to haul his heavy suitcases into the carriage. I did what anyone would have done: grabbed the remaining cases and bundled him the luggage, and myself through the door just as they slid shut. He came and sat with me, thanking me for my help and then worrying away at his phone trying to make a call to Assisi. I lent him mine. From that point on he proclaimed me his miracle guardian angel, which seemed a bit of a magnanimous reward for such a small favour. We fell into conversation for the rest of the trip. Francesco was fascinating. He was an Australian and Italian dual citizen who'd spent years teaching among the aboriginal peoples near ...

And so to what was, without any doubt, the strangest experience of this entire pilgrimage. Underneath Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini, a Francisan Capuchin church, is the utterly bizarre Cripta dei Frati Cappuccini. Sometimes more colloquially known as the Bone Church. Here's what happened, as best as I can understand it. It was common practice throughout Europe for centuries to bury the dead for a period of time, but after the body had decomposed to exhume the bones and store them in a reverent place, leaving the ground free for fresh burials. This was perfectly normal in Britain too. Sometimes in the 1600s the Capuchins moved to their present location in Santa Maria and brought all the bones with them. At which point, one of the friars apparently thought: why just put all these bones in the crypt? Why not do some arts and crafts with them? The result was, I think it's fair to say, unusual. A series of alcoves with the bones of, I understand, more than ...

After the tumult of the Vatican I wandered the streets of Rome, more or less at random, and wound up in Santa Maria sopra Minerva, a Dominican church built on the remains of an ancient temple (thought originally to have been a temple of Minerva, hence the church's name, but now believed to be dedicated to Isis). Relatively speaking it was much quieter. The baroque phantasia here was more muted, crowd size more manageable, noise levels lower. I've come across a lot of American tourists in the big Italian cities, almost all of whom are polite, friendly, thoughtful and engaged with the magnificent history of the places they visit. But here at Santa Maria a New Jersey couple (it's a very distinct accent) were doing everything they could to re-establish the stereotype of the clumsy, boorish Yanks, arguing loudly at top volume about everything, despite repeated requests from the stewards to respect the silenzio . My favourite moment? When, without any sense of irony, ...

What can I possibly say about St Peter's Basilica in the Vatican? It's huge, it's astonishing, it's a work of architectural genius filled with magnificent art. And it's really, really crowded. As usual I was ushered in via a side door without having to pay anything (magic cassock again - I'd feel bad about it, but given that I risked my life to part the traffic in it - see previous post - I'm going to go with it again). I arrived in time to join in the mass, because there's always  one being celebrated. It's a kind of holy conveyor belt. Having said that, they did the service really well - very much an act of prayer and worship - but being instantly ushered out by staff afterwards to make way for the next congregation ('Exit now please! Exit now !') killed the mood a bit. I took communion. I wonder how many non-Catholics do that, right there under the Pope's nose. I suspect thousands. It tickles me a bit that, notwithstanding ...

No sooner had I crossed the river than I was approached by an Italian couple looking for the Vatican. They were trying to follow directions on Google maps, but it kept trying to send them over a chronically busy multi-lane road which they just couldn't cross.  I told them I wasn't sure I'd be much help, as I don't live here. Then, just for a bit of fun, I held out my pilgrim staff and said, "Perhaps I should hold this out like Moses and part the traffic." They laughed, but sometimes I just get an idea in my head. I walked to the edge of the swirling traffic and held up the staff. The wife looked disconcerted and her husband asked, "What are you doing?" "Waiting for good Catholics," I replied. Moments later the traffic ground to a halt, and solicitous (but smiling) drivers waved us across. As we arrived at the other side the husband looked at me in surprise. "That stick's magic," he said. "I need to get one of ...

My Anglican colleagues use the phrase "crossing the Tiber" to describe someone who is changing allegiance from Anglicanism to Roman Catholicism. Today I'm also crossing, but in a much more literal sense. The Bose community take Monday as a 'day off' from hospitality (which I think is very sensible) and so politely asked if I could make myself scarce for the day. I was happy to oblige, so I hopped on an early morning train to Rome. Never been to Rome before, and it's everything I'd been led to believe: monumental, awe-inspiring, ancient, noisy, chaotic, hot and exhausting! I've only got a short day here, so won't get to see everything. But I'm intending to treat it as a continuation of my pilgrimage, so I'll be looking for beautiful places and opportunities to pray in them. First stop, Vatican City. ///items.sublime.tugging

This photo, taken in my cell at the monastery, sums up so well what this pilgrimage has meant for me. The cassock, reminding me that this has been a journey of prayer and spiritual growth. The stick, speaking of a physical journey (even if I was mostly travelling by scooter rather than on foot!). And the small bag for the handful of possessions you can actually bring with you, a sign of the simplicity with which you need to go. If Chris Hemsworth is still reading this, I'd like to pitch for this to be the movie poster, although we'll have to work in Rocinante too, and the Hemster himself no doubt. I imagine what the studio execs will propose would be more like this poster I saw in the Don Camillo museum in Brescello: But even though both I and Hemsworth can totally rock a cassock, we need to resist this kind of sensationalism. Right? Ah Chris, behave yourself.

Conversation in the refettorio  this lunchtime became very lively when a nerve got touched.  I've not heard a lot of news while on the road beyond the outcome of the two elections, in the UK and in France. You become very close to people's day to day lives, and it turns out that most of what makes up global news had very little impact at this level.  As we began to eat lunch, though, a piece of news filtered through. " Have you heard," asked one of the retreatants, "about the shooting in America?" And so came out the story of the attempted assassination of the previous US president.  The conversation drifted around in odd directions: the ethics of time-travelling to kill Hitler, the impact of right wing politics in the current western world, the recent ban on tattooed workers in the Vatican, the best ingredients of a good pesto sauce, how to control pests in olive groves without using chemicals. The US news, as you can tell, quickly became uninte...

The congregation gathered outside the monastery church this morning after the Eucharist. The celebrant, standing there in the middle, is Fintan Gavin, the Catholic bishop of Cork and Ross, who did postgraduate study in Rome and ministered in Italian parishes. He's here on retreat, come often I'm told. It was a wonderful experience listening to him lead the service and preach in flawless Italian, even if I couldn't follow what was being said! Others at the service included retreatants, sisters from a loc convent, and families from nearby homes. It was such a delightful, mixed crowd, including a few children. And now I'm sitting in the shade of the trees behind the church, listening to the raucous chittering of the cicadas and watching butterflies frolic in the lavender bushes. A beautiful morning. ///genetics.fencing.emerge

Only one post yesterday. It was, you'll understand, a somewhat overwhelming day. I've been planning this pilgrimage for months, and travelling for weeks. To arrive was ... extraordinary. Visitors are strongly discouraged from taking photos in the Basilica, and there are plenty of ushers and volunteers on hand to remind you of that discouragement. So the photo above was taken rather surreptitiously. But I couldn't resist one. At the moment I took this (a short while after the prayerful moment I described yesterday) I'd walked round to behind the altar and sat on a wooden bench. I was grinning from ear to ear. The riot of colour and light was joyous. ///ending.split.jingles