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I stood in front of this medieval illustration today while reading a descriptive panel in Laon. (Well, reading-ish as the panel was in French so it was mostly guessing). I noticed the fella on the right has the same tailor as me, and the same black boots. The accompanying text described the identifying signs of a medieval pilgrim. Leaning on my walking staff I bent down to read about 'le bourdon qui aide â marcher'. Went I leant forward the leather bag on my back swung forward too, so I pushed it out of the way to read about 'la besace pour transporter ses effects.' My pilgrim's passport and floppy sun hat had fallen out of the bag, so I had to retrieve them before I could learn about the other two signs: 'la crédentiale qui est une sorte de passeport attestant sa qualité de pèlerin et non pas de vagabond,' and 'un large chapeau pour se protéger de la pluie ou du soleil.' On the way back to Rocinante I heard a little girl ask her mother a...

Reims, and the historic Cathedral Church of Notre-Dame, where the kings of France were crowned over the centuries. It's a national symbol.  It's also surprisingly like a version of the church in Laon but where there lights aren't working properly. There's the same towering arches, the same grand scale, the same Cistercian austerity (Laon was one of the models the builders at Reims used as inspiration). But the whole east end of the building is strangely dark and forbidding.  The reason is stained glass. Unlike Laon, every window at the east end is filled with it, and most of the pieces are extraordinary mastepieces. There's a huge rose window i the south transept showing the creation and fall. An amazing triptych of windows by Marc Chagall. And more, both modern and ancient. But the staining is heavy and the daylight becomes very obscured, so although each window is a marvel the total effect is to plunge the east of the church into gloom. I soaked in the...

Laon. What a revelation. I'll admit (Francophiles, please look away): I'd never even heard of Laon. But after a good night's sleep I was on the road early and ready to stop somewhere when the great medieval city with it's soaring cathedral rose up on the horizon, and I thought: don't pass this by. By 9am I was standing in the Cathedral nave. The architecture was very Cistercian, and therefore simple and beautiful. There was gentle ethereal music playing from a sound system. The stonework was bathed in early morning light. And no one else was there yet. I had the silence, the prayerfulness, the huge expansive stillness to myself. I sat in the old choir stalls (for the monastic choir) and prayed and kept silence. I don't know how long I was there but now it's nearly 11am local time, so it must have been a while. I had to tear myself away.  By far the most contemplative and prayerful space I've encountered since Canterbury. I hope there'll b...

This is a picture of me earlier today in Paradise. There aren't many photos of me or other people on this blog, and that's because of one of my travelling companions: autism. I was diagnosed with autism five years ago in my late forties, but it's a lifelong condition, so they were simply giving a name to something that's always been there. Strictly speaking, I was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder level 1 (ASD1), which used to be called Asperger's Syndrome until people realised that naming a condition after a Nazi doctor was a bit insensitive. Imagine if your doctor told you your achy back was slipped Hitler discs. In my case, ASD plays out in a variety of ways. I love being around people but find them confusing and unpredictable: autistic people just don't get the unwritten social rules. So social situations make me severely anxious, although medication helps with that. I'm a creature of routine. I have a range of special interests which I...

Arriving in Cambrai I parked Rocinante right outside Église Saint-Géry de Cambrai and went in to pray (the Cathedral would have been wonderful, but it's closed for renovations). There were a few people already there and one of them, a nun, warmly waved me over. Good Anglican that I am, I thought: 5pm, time for Evensong. I figured I could pray along somehow while they worshipped in French.  Some of you may already be ahead of me with this story. An elderly priest came in, put on his surplice and a purple stole, and for some strange reason came and sat behind us all. Then, after a bit, the nun got up and joined him. I could hear a whispered conversation going on. Then it dawned on me.  This was confession. I was third in the line. Not really feeling up to confessing all my faults in French, I slipped off elsewhere to say evening prayer, and then crept towards the door. At the last moment I looked back to see the priest still sat there, an enigmatic look on his face...

After writing the previous (somewhat dispirited) post I prayed for a while then went into Béthune town square, clumsily ordered tea and a pastry using my fluent ignorance of French - at the Patisserie in the photo. It was time to take stock. I was tired, discouraged and homesick. Well, these things pass, given time. On the other hand, I'd already made it to France, Rocinante is in good health, and the sun was shining. I figured a few more miles down the road wouldn't hurt, and might pick me up a little. So I walked back to the bike, and on the way a young man driving past saw me, slowed down tooting his horn and leant out of the window. "Salam alaykum!" he shouted, grinning delightedly. I don't know whether he mistook my cassock for a thobe or just loved priests, but it was a greeting of peace and I welcomed it! From Béthune I rode the 80km or so to Cambrai along broad, straight roads passing through an extraordinary succession of beautiful villages an...

I'm sitting in the back of Église Saint-Vaast in Béthune, feeling a little lost and trying to find my bearings. Now that I'm over the Channel and driving through France I feel very alone. I don't speak French, so it's hard to know what's going on around me. Right now I feel more as though I'm travelling away  than travelling towards , and it's hard. I've spent the morning riding through the most beautiful countryside in glorious sunshine and thinking the whole time how much nicer it would seem if I were facing the other way ... The church helps. It's not as gaudily baroque as some French Catholic churches, so it's easier to feel at home. I've been able to pray and sit in quiet. Still feeling downbeat, but for weeks now I've been wrestling with nerves, anxiety, uncertainty, and now homesickness around this trip. I'm going to do again what I've done all the other times. Look that feeling in the eye, say 'thanks for l...