The Last Post: Holy Island

 Two visits, a week apart, but somehow making a whole. We've been on holiday in Amble, and so it's not a long journey - although of course, as a Tidal Island, every trip there has to be planned!

The Pilgrim Route

The first one was one that I'd been thinking about for some time: walking along the Pilgrim's Way, barefoot across the sand to Holy Island. I went with a group guided by Ray from Hidden Heritage - and I can highly recommend it if you're at all worried about the route, although it isn't hard to follow so long as you are sensible and do a bit of research about tide times and the like. Ray does this walk pretty well weekly, so you've got someone that knows the route and can take the guesswork out of the timing; he also can tell you some of the history, of Aidan, King Oswald, and Cuthbert, and he gives you a lift back over the Causeway after some time on the island too.

Footprints in the sand...

It was pretty windy that day, although it sort of worked to our benefit - we were walking across the sands with it at our back. Sand, Mud, Seaweed, Samphire, some pebbled sections but nothing too harsh on my bare feet. If you've watched the series of Pilgrimage that was on earlier this year you'd have seen Ashley Blaker doing this barefoot - it somehow felt appropriate, given how many of those who have made a pilgrimage here over the centuries would have done so barefoot, to follow his example and theirs. 

There was something special about approaching this way; as we watched as the causeway route diverged from ours, as the noise of the cars faded into the distance, as we strained against the wind to hear Ray talking of times more than a thousand years ago, you couldn't help but wonder what had brought our disparate group together. Like the pilgrims Jack Hitt met on the road to Santiago de Compostela in Off the Road, we were all walking for our own reasons - whether sacred or secular - but for those couple of hours we were bound together. Someone took a group photo before we split up - we in all likelihood will never be together again, but it still felt right that they did.

A week later, I journeyed across the causeway by car, because Sam wanted to take some pictures. We walked towards the castle, had lunch, then headed to one of the places I often visit on the island: St. Mary's Church, with the original, wooden, version of Fenwick Lawson's sculpture "The Journey" - a life size representation of six monks carrying the coffin of St. Cuthbert, part of the long journey from Lindisfarne, felt no longer safe due to the Viking Raids, to what became Durham Cathedral - where the Bronze of the same sculpture can be seen. 

And then, through the churchyard, and out to a small beach with the old Lifeboat House; and just off that beach, a tidal island off a tidal island, a cross standing visible. 

Sometimes called Hobthrush Island, it's more commonly called St. Cuthbert's Island. Cuthbert became Bishop of Lindisfarne in 685, but reluctantly: his heart was by this time much more in being a solitary hermit, and for some years he had lived on Inner Farne. It is said that before he removed there, he spent time on St. Cuthbert's Island, but the fact that people could visit, or shout across from the shore, meant he preferred to be a little more remote! It was on Inner Farne that he died in 687; nevertheless, for those walking St. Cuthbert's Way, the journey finishes for many not at Lindisfarne Priory, but in picking their way over the rocks, getting their feet a little wet, until they reach the cross and the low walls that are all that remains of an old chapel.

There, at the foot of the Cross, some have marked their journey. Painted stones, messages, a small painted cross; mementos of those who have passed from this life. For those who have reached here, this, it seems, is journey's end: the destination, the place they have been striving to reach. And they have touched that cross, or the ones that have stood there before; some have left a tangible reminder of their journey.

I looked, I contemplated, I asked that God may journey on with them.

And then, as they must have done, I squared my shoulders, turned away, and began the journey home.

A Poem:

Gravel gives way to road, gives way to sand

Waymarks stretching up into the sky

Leading from one shore to another

A path for pilgrims, journeys long planned

How many have walked this route before?

Alone, or together just for this journey

We few today follow the way trod by many

By hundreds, thousands, or even more

In the footsteps of Sinners and Saints we go

In the footsteps or Aidan, Oswald, Cuthbert

We traverse the sand and mud and shells

Step through water once deep but now shallow

There are no footsteps to mark the place

For the sands are washed clean twice a day

Just as the marks left by sin and shame

Are washed clean by a rising tide of grace.

What have I been reading/watching/listening to?

 There will be one more post after this, but as my Sabbatical draws to its close one of the things I thought it might be worth doing is to give an idea of some of the media that I have travelled with over the last few months.

One of the early things is actually something that I came across in the Library at the Northumbria Community; it was mentioned while I was on retreat there, and one of those on the retreat with me took the time to find it. It's a Thesis for an MA, called "Pilgrimage: Wild Goose Chase or the search for Home?" by Eileen Inglesby, in 1995. Quite how it ended up there is a bit of a mystery; no-one seems to know anything about the author. It isn't as far as I know available anywhere else - but it was an interesting read, and introduced me to another key resource. If Ela, who found it for me, is reading this - thank you!

Jack Hitt's "Off the Road", his account of following the Camino Pilgrim Route in the early 1990s, was featured heavily in that dissertation. I listened to it as an Audiobook and found interesting and entertaining. He's not a Christian, did it for his own reasons, but his insights into the community he found himself part of, of how everyone's motivations for a Pilgrimage can be different and yet valid, were ones I found informed parts of my own journey. 

Another Audiobook I listened to, based on a recommendation, was "On this Holy Island" by Oliver Smith. It's narrated by the author, and I have to say I struggled with this - it's perfectly competent, and visits several places I have been to over the years, but there was a real sense of melancholy that had me worrying for him at points - he wrote this after being made redundant from his job, and there are sections where I really thought he must be quite seriously depressed. It might be better in book form rather than audio, but I really didn't connect with this one at all.

"The Way Under our Feet: a Spirituality of Walking" by Graham B. Usher (currently Bishop of Norwich) has travelled much of the way with me, and is looking somewhat dog-eared as a result! I haven't finished it, even though it's a short book, but what I have read has had an impact - it's the sort of book that benefits from reading one of the short chapters, and then taking time to reflect. 

As I was getting ready to go on Sabbatical, the thing many people asked me about was the BBC Series "Pilgrimage", in particular as the one they were showing at that point was primarily in and around North Yorkshire and the North-East. So I made a point of watching as Ashley Banjo, Patsy Kensit, Ashley Blaker and the other members of their party went from near Whitby to Holy Island, passing through Durham and the Northumbria Community on the way. You do wonder how much of it is re-shot for the camera, but I don't doubt that they are all walking together; pity the camera crew that must have done pretty much every step with them! It was interesting to watch as the different viewpoints of the party came together, and interesting to reflect as well that it felt that while they all got something out of it, the journey itself didn't necessarily radically change any positions so much as deepen their understandings of their own faith (or lack of) and respect for those of the others in most cases. As they walked over the sand to Holy Island, I resolved to do the same.

Finally, another book that I've been carrying around for months was one that although it involves journeys, was just for entertainment. Meg lent me a copy of "The Magic Walking-Stick" by John Buchan, a Children's Book that I have enjoyed. Growing up, I was massively into some of the Enid Blyton books - the Famous Five, Secret Seven, Magical Faraway Tree, the Wishing Chair and many others; rather dated and sometimes problematical. In some ways the Magic Walking-Stick is in a similar vein, as a Boarding-School boy from a wealthy family in the 1930s buys a Walking-Stick from a mysterious old man, and discovers that it can take him anywhere in the world. Pure escapism!

Close to the end - Home...

 There may be a couple more posts, but most of the travelling part of the Sabbatical is over. I've visited places where I've served, places where I've lived; I've visited other places known for different types of Pilgrimage; I've met with friends and strangers. 

So it was that it felt appropriate, the other day, to go somewhere closer to home.

It's not a long walk to Captain Cook's Monument from Gribdale Gate, but it is a little more challenging than your mind tends to remember; nevertheless, it didn't take very long for me to climb above the tree line, and discover that it was somewhat cooler as I followed the well-defined path to the top of Easby Moor.

As part of the Cleveland Way, there's often people around up here; there's also a fair bit of space though, and through walkers don't necessarily linger as they've got a good number of miles to go yet.

One time, I went up there with Fiona, and there were people with Paragliders up there - launching them, and then floating out across the plain, silently, effortlessly it seemed, before returning to make use of the air current to gain height again - or to make a landing that always seems much less graceful. Roseberry Topping gets much of the attention round here - it is THE local landmark, and you get views right across the Tees, out to the coast, and beyond. But there's something about the view from Easby Moor - you look out towards the Moors, towards Stokesley, out beyond towards Ingleby Greenhow and Kildale, 

You really need a Panoramic Camera to make a proper picture of it. I didn't have one, so I stood, turned myself around, and just used my eyes. Across that vista, much of the Circuit was visible; many of the places where the people I Minister with now live, work, and call home. It felt appropriate in a way for this to be the end of my journey; to be the final stop on my Pilgrimage as I take some time away with family and prepare to return to the work that defines my life - the work of a Methodist Presbyter. Here in front of me was my Mission Field; here is the place that is now home; here are the people that are my fellow travellers. 

Some people may feel that they need to go on a journey to "find themselves"; that was never my thinking. I've never really felt lost and needed to be found. I've known for a long time that God found me, and has been with me wherever I have gone. Some may look to pilgrimage as penitential; I have known the grace of God, and I believe it is sufficient for me without needing me to physically show my contrition. Some go just to see the sights; I've done a little of that, but the meaning has always been deeper. The places have sparked memories, conversations, opportunities to reflect and pray; the people I have remembered, and those I have met on the way, have been blessings to me. As I get ready to return to people who have been and continue to be a blessing to me and my family in the Stokesley Circuit, I pray that I will also be a blessing to them - to you.

13/14 June: Lancaster

 In some ways, it feels that this is the one that I've been waiting for - even though I only lived there for three years, and not even the whole year. But Lancaster was the place where I was a Student, and the combination of a number of things meant that they were some of the most formative times of my life.

I was away from home for the first time; it came during that period between 18 and 21 where (at least for me) you do a lot of growing up; it was a Campus University, meaning you were somewhat in a bubble; and it was where I really came to faith and started exploring it. 

Looking from near the Castle
to the Ashton Memorial

I started off spending Saturday around the City Centre, and it was a strange mix of the familiar and the changed. Lancaster isn't a big city; in some ways it feels more like an overgrown Market Town, albeit with a lot more history than most of them. That in some ways acts as a preservative: in the city centre itself, while the pattern might change, the buildings often don't: the demands of conservation, of listed buildings, and the way that restricts development mean that a surprising amount of it  if not the same, retained a certain familiarity.

That in some ways is remarkable, given I graduated from Lancaster in 1994 - 32 years ago this Summer. I went back frequently for several years - partly through knowing people who were still students, and others who had stayed. The last time I was there though was a few years ago now - I think it might have been 2012, when some of us gathered there for a wander around the place we'd been at 20 years before. Sadly there wasn't going to be the opportunity to meet up this time round - but the odd message, the occasional photo, sent to one or two people helped make it feel a lot less melancholy than some of my other solo visits.

Starting at the bottom of town, near where I lived in my second year, I gradually worked my way up to the far end and the Royal Lancaster Infirmary. The Pub that hosted a Folk Club was a wreck; no sign any more either as I walked past of Interstellar Master Traders, a Sci Fi and Fantasy Bookshop that I had to avoid going into too often, as it was impossible to walk out without spending serious money. The Library - still there. Victoria Square - still there, although fenced off in parts due to Lancaster Pride the next day. Even some of the takeaways and restaurants were not just there, but still had the same names - Pizzetta Republic, Etna's, Fortune Star, the Whale Tail (a Veggie and Vegan Cafe that opened while I was there) - all present and correct.

The Hitching Post

 Gradually up the hill, and the Canal - on one side, some Uni Residences that at least when they were built were called Chancellor's Wharf, and one of the most popular student pubs, the Water Witch, on the other side. And then, up to the RLI, and across the road - a nondescript Lamp Post, just after the Bus Stop. At this point on a Saturday, no-one standing by it - it's entirely possible that I am among the last generation of Lancaster students to know this as the Hitching Post. 

When I arrived in 1991, the Bus Service to and from the Uni wasn't particularly great. It was frequent, yes - but rather than going directly along the A6, it went up through Bowerham and around Hala before rejoining the main road meaning it took quite a long time. It also cost about £1.70 return - bear in mind I received a Student Grant of £2,265 for the year. Oh, and there were two competing Bus Companies, and they had a point where they weren't prepared to accept each other's tickets. So, many of us hitched the three miles to and from Campus. It was sort of semi-organised - a queue would form at the lamppost, sometimes shrinking rapidly if a bus arrived and the weather was poor. If you were at the front, you'd half-heartedly stick your thumb out, and sometimes someone would stop and give you a lift. At the Uni, there was a sort of shelter on the Roundabout for going the other way. The range of people that would stop was wide;  I can recall lifts in a Farm Van, a car on a rainy day where the windscreen wipers didn't work and we almost went into the back of someone, one of the Cement Mixers taking stuff up to one of the building sites appearing around the Campus, and on one memorable occasion a lady in a Maserati Convertible with the top down. The only thing they all had in common was that they stopped to give someone a lift - altruism in action. During my first year though, a new, direct service was introduced, and the fare reduced to £1 return - and Hitching began to die out. 

I walked back to St. Leonard's Gate, where I had lived off Campus, and noticed, and reflected. Back in my day, relations between Town and Gown were not always smooth; there were certain pubs you didn't go into if you were a student. There were certain areas where student houses abounded - but there were others with hardly any, especially on the Marsh and the other areas on the far side of the Railway Station. The students helped keep the town vibrant; but at the same time, the businesses tended to shape themselves around the students - and that wasn't always popular with locals. To some extent, and the Uni is much larger than it was in my day, the same is still true in terms of the businesses - not many places the size of Lancaster would have specialist shops for those into Table-Top Gaming for example. It's all maybe a little more "Bougie" than you might expect - but it also feels that little more vibrant, and certainly not struggling in the way some places I've been to on my travels have been. There are still gaps, as there are everywhere these days - but maybe less than there might be elsewhere. What the locals think I can't say.

Bowland Tower and Alex Square

On Sunday I attended the service at Lancaster Methodist - in my day it was still called Greaves, and it was where I went most Sunday Evenings. The Minister there now is someone who was one of the Deputy Chairs in Chester and Stoke when I was in Whitchurch - later on in the day, I was able to meet up with her for a short catchup before she took a service as part of Christians at Pride - and then, off up to the University Campus itself. 

Again, that mixture of the familiar and the changed; Bowland Tower still rises over Alexandra Square at the centre, and many of the residential blocks are still there; but the whole place has grown. It was expanding in my time - I lived in a brand-new block in my final year, and they were building a new Graduate College building just off the edge of the main campus - now, it's a whole extra campus in its own right, having it seems expanded down the hill towards Galgate. The place I lived in my first year - some of the smallest rooms on Campus, and probably barely bigger than the Study at the Manse - has been demolished, with new, five storey blocks in its place. 

As I sat and ate my Sandwiches on the steps of Alex Square, I could see how the remodelling of Campus has probably been largely for the better. It was never a particularly accessible place if you struggled with mobility; now, there's lots more in terms of ramps and slopes, and even a lift to get down to the Underpass where the Bus Stops are. It's still something of a Concrete Jungle along the main spine, but it feels a little gentler now; even Bowland Tower has been remodelled somewhat, and together with some of the older buildings has been made more attractive. There are more shops, and more takeaways on Campus; even Limelights, the Restaurant that was known to everyone, apparently even up to the Vice-Chancellor, as the Greasepit - despite several rebrandings - now looks, in its current incarnation, quite smart.

Which all in all makes the place that was such a part of my Uni Experience - the Chaplaincy Centre - feel a little neglected. There too there have been things done about accessibility - the doors in now open with a button - but I couldn't help but reflect, as I wandered in, how different it used to be. The only Sunday Service there that day- still in the Uni Term Time - was an RC Mass in the late afternoon; we used to have services in the Anglican/Free Church Chapel, and the RC Chapel, where we'd start together and then go to our respective chapels at 11:30am, then for those that wanted to there was a two-course Lunch that we'd share (for a small cost), a Bookstall, a Fair Trade Stall. Sometimes afterwards some of us would hang around one or other of the Flats, there as accommodation for Chaplains; they were almost always open and I was one of the regulars that haunted them. Mind you, back then there were multiple chaplains, several full time or doing a good number of hours; it seems that now, whether due to cost or simply availability, that's not the same story. 

The Anglican/Free Church Chapel

This was where my faith was formed; this was where I got involved; this was where I took part in services, and wrote a piece for a Carol Service that then had Jane, Local Preacher Tutor and wife of the Methodist Chaplain, commenting "You'll be asking for a Note to Preach next", only a small part in jest; this is where myself and Rachel were, together, Confirmed into the Anglican Church and Received as Members of the Methodist Church. That must have been a powerful moment - Rachel went on to be an Anglican Priest, I to be a Methodist Presbyter. This, for me, became a thin place - a place where I got to know more about God, and laid a foundation that has held firm throughout.

I had a cup of tea - the old Coffee Bar in the Central Lounge is now a Brew Room - and reflected, remembered, with joy and sometimes with sadness. No-one came in. But on my way out, I went and stood once more in the Chapel; I held my arms wide, gave thanks for how I had been blessed in this place, and asked that those here now, and those still to come, would be similarly blessed. I may never pass this way again - but it will always be a special place to me.

Reflecting: In the News....

The American Journalist Erwin Knoll once said "Everything you read in the newspapers is absolutely true except for the rare story of which you happen to have firsthand knowledge." That quote is one of the things that's been in my head as I've thought about the places I have lived and worked recently.

In my time in Ministry, I've twice had a Journalist reach out to me regarding something for their Newspaper. If you find yourself in this situation - or think you might - the Methodist Church has a Media Office that has someone on call for advice if you need it. And these days, you never know when you might find yourself in the eye of the storm, in ways that admittedly I have avoided, but others I've known haven't: for example, I recall one Presbyteral Synod where someone retiring mentioned how their local Doctor for a while was a certain Harold Shipman - when his crimes were revealed, the local Methodist Church found itself opening their doors to the community that had been completely blindsided and suddenly found itself in the spotlight.

My own involvement with such things has been more slight. The second time was arguably the slightest of all - the local paper in Whitchurch asked about some vandalism at the church due to a photo on Facebook. The "vandalism" consisted of some Bedding Plants having been dug up and some soil scattered - a few minutes with a broom was all the cleanup needed, and there was speculation that it was crows searching for worms! Nevertheless this made a paragraph, with the local photographer despatched to see if it was worth a picture. Much as I was a regular reader and purchaser of that paper, I did sometimes think that they'd turn up to the opening of an envelope...

I suspect that the breach of the Llangollen Canal back in December has kept them going ever since. It was odd to find that a place less than half a mile from where you lived was suddenly making international news; we'd walked along that stretch so many times in our eight years in Whitchurch. The advent of phones and drones meant that the whole thing was documented (and continues to be) in some detail - even now some of the updates about it appear in my News Feed. What was a bit of a five day wonder for the world though continues to be a problem - what about the boaters who almost ended up at the bottom of the breach, their homes sliding away before their eyes? What about those trapped on the Whitchurch side of the breach? How is the Cafe at Grindley Brook doing given how much of its passing trade can no longer pass? Behind the headlines, there are people.

And in some ways that makes me think of the first time I was contacted by a journalist. That was a particularly grim and notorious time in Manchester; in August 2012, a feud between figures in the local underworld saw someone already suspected of killing one man's son using a grenade and gun to kill the father. He then went on the run. It was close enough to one of my churches that one member had to get in and out of her home by going through the police cordon. A month later, he would achieve even more notoriety by killing WPCs Fiona Bone and Nicola Hughes. In the days that followed the grenade killing though, a journalist contacted me on what I still think of as a fishing expedition: did I have anything to say? Although I got the impression that she too found this a little distasteful, it was fairly obvious that the newspaper was hoping I could back up what is often the line taken: to sensationalise and scare. If you believed some of the reporting, there were Police on every corner, while gang members skulked in the back alleys with grenades at the ready, and every resident locked their doors and peeked out from behind the curtains in case they were next. 

All of this was of course far from the truth. If you weren't tied to the gangs - like the vast majority - you weren't a target; you'd have had to have had incredibly bad luck to be caught in the crossfire. My line about the area being full of ordinary people wanting to go about their everyday lives did get included in one report, but it wasn't what they wanted. 

Having lived in Croxteth at the time of another notorious murder - this time an innocent boy, Rhys Jones, who tragically was in the wrong place at the wrong time as two local gangs indulged in a long-running turf war - I had seen this sort of reporting before. I remember being contacted by a friend, assuring us of their prayers; I recall reading a "colour piece" about the locked doors and police patrols, while outside I could hear a group of teens walking along chatting and talking, and no sign of any police at all - ironically, given those eventually charged lived closer to where I was than to where the killing took place. Again - behind the headlines, there are people. Demonising an area can become a self-fulfilling prophecy; it can become something of a dumping ground, a place where it's harder to get a decent job because of your address, a place where certain assumptions will be made about you. Did we have problems while we lived there? A couple of incidents, yes - the shed got broken into, and there was an attempt to steal petrol out of my car. But we got on well enough with our neighbours, and most of the people there were, like most, just trying to get on with their lives as best they could.

As a Methodist, I look back to John Wesley, and his "Four Alls": 

All need to be saved

All may be saved

All may know that they are saved

All may be saved to the uttermost

When we see people as other, when we treat them as sidekicks to the news, when we treat the places they live as if they are No Go Zones, when we see their stories as commodities to be bought and sold, we risk forgetting that "they", just like "us", are included in those "Alls". Wesley railed against those that sought to value themselves more highly than others; railed against the reserving of the best Pews for those that could pay the highest fees. If we diminish others because of where they live, if we don't see the humanity we share rather than the man-made divisions we are so often presented with in our news, wouldn't he be railing against us as well?

Which made me think of a song by The Young'Uns, inspired by the time when the TV Show Benefits Street came to film in Stockton - and found not everyone was happy at how it made the area look. Some places are better to live in than others - I've lived in places bad and good on that front - but if places are given up on, abandoned, and the people still there are told they are worthless, why should we be surprised if they then take no pride in them? How about we try a different, more positive way? 

31 May: Whitchurch

I'm a firm believer that, as a Minister, you will never be more beloved than a few years after you have left. It's enough time for people to forget all the things that drove them up the wall, but not enough to forget the things they liked about you. 

Possibly for this sort of reason, there's an unofficial rule that you shouldn't go back to somewhere you've served for at least twelve months afterwards. It has however been almost five years since I left Whitchurch, and so I thought that I might risk not only going back there, but also attending St. John's, the closest and largest church I served in my years there.

St. John's, Whitchurch

 In some ways it was a strange departure when I left; we were only just post Covid, and it had left its mark on both me and the congregation. One thing I'd done during the first Lockdown was to grow a beard; I still remember the slight buzz in the distanced congregation at our first service back, when I peeled my mask off to reveal it! 

I was, despite now having shaved it off again, spotted as soon as I walked in, and it felt like everyone wanted to say hello; I had hoped to maybe sneak in a little bit and not be a distraction from the worship for Trinity Sunday. No such luck it seemed, and there were plenty of conversations over refreshments afterwards. 

I spent eight years in Whitchurch, and they were ones of much growth and development in my ministry, and in the family - when we arrived, we had two primary-age children, when we left one was waiting for GCSE results and the other was reaching Year 9 - and Fiona was in Pre-Ordination Training! When we moved, it was never particularly about the people - family-wise it made sense, but I think also as a Minister you have to be aware that you can have a sell-by date and it felt that I was rapidly reaching it by the time I moved. All of us in Ministry have different gifts, different strengths, different approaches; when Stationing works well, it allows that point of reflection as to whether you are still what the churches and circuit need. It doesn't have to be a falling-out; in my case, it was more that I could see that while I had been what was needed for a spell, it was time for someone else to have their turn. 

I did my best to not really get involved in conversation about my successor; I'm not the Minister there any more, and while it doesn't mean I don't care what's happening there it's also nothing I can or should have any influence over. I wouldn't want a predecessor sticking their oar in, so why should I try and do the same to someone else? I know in my own mind that I was far from perfect in my time there. Though I also wouldn't be human if I didn't enjoy being made a fuss of.

A walk through the Town Centre to go and see some old friends; some time later, a walk round to see another. Later again, a walk down to the Canal to see how close I could get to the infamous Canal Breach from just before Christmas last year; we used to walk down there often, especially in the summer, and it was also one of my regular running routes, which made it strange to see the pictures last year. Less than half a mile back to the Manse, and then back to town along the Sandstone Trail.

Again, things have changed. One of our favourite Cafes has gone; the Civic Centre and Library are currently awaiting their fate due to the discovery of RAAC and their closure. There are now no Bank Branches at all, although one of the vacant shops has become a Banking Hub. There were a few empty shops when we left; there's probably at least the same number now, although they're not all the same ones. 

On the way to see some more friends for Tea, I went past Tallarn Green; later on, on the way back to my hotel near Wigan, I went past what had been Malpas High Street Church, and then Brown Knowl. In some ways I wished I'd spent more time down there - there were others that I'd have liked to have seen, but there just wasn't time.

It felt more positive than some of my visits, despite some of the same themes coming through. What made the difference? Well, I saw and spoke with people. I spent significant time with several of them. I was reminded of how they, and others that we talked of, had been part of my journey. It was less about place, more about people; and with more of those people still around, I couldn't help but feel that bit more thankful. 

Interlude: Manchester

One or two people have asked me on my travels when I'm visiting Manchester - the place where I trained for and started Ministry. It's a fair question - but actually, the answer is that I've already been. When I was thinking about this topic of Pilgrimage, and visiting places, for my next Sabbatical I decided to try it out by going there - so, in January last year, I spent a couple of days there.

Clayton Methodist Church

I was blessed with decent weather for the most part - it wasn't freezing cold, and didn't rain. I was able to leave my car at the hotel and get around on food and via the Metrolink, although at one or two points my navigation (based on memory of a place I'd left a dozen years before) were slightly faulty.

Nevertheless, there were quite a few things that fitted the pattern that some of my visits have followed: things have changed. I knew a little about it before I arrived - in particular, that Clayton - the church I had for longest - was no more. Ironically, this wasn't because of a lack of membership, but developing structural issues with the building! Almost overnight, they'd gone and joined the congregation at Church of the Epiphany, the LEP in a new building just a little further away and which I'd been at the opening of back in my days in the Manchester Circuit. The building was still there, waiting for whatever happens next. 

In some ways, my decision to leave Manchester had been about me leaving some of my mistakes behind me. I'd arrived there as a student, without much time on placement behind me, and to be honest I played on that a bit too much; it meant that even when I was ordained, after a student year and then two years as a Probationer, there was still a perception that I was new, still learning the job. Now, as I prepare for my 19th year in Circuit, I know that I am to a degree still learning, and will never stop! While it's no longer the standard advice or expectation that a Probationer will move on at the end of their first appointment, in my case it was always going to be the right thing to do. Some Ministers make a point of never seeking an extension, and I respect that they subject themselves to that discipline; for me, I think there's maybe a difference in emphasis that I've developed - at the first reinvitation I ask "what are the things saying I should move", and the second one "what are the things saying I should stay". As someone that's moved around a fair bit - Great Ayton is the seventh address I've had where I've lived for five years or more in my life - maybe I find the idea of staying in the same place for 15, 20 years a bit daunting? 

I walked past what had been "my" churches then, but knew as well that so many of the people I remembered would no longer be there. I wasn't there for a Sunday, didn't really feel the need to meet up with people. I think there's something about a large town or city that encourages a sort of anonymity in any case; I used to go into the City Centre reasonably often, but it was rare to be walking around the Arndale, or from the Tram to the Methodist Central Hall, and bump into someone I knew. In my other appointments, although I sometimes miss the opportunity to be a bit more incognito, I have also appreciated that it feels much more of a community.

One of the other differences, reflecting back now, between Manchester and some of the other places I've visited, is that while there were plenty of changes there too, it felt that demolition was often being followed by reconstruction - the cranes hung over the city, signs of rebuilding as I approached the City Centre on my way to the Art Gallery to see again some of my favourite paintings. Tearing down, building up - is there something about recognising that an ending can also be a new beginning? 

Another song that's been in my head since the weekend is Simple Minds' "Belfast Child" - a big hit in my teenage years. But while in some ways the opening verse - "Someday soon they're gonna pull the old town down" - is quite appropriate for many of the places I have been to, it's the line close to the end that has resonated: "Life goes on...."