30 May: St. Helens

Wesley Methodist

It's been a busy few days, and so I'm only just writing things up now - a few days later than planned. Over the next couple of days (writing this on Weds 3rd) there will be at least a couple more posts as well! Saturday saw me revisiting the place where I lived after Uni, trained as a Local Preacher, and Candidated from: St. Helens, the place I called home from 1995 to 2003, and had connections with until leaving for Manchester (and my first appointment) in 2008. I mentioned in the post about Billingham about it being a Company Town, and in many ways the same can be said about St. Helens. 

It's a bigger place, and has in the past had other strings to its' bow: there used to be lots of Coal Mining in the area, it was where Greenalls Brewery was until the 1970s, and was also home to Thomas Beecham's pills and powders. Of the Brewery, all that remains are some of the pubs - the Greenalls name is now long gone, except for a brand of Gin; the frontage of the Beechams building now forms part of St. Helens College. But it was the third that brought me to St. Helens: Pilkington Glass. I started in their IT Department as a Graduate in 1995, and lived and worked in and around St. Helens for the next 13 years - mostly at the Head Office, but also at the Technology Centre out near Ormskirk. 

In parallel, I was a member at Wesley Methodist in the centre of town; it was there that I had a conversation with Mona, the Minister at the time, about Local Preaching; it was the St. Helens and Prescot Circuit that nurtured me as a Preacher; it was at Wesley that I was recognised as a Fully-Accredited Preacher in 1999. It was from there as well that I was sent on my way to Manchester after successfully candidating for Ministry.

Now, almost 20 years later? The church no longer meets, and although the building still has the signage up I have the feeling that, together with the Council Building it is part of, it could well disappear completely in the not too distant future.

The same fate is already undergoing a large part of the Town Centre, with demolition in progress as I wandered round. As in so many other places, what's left is also changing much; Cafes, Vape Shops, Opticians, Hairdressers - the things that have to be in person or simply can't be waited for to arrive from online retailers; others moving to the retail parks on the edge of town where it's easier to park your car.  I'm as guilty of that as many others: we live in a world now where the convenience of knowing that a supplier has the exact item and can have it in your hands the next day - and for cheaper than a shop - is very hard to resist. 

I walked up to the Town Hall, because there was a Heritage Event running - and representing a local Park was someone who'd been my Boss for a while in my days at Pilks. I say Boss, but Les was always more than that; he was a friend and helper too. We hadn't seen each other for a long time, but the years seemed to melt away - we both found it funny when someone tried to recruit us for a local Choir...

It was great to talk, albeit it did at times feel like we were remembering those who've now passed on. It's inevitable in a way - it's more than 30 years since I started at Pilks, and I was a fairly callow youth of just 22; even those in their mid 30s when I joined will now be retiring and of course time isn't always kind.

As I walked on, I found some of the words of Paul Simon's song "The Obvious Child" sprang to mind: in the song, Sonny, the character in it, as he has grown older, looks back: 

Sonny sits by his window and thinks to himself

How it's strange that some rooms are like cages

Sonny's yearbook from high school

Is down from the shelf

And he idly thumbs through the pages

Some have died

Some have fled from themselves

Or struggled from here to get there

Sonny wanders beyond his interior walls

Runs his hand through his thinning brown hair

In some ways it feels that that's part of what I've been doing. Going backwards and forwards, thinking of places and people, and discovering that for all I can be thankful of them, that you cannot press pause on the ever-flowing stream of time, let alone rewind. And beware of those that tell you that they can bring the good old days back - they were probably never as good as you remember them being....

At the same time, when changes seem to be making things worse, you can understand why stopping the clock seems attractive. A couple of years before I left, Pilkington was taken over by a Japanese Company half its size - the way it was sort of presented was that it was easier to do it that way round than for Pilkington to take over its Japanese Partner. For a while, it looked like a case of not a lot of real change - by the time I left, I had shirts that were branded NSG Pilkington rather than just Pilkington. Driving past the Technology Centre, I noticed that it didn't have the Pilkington name on the board at the entrance anymore; Les told me as well that there are moves afoot for an American Asset Management Company to take the whole group private, and what that means for the 200 year old Pilkington, and its remaining employees in St. Helens, no-one is quite sure. Even when I was there, it no longer employed nearly as many people  as it used to; the Head Office Site is now so empty that the Bird i'th Hand, the Pub that was a regular haunt on a lunchtime for those at Head Office, closed down two years ago. 

When NSG bought Pilks, I remember there being campaigns to try and stop it; one of the members at Wesley, who'd been one of the foremen when the company developed the Float Glass Process now used for almost all flat glass, was among those who felt strongly that it shouldn't be allowed to happen. There was more than sentimentality to this: Pilkington had a strong history of innovation and development, and St. Helens had fostered and benefitted from that over a long period of time. If a major multinational company was now owned by distant overseas interests, what value would they place on that history? Would they retain their paternal interests in the town? What would be left if and when the jobs that had sustained the local economy went away? 

The street where I lived

Like so many places, St. Helens has a feeling of being left behind. Some families have lived, worked and died in the place for generations and never felt the need to leave. Two people I know of moved to houses so close to their parents that a Cordless Phone would have worked in either place; one tale I heard through the churches was of someone upset that her daughter was moving away, and she wasn't going to see her as often. Where was she moving to? Haydock - the neighbouring town, a 20 minute bus ride away. I struggled to understand this way of thinking, living 150 miles away from my parents in a terraced house of my own; and yet, not that many years before, it was pretty much the norm. In these towns where you could live in the same street as much of your own family, go to work for the same company, and keep that job your whole life long, the world might now seem a very uncaring and unsympathetic place. When you could say that you came from somewhere with good jobs, world-renowned industry, a Rugby League team up there with the best in the world, you could be proud of it. Do people feel the same way about the place now? Do they yearn for the "good old days"?

Not that it was always a great place to be when I lived there. I bought a place I could afford, but in hindsight maybe I should have looked harder; I was burgled twice in my years there, and that was far from unusual in that area. When some of the more modern (60s era) houses in the neighbouring street were being cleared for demolition, some of the local youths were more than happy to help the process along with petrol cans and matches. For all I know, as I walked those streets again, some of them were still there. I didn't go past the shop known to one and all as the local fence of stolen goods; even that may have moved its business online these days. 

Was it better earlier? Maybe - but I have my doubts. I suspect even the Golden Age that people might look back to was never more than a thin coating of gilt. Thursday was still the night for going out in St. Helens when I arrived, even though hardly anyone was still getting paid weekly on that day; how many back in the day drank most of their wages that night? How many would want to do some of the hard, physical, and sometimes dangerous work that was part of heavy industry in those days? Be ready to do without the modern conveniences of our life now? Live with the social mores of the time that meant hardly anyone would get a shot at higher education or to better themselves, that saw women expected to give up work upon marriage, and live with who knew what going on behind closed doors without protest? Even so, it still seems more attractive to many than a reality that suggests a job in a Cafe might be the best their son or daughter can hope for. And that makes space of course for those that try and promise a return to the old times and old ways, even if they have little idea on what would really be involved in bringing them back.

What do we in the church have to say into this? We can offer a hope in something that's more constant than the vagaries of human political systems, but what more concrete hope can we bring? Can we stand up for the dignity of work, the need for people to be valued and not just treated as a commodity? For the wealth to not be concentrated only in the hands of a few? To offer a voice to those who feel left behind, without patronising them, but also without blaming the other, the outsider, for the way our world is? 

To quote HL Mencken, "For every complex problem there is an answer that is clear, simple and wrong." We seem to have some people prepared to offer those clear and simple answers at the moment - but we do have to wrestle with the fact that those complex problems exist, and we in the church need to seek God's wisdom on how to be part of the solution. 

For me - well, St. Helens helped nurture me, nurture my faith, and helped it grow to the point where I was accepted into Ministry. It was a significant waymark on my journey. For that, I will always be thankful.

26 May: Billingham, by Bike

 Can you really go on a Pilgrimage to somewhere you visit most weeks? I had planned to go from my childhood home to my current one; alas, Northern Rail were not cooperating. No matter - I reversed my route, got on my bike, and planned to get the train back instead.

Billingham was my home from the age of 10, until 22 - albeit three of those years were spent much of the time away at University. Even so, part of it still felt like home - my Mum only moved (round the corner, almost literally) in 2010, and until she died in 2012 I was still a fairly frequent visitor. For the last five years, a Church Hall at the other end of town has been where I go to for a Woodcarving Group most Fridays. 

The advantage of having an e-Bike is that the prospect of cycling about 20 miles isn't a particularly daunting one - even less so when you're navigating mainly on quieter roads and cycleways. Being a leisure cyclist rather than a commuter or more serious speedster, I'm generally a big fan of the separated cycle path: many of them are shared with pedestrians, which means you always have to be a bit more careful and tearing along at 20MPH or higher is not recommended. They also seem to me so much safer than the ones, often on a busy road, where the existence of a dashed white line can often be seen as some sort of magical force field to protect the cyclist from the backwash of a close pass... Sometimes it seems that road users of different types can be very tribal - from the "Two wheels good, four wheels bad" crowd, to the "If you want to use the road you should have insurance/number plate/pay road tax" brigade, with many variations in between. How about we all just say that the important thing is to keep an eye out for each other, and keep everyone as safe as we can regardless of vehicle or lack of it? I have found, since getting the bike about four years ago, that I'm much more aware of cyclists even when in my car - after all, one of them could be me, or my son! Was I less careful before? Maybe. Walking (or in this case pedalling) in someone else's shoes can't help but promote empathy.

I was musing on some of these things, gliding serenely along Dixon's Bank on the shared path next to it, when, CLONK! I don't know if something was on the Tree Branch, or whether it was just the branch itself  - but it made me glad I had the helmet on. And this is the sort of thing that really gets on the goat of many cyclists - how long would a low branch last if it was hitting the top of a van? By the time I reached my destination, I'd had to duck or squeeze past a couple of other bits of undergrowth. I'd also had to navigate round six vehicles parked on cycle paths I was trying to use, and virtually stop once when one walker in a large group either couldn't hear or simply refused to acknowledge my politely-rung bell, meaning the whole, double-width, path was taken up. Poor maintenance, poor enforcement, lack of consideration by others, lamp-posts in the middle of them - next time you see a cyclist not using a cycle path, bear in mind there are probably good reasons why...

Ironically, as I pedalled through Coulby Newham, one of the hazards to be avoided were some people doing some path maintenance - so some at least is being done!

Down, skirting Albert Park, and the towers of the Newport Bridge looming ahead of me. I'd cycled across it before... I couldn't help but recall it: the year was 1992, I'd watched some of the previous editions of the Tour de France, and now some of the top riders were taking part in the Tour of Britain - one of the stages starting in Middlesbrough. I'd just bough a second-hand bike to use to get me to and from Uni the following term, when I'd be living off campus; so off I set, discovering that I was nowhere near as fit as I thought, to cycle through to watch the start. I recall Greg LeMond, a cycling hero of the time, pulled out that morning; others were signing in, and I utilised my AS-Level German to persuade Olaf Ludwig, Olympic Gold Medalist in 1988 and winner of the Tour de France Green Jersey, to sign my autograph book. I still have it somewhere I think. I watched the start, cycled the ten miles home, and lay exhausted on the sofa for about two hours to the consternation of my Granny. A motor makes the journey a lot easier!

After a not particularly pleasant stretch parallel to the A19, I arrived in Billingham; the route brought me out at the back of the Town Centre, past Billingham Forum, and then on past John Whitehead Park. Billingham Town Centre used to feel vibrant, especially on Market Day; now, large parts of it await demolition, with empty shops galore. I've been there occasionally over the last year or two, so felt no need to visit; I carried on. Down Low Grange Avenue, picking out the odd landmark.

St Luke's Church

Low Grange Shops, nothing I remember has survived.

St. Luke's Church, where I used to go in my late teens and early 20s - now, it seems, more used by the RCCG than the Anglicans, who don't even have a Sunday Service there.

Where I went to Junior School for one year - buildings completely gone, and a new one in its place.

The Road Names, mainly named for Battles - Naseby, Tunstall, Bannockburn, Neasham... I was surrounded by history that I had very little knowledge of. 

Low Grange Club, of which my parents were members, for what I think was the sole reason that they ran an excellent Children's Party close to Christmas, with presents and selection boxes all round. Now? An empty building, waiting for redevelopment apparently. 

The Bungalow my Mum moved to.

The house that I lived in for a dozen years... Garage converted, a skip on the drive - looking like the garden being redone, a major undertaking as it's on the outside of a corner and the garden felt huge, with about eight possibilities if the ball went over the hedge.

The other local shops, and something the same: although it's now branded as a Premier, the convenience store is still called Boltons.

The back entrance to my Secondary School, the muddy gap now fenced off.

The Merlin, now looking rather smarter than it used to.

The front entrance to what used to be Billingham Campus - I was in the first year when it was called that, 1984, as before that it was two schools - Brunner and Furness - on the same site. Even earlier it had been four... All that seems to be left of the buildings I remember is the PE Block - home to four sports halls and a Swimming Pool complete with Diving Tower - now apparently a Community Sports Centre.

On the Opposite Side of the road - Billingham North Methodist Church, mainly known to me as the place I did a lot of my exams as the school had an arrangement with them. 

Further along Marsh House Avenue - Bede Sixth Form, where I did my A-Levels. Back then it was a fairly small concern - now, it seems to have grown considerably, with shiny new buildings that dwarf the one in my memory.

Back towards the station to catch the train, and stopping off at Tesco - once upon a time it was where Dunnes Stores opened their first mainland UK Supermarket. Food, Clothes, the St. Bernard branded Rich Tea Biscuits that I maintain to this day were the perfect size and thickness to dunk. 

It felt strange to see so little that I remembered, to see so much changed. I have to remind myself that it's now 30 years since I lived there, almost 15 since I was a regular visitor. Billingham is the sort of place that there are so many of, especially across the North; a town that grew up around a specific industry or company (in this case ICI), struggling to find an identity now that the company, and so many of the jobs, have gone. Someone at the Woodcarving group tells the tale of how he finished school, and was looking forward to having the summer off - only for his parents to have spoken to ICI, who sent a recruiter round and told him he could start as an apprentice the following week! 

I've lived in a couple of what you might call "Company Towns" - often, those companies were far more than employers, they were paternalistic creators of modern society. Social Clubs, Leisure Facilities, Sports Teams - all part of keeping the workforce happy and productive. Parts of ICI are still there - but there's no unifying company, and the facilities are disappearing. Even Billingham Synthonia FC - "The Synners", named after one of ICI's key products, no longer play in the town; after a nomadic few years that even saw them playing at Stokesley, they are now ground sharing a little closer to home in Stockton.

It's one of those places which you really feel is being left behind. Locals will tell you that Stockton Town Centre, whose council also cover Billingham, is getting all the attention and money while Billingham moulders; it feels like they have a point given even the planned demolition is running months behind schedule, never mind the promised developments on the site. "Change and decay in all around I see" as Henry Francis Lyte wrote in "Abide with me". What is there to bring people to Billingham? It's not exactly bursting with tourist potential. And yet, it was the place I lived in for a dozen years, and so many of the people and places helped shape me. As I wandered into Tesco to buy some lunch to eat on the train, I couldn't help but wonder: were some of those walking the aisles people I went to school with? Their children? Grandchildren? How many of my schoolmates never left?

Reflecting now, one of the things that comes to mind is that when it comes to being part of the Itinerant Methodist Ministry, I've been well prepared. West Midlands, North-East, North-West - all were places I lived for a number of years before I ever thought of candidating. That can be quite a powerful thing, as you get used to a sort of approach which, to quote a song made famous by Paul Young, "Wherever I lay my hat, that's my home." You have to be prepared to love the place you live, to make the best of it, especially in Ministry; to trust that God has led you to this place, and that it's the right place for you to be. 

It's not always an easy thing, and I know colleagues who have found stationing (as we call allocating Ministers to places seeking them) a painful process - it certainly doesn't work out well for everyone every time. By the grace of God, it has worked three times for me - and I pray that it will do so for all of those who are preparing to move this Summer - including of course Deacon Jo, who joins us in September. 

Sometimes the attitude of those you come to serve is as important as the place where you live. The attitude of those who come to serve can also be a factor. Getting back to something from my cycling musings earlier - a bit of care and compassion might make all the difference.

Retreat: A Poem....

 The following was written as part of a Retreat at Wydale Hall, led by Donna Worthington, based around John 4:1-26, the encounter between Jesus and a Samaritan Woman at the Well.

In the heat of Noon

Water welling up, source of life and hope 
A promise made from ages past 
Weary Woman in the heat of Noon 
Seeking Water 
Seeking Solitude 
Seeking relief from the trials of her life

He greets her, seeks help to draw 
How can he ask? How can he speak? 
Man, Jew, outsider in the heat of Noon 
Seeking Water 
Seeking Conversation 
Seeking those who will hear his words

She needs only water 

Or so she thinks 
She needs far more 
For so he knows

Like water welling up from deep 
Emotions rise - anger, wonder;
Dare she ask the question in the heat of Noon?
Seeking knowledge 
Seeking Hope 
Seeking understanding and to be truly know

Truths spoken, Truths known 
Transforming torment to true worship 
She runs from him in the heat of Noon 
Seeking others 
Speaking hope 
Sharing Good News -The Messiah comes!

Reflecting: Walking the Labyrinth

I'm currently on Retreat at Wydale Hall (near Pickering), with other members of staff from districts across Yorkshire and the North East. The theme is the Woman at the Well (John 4), and as part of that, we walked the Labyrinth in the grounds at Wydale. Below is a sort of "stream of consciousness" reflection on the experience....

I stand at the grass on the start, wondering what I am doing here. Ahead of me, a winding and narrow path. My instinct is to just walk it, at my normal pace, but this is supposed to be an opportunity to reflect; to contemplate; this is not a race. Although most of the group are already on their journey, we are all making our own way along the narrow paths. I take the first step, and begin my walk,

The Labyrinth at Wydale

The Woman at the Well. When she sees there is someone else there, in the heat of noon, what does she do? Make boldly for her destination? Wait? Circle cautiously, hoping he'll go - or at least not notice her?

The path turns. Pause. What weighs heavy on me at the moment? What am I bringing into this time and place of contemplation? I move on, slowly.

Another turn. Jesus and the Woman at the Well have a discussion, in which she in particular seems to be taking a winding path; not wanting to get too close to the heart of things, but not wanting to walk away either. She circles the centre, not wanting to get to close.

Turn again. This time it's one of the longer paths, moving from one quadrant to another; you cover a semicircle before you need to turn again. One of the things about a Labyrinth is that it has this mixture of long and short paths; is this like following God, where everything has its season, and some are there for longer and others shorter times? 

Turn.

Turn. I'm skirting the centre now, but I know there's still far to go. I squeeze past some of the plants growing. There's Lavender planted around and in the Labyrinth; in this late springtime, the strong new growth is springing from the older, woody stems, but isn't quite hiding them. New springing from old.

Turn. I'm following a path that many have trod before me. That sounds like Pilgrimage... 

Turn. But each one seems to be taking me further from the centre that I had been so close to. One step forward, two steps back? But actually, if I keep following the path before me, it will take me to the centre. 

Turn. What am I praying for? Who am I praying for? Those who walk closely with me? For health and happiness...

Turn. Another longer path between quadrants, a narrow gap between the Lavender. Can I quiet my mind for a while, just listen? What is God saying to me now? I linger, and wait for inspiration.

Turn. The Woman at the Well didn't want to let Jesus get too close. Was a lifetime of disappointment, of being discarded, of being an object of derision and gossip the reason why? Was she wary of letting him in, because she knew what that led to? Does she stand for so many hurting people, who have grown hard from the scars life - and other people - have left on them?

Turn. Disorientation. Have I walked this path before? Have I been in this quadrant yet? I'm losing track. All I can do is keep walking, trusting the process - and the Labyrinth's builders. Turn.

I can hear birds. The wind in the trees. What I think are the sounds of children doing some sort of Forest School activity. Even in the contemplative space of the Labyrinth, I am aware of the world around me. I am part of it, not separate from it; but for now at least, it feels like a more harmonious place to dwell. Turn.

I've been on the Labyrinth for a while now. I haven't looked at the time, haven't really done anything except let my thoughts wander occasionally, and tried to let my feet slowly wander while I try and devote my mind to the things of God.

Turn. The Woman at the Well. Meeting Jesus changes her life. She then changes others, as she boldly heads off to tell her neighbours about this man who seems to know everything about her, and has yet not cast her off as so many others have done. Turn.

...and suddenly, there ahead is the centre. The path has led me true. Back and forth, round and round, twisting and turning, and yet every step has moved me closer to the heart of it all. I join my companions in the centre. And, for a while, I sit, in the companionable silence, in the centre. Soon I will have to leave; but not just yet...

18th May - Epworth

A book I know reasonably well, and enjoy, is "Three Men in a Boat" by Jerome K. Jerome. A whimsical account of a boat trip along the Thames, I was thinking of it (and in particular the classic section where Harris describes getting lost in the Maze) when I was close to Hampton Court a couple of weeks ago. It came to mind again on Friday and Saturday, when I visited Epworth. In particular, the section which talks of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, and how wherever people at the time seemed to go (Windsor, Hever Castle, St. Albans...) they would bump into them "just happening" to be going the same way. But why did this come to mind in Epworth?

John Wesley famously covered a lot of ground, and one sometimes gets the impression that other travelers of the time would have been hard pressed to avoid him! Back in 2022, I was contacted by someone from North Yorks Moors National Park about a stone in Kildale, bearing the inscription that says John Wesley had preached there in 1772 - could I add anything to that? While it may say something that this was a momentous enough occasion in some people's lives that they erected the stone to mark it, it doesn't even get a line in Wesley's Journal - it will have been just one of the stopping-points on his journey from Stokesley to Whitby, and given the tens of thousands of times he preached, if every one was commemorated in this way you'd think parts of the country would still be paved with them. Epworth though is where John and Charles started their journey, and on Saturday, together with half a dozen others, I would be walking in his footsteps.

Samuel Wesley's Grave

Arriving after attending the Supers Conference in Oxford, on Friday Evening I took a turn around some of the sites: St. Andrew's Church; in its Burial Ground, the tomb of their Father, Samuel, the Rector of Epworth, from which John preached when he returned and found himself barred from the Pulpit; a stone near the main street, which looks like it should have a statue on it, but in fact just has a plaque saying that Wesley preached from it many times. 

Along the road, an actual statue of Wesley. Just opposite, the wall that marks the garden of what is now a museum: Epworth Old Rectory, John and Charles' childhood home.

Epworth Old Rectory

The story is of course a famous one now. In 1709, when John was just 6, there was a fire at the Rectory - possibly deliberate, as Samuel (and indeed the Church of England as a whole) were far from popular with the locals. All the family were thought to have got out, when John appeared at an upper window, trapped by the flames; the watching crowd rallied, and with one man standing on the shoulders of others, John was pulled to safety from the window shortly before the blazing roof fell in. "A Brand plucked from the Burning", quoting Zechariah 3:2, was how he would later describe this. Samuel rebuilt in brick and stone on the same site; the family remained there until his death, and it is this building that we now see as the Old Rectory.

As I returned to the Red Lion, my accommodation for the evening, I was amused to see a plaque next to it - "John Wesley slept here many times on his visits to Epworth in his later life" - I may not quite have been sleeping in the same bed, but apparently I was at least under the same roof! It is simply impossible to be anywhere in Epworth and not feel like John Wesley has been there first! This, it seems, is Epworth: it remains proud of those famous sons and daughters, not just the Wesleys, but I'm told Ian Botham and Lesley Garrett too!

Journeying from Epworth to Haxey

This was something I was told as part of Saturday's Pilgrimage Walk, organised by a group called Journeying. They offer a programme of guided walking holidays, mostly with a Celtic Christianity influence, and, as I had found by chance, some Day Walks (free to join!) which included Epworth. One of the Walk Leaders is local to Epworth, and as we visited some of the places I had gone to the previous night, that meant that we learnt a lot more of the background. I hadn't realised for example that one of the causes of the Church of England's unpopularity in the area when Samuel arrived was that within living memory of that time, it had been the Isle of Axholme - a tract of higher ground surrounded by rivers and marshes; the locals had a very good arrangement from the Earl of Mowbray, but then in the 1620s King Charles I had persuaded him to allow a Dutch engineer to drain the land; they lost two thirds of the land that they'd had, and the fishing and catching wildfowl that had been their way of life was abruptly ended. As supporters of the King, the Church of England didn't escape their ire, and Samuel's attitude towards them in the early days didn't help!

The Fool of the Haxey Hood

Much of my walking and visiting so far has been fairly solitary, and so it was refreshing to be joining with a group of like-minded pilgrims as we walked from Epworth, past the site of a Holy Well claimed by some to be where King (later Saint) Oswald of Northumbria was killed in Battle - although most historians disagree - to our Lunch Stop at the King's Arms in Haxey. Then it was back to Epworth, passing a carving of "The Fool", part of the tradition of something called the Haxey Hood, which takes place on the 6th January each year, and seems to have some similarities to the Shrove Tuesday "Football" matches that take place in some parts of the country, as the ceremonial hood has to be moved in a scrum of bodies to one of the local pubs! 

We returned to Epworth, and some of us had a brief look around the Old Rectory itself - brief, as there was a coach party that was visiting at the same time! People come from all over the world to visit the Old Rectory, and to walk around Epworth; it's a real site of Pilgrimage now for the People called Methodists. As we gradually dispersed, I was thankful for those that I had walked with; thankful for the points of prayer and reflection that had been part of it; thankful for the work of Journeying, and in particular to Jane and Jo who led us through the day. 

Having also now finished Jack Hitt's "Off the Road" about his journey to Santiago de Compostela, one of the things that struck me was how important those who shared his journey had become to him; there's a feeling of loss as they disperse at the end of the pilgrimage. Those we share the journey with matter.

Even though I hadn't met any of those I shared this particular (and much shorter!) journey with before, we had quickly developed into a sort of little community as we walked, talked, prayed, and reflected together on the way. We had gathered with a shared purpose, and that I think made a real difference. You can argue that all sorts of groups have a shared purpose, shared values, whether those groups are religious or secular in nature; for me, in church, it's a reminder that whatever our differences, we share something at our core that helps bind us together - our shared belief in God the Creator, Jesus Christ the Saviour, and the Holy Spirit our constant companion and guide. I had certainly felt the Spirit as I shared in walking in and around Epworth.

Having been away for almost a full week (the Midlands, the Supers Conference in Oxford, and then Epworth), I'm having a couple of quieter days at the moment before hitting the road again - first of all to Birmingham for a day related to the Deacon that's joining the Circuit, before joining a Retreat at Wydale Hall near Pickering until Friday. Watch this space....

Where it all began.... Willenhall Wanderings and Wonderings

More than 40 years ago, this was my world. More than 40 years later, I have walked those streets again. Seen the places where I went to Nursery, and then to School; passed by where I went to Church, and Boy's Brigade - though now there is nothing there to show, as Lane Head Methodist Church closed some years ago and is now gone. But the memories remain.

The house where my Best Friend, Elliott, used to live. We moved when I was 10, and we never saw each other again; although it turned out we were both at University at the same time, the 9 year gap was too much to bridge.

What was Don's the Newsagents

The other friends and acquaintances: Bryn, who, precociously for 1982, picked "Bedser" for the name of his Cricket Team. 

Suzanne, who once joined with me at a Birthday Party in a sort of crazy attempt at Ballroom Dancing as we galloped through the crowd, making them part for us as we charged with hands linked and arms out like a wedge.

Dean, whose birthday was just two days before my own, and at least once I recall a joint party.

Jonathan, who moved into the area and then also joined the BB. 

Marie, who often seemed to end up as my partner when we did Scottish Country Dancing at School.

Philip, who moved up to the Midlands and had a London accent - which once, in Infants, meant that playing "I Spy" saw him choose "A" for "'Andle". 

The Twins who lived just round the corner, who were part of the Short Heath Juniors football team - at one point claimed to be the worst in the country, and on TV as a result.

The house up the road where the footballer Kevin Summerfield lived for a spell after he signed for Walsall. 

Martin, who lived across the road, who once told my Dad he could do magic - my Dad asked him if he could make himself disappear, and he ran back to his own house. 

The Summer Day when they resurfaced all the roads by putting a layer of tar, followed by rough gravel, with what seemed like every kid in the neighbourhood following them; how it made coming off your bike a dangerous and painful experience from then on. 

Don's, the Newsagents where we'd buy penny sweets and Football Stickers while my Mum settled up the Newspaper Bill as Don looked it all up in a huge ledger. Now, it's a Vape Shop - though the Chippy is still a Chippy.

Then up along the road itself, to where "our house" stood and still does. It's been smartened up; the Porch has been replaced. I doubt anyone lives on that road now that remembers us; if they do, they'd probably be thinking of how my Dad at one point had three VW Beetles - his own, on the driveway; one with a seized engine in the garage; one on the front garden, with rusting bodywork but mechanically fine that was gradually donating its parts to the one in the garage before eventual scrapping. 

The day after, I went to Willenhall Town Centre. My hopes of recognising much of it were low - like all places with shops, the pattern has changed. I thought I would at least find the Clock, probably the most memorable (and certainly scenic) bit of it. But then, as a I walked up, the memories began to flow again. The shape was familiar if nothing else; wasn't that where there was a Hintons (later Presto) Supermarket? Along the road - that was where we used to get off the 341 Bus. The other side - that was Sneyd's, a sort of cross between Woolworths and WH Smiths where I grew my Stamp Collection by buying packs from Stanley Gibbons - I still have the Album, though I stopped buying stamps 40 years ago. Much else has changed of course - no sign of any of the branches of Green's, the small sweet shops where it was such a treat to go and buy a quarter of Bonbons from a jar. Going into Suggitts in Great Ayton brings back the feeling, sometimes, even now. 

It all seems, well, smaller. It used to feel a long way to the shops; in reality, less than five minutes walk. Going into town with my Mum on the Bus felt like an adventure; now, the main attraction is probably the large supermarket that's been built there, probably selling more lines than the rest of the shops put together. 

We moved when I was 10, and it was such a wrench. I didn't want to go, cried for hours when I was told. My Dad's job was moving, so we had to move too. Seeing family became a couple of times a year thing, when it used to be pretty much weekly; no-one else spoke like me, and so my accent became, in the way of kids, that point of difference to make fun of rather than just how everyone talked. I'm naturally an introvert anyway, but I do think that helped heighten it; I never really went out much after we moved, happier to stay in with a book than knock around with friends outside. Maybe the age it happened was part of it - a year after we moved, I was starting at a Secondary School which had about 270 in my year alone. I don't think I'm in contact with anyone I went to school with, and while that's in large part down to me and my choices, I do wonder if it would have been different had we not moved when we did. But that's the way of things: this was the early 1980s, Norman Tebbit telling people to "get on their bike" to find jobs - it's just ironic that rather than moving from the North to the South, as so many did, we ended up going in the opposite direction! 

Being down here for a Funeral as well maybe also affects my mood - even though it was led so well by Dee, one of the people I trained with at Luther King House more than 15 years ago.

It was my cousin's husband's funeral; I can remember, at the age of about 5, being at their wedding. This cousin taught me to tie my shoelaces! They lived round the corner from her Mum and Dad, my Dad's Brother; I can't tell you how many times I'd been at my Uncle and Aunt's house, playing in their extensive back garden; the piece of wood labelled "The Sweet", as my other cousin had been into Glam Rock and had held a party at some point. My last three trips down here have involved going to first my Uncle and then Aunt's Funeral, and now this latest one; a family meetup that's involved Bushbury Crem, and the Spread Eagle for the wake. 

This isn't me going "woe is me", either. I have so much to be thankful for: my family life has been a model of stability for the most part; while we've never been rich, we've never been particularly poor either; so many, including people I know, have had much worse times of it. But maybe it helps to remember that life isn't all sunshine and roses; that the carefully curated lives that others sometimes share are not the whole of their existence. There is always light and shade; sunshine and showers. 

I'm about three quarters of the way through Jack Hitt's book "Off the Road", about his secular following of a religious pilgrimage trail to Santiago de Compostela, and some of those same themes emerge. Yes, sometimes it's a scenic walk, with fellow pilgrims gathering to share a meal and that sense of togetherness and shared experience; but there are so many reminders that everyone is making this journey for their own motives, not always pure; that there are those too who will seek to gatekeep, and say what is and isn't acceptable - such as when the author, one night, stays in a Parador (a luxury hotel) rather than a Pilgrim Shelter, and discovers that for some, that means he is no longer truly a pilgrim. 

Which in some ways takes me back to a place I visited on Sunday - my first Primary School. There's a bit of a vogue for "School Assembly Hymns" these days, and one of the ones I remember singing there is by Valerie Collison. Her best known song is probably "Come and join the Celebration" - but this one, maybe lesser known, goes: "The journey of life may be easy, may be hard; there'll be dangers on the way; With Christ at my side I'll do battle as I ride, 'Gainst the foe that would lead me astray." 

While the imagery might be more martial than is currently in vogue, if nothing else it reminds me that through the light and shade, I do not travel alone.

10th May - On the road again...

 As I write, I'm also packing - because the coming week will see me away until the weekend. I'm going to the West Midlands (where I will, as well as attending a family funeral, go and visit the place I first lived), then to Oxford for the Superintendent's Conference, and then to Epworth for a guided walk in the place that the Wesleys were born and raised.

Last weekend, as well as attending Bushy Parkrun, I was attending a concert at the Blackheath Halls. Not really knowing London, other than being South of the Thames, I needed to look at the map to work out where I would be, and what else might be around there. And I discovered that I would actually be within walking distance of somewhere that pretty much every Methodist Minister knows about: the Greenwich Foot Tunnel.

So, off I went, across Blackheath itself, through Greenwich Park, down to the Cutty Sark and just beyond.

As I walked, I realised how many people there were around me. Now, yes, it was a nice sunny day on a Bank Holiday Weekend, but having not lived in a City for more than a dozen years, it was a little bit of a culture shock. It did make me wonder if that's one of the reasons Londoners don't greet each other as they pass - there's so many of them, that if you stopped to nod or smile at everyone that passed, you'd never get anywhere or do anything! 

I walked on, past people in their dozens, maybe hundreds, and as I got down towards the Cutty Sark maybe more than that. People whizzed past on the ubiquitous Lime Bikes. In all likelihood I had never seen any of them before, and may never see any of them again. Cities can be lonely places; had I walked the same distance around Great Ayton, or Whitchurch where I served before, I would have undoubtedly seen people I knew, who would quite possibly have stopped for a chat. How do you build community in a place as big as a city?

Eventually I reached my destination. When I say it's somewhere every Methodist Minister knows, I mean that it's a Metaphor that we're all familiar with. A few years ago now, the decision was made that all Ministers in the Active Work should have Supervision: not someone looking over your shoulder, but regular meetings with a trained Supervisor (these days usually a colleague in another Circuit), to talk through issues and move forward. It's a bit like how all Therapists are supposed to also visit a Therapist themselves. 

When this was coming in, all those receiving Supervision attended training so that we'd know what to expect. And one of the things was that the "Greenwich Foot Tunnel" model was explained to us. The idea is that you start at the top; then, you start to talk about the issue you've bought to Supervision, spiralling down the staircase until you reach the tunnel itself. The tunnel slopes down gradually until the centre point - the very heart of your issue - before gradually rising to the shaft at the far end, where, hopefully with a path forward, you spiral back up to the surface and go on your way.

As a result of this training, if you say "Greenwich Foot Tunnel" to any Methodist Minister, the chances are they are not thinking of a way under the Thames, but of Supervision! I don't think it's the rule that you have to physically visit it if you're close by, but I'm far from the first to have pictures like the above on my Camera Reel... And, while there was maybe a little scepticism at first, I've found Supervision to be a valuable and helpful part of my Ministry. Sadly, my current Supervisor is about to change appointments; but Vincent asking me, during Supervision, "And what is God saying to you now" will stay with me, and be a part of my own reflective practice whoever I end up with next.