Читать книгу Cautionary Pilgrim - Nick Flint - Страница 8

TRISANTONIS

Having followed Pilgrim’s advice the morning of October 30^th found us ready to resume our walk after an early breakfast. We decided to take a detour through the villages before ascending once more to the Downs. ‘The references in the book to pubs show Hilaire’s sociable side’ said Pilgrim ‘and suggest his route never strayed far for long from human habitation.’ Having said that we encountered relatively few people on our walk where in 1902 villagers would probably have been working outdoors in close vicinity to their farms, homes and local employment. ‘ Belloc shows that there is more to Sussex than the Downs’ said Who Knows.

‘Much more – by a long chalk.’ I agreed. ‘It isn’t just about Our Lord walking nonchalantly on the sea or trailing clouds of glory, but coming down and joining us ordinary folk in the valley, sometimes in the shadow.’

Clearly more than the Biblical three score years and ten with grey wispy hair, Who Knows nevertheless had a girlish if autumnal face and a ready laugh that suited our company well. She always walked steady and upright, her eyes fixed on the horizon. She was able to name the birds we passed. She did not fail to miss and greet by name also the wild flowers at her feet, and so our countryside knowledge was enriched and the harder uphill steps made a little lighter.

We stopped after some time at the village of Sutton. At a crossroads there stood the sign of the White Horse, although the pub sign itself depicted a horse that was weathered and grubby with age, this did not detract from a pub in a fine situation and of good repute. From there we found our way to Bignor and rejoiced that the church door was open to admit us to a sacred space the more beautiful for being uncluttered and pleasingly plain. In due course we came upon the village of Bury.

Standing out among more traditional buildings in the vicinity the village school was the first sight to greet us. It appeared to have been very newly rebuilt, with its distinctive sign which from a distance had first looked to our band of tired and thirsty travellers very much like that of an inn. As we drew closer we saw that it colourfully depicted a ferryman or possibly a woman, plying a small boat.

‘In times past a ferry would take travellers across the Arun River at a point further down in the village,’ explained Who Knows.

What a fitting symbol of education as being taken and guided on an adventure by our teachers,’ suggested Scribbler admiring the workmanship of the sign.

‘The adventure of seeing things from another side than our own and taking on board that the journey from death to life is for us all’ added Pilgrim ‘That is something recognised by all religions’

‘The best inns may be places of learning of some sort’ I offered ‘a place to drink deep from the fountain of knowledge.’

‘How very poetic!’ said Who Knows with a broad smile.

This profound mood was broken not long after when we had halted outside a house in the village street on which were fixed an unusual collection of carved faces; a horse, a Jack in the Green, a rather smug looking angel and a mischievous leering character who stuck out his tongue. My companions, it seemed could not resist the temptation to pull faces in imitation of those displayed while I looked the other way pretending not to notice. Eventually as the game appeared to be continuing and their laughter getting loud, I suggested with a polite cough that it was time to move on, fearing that an irate owner of the house might appear at the window at any moment and cause deep embarrassment.

A little further on we came to the churchyard of Saint John’s church. ‘I had expected a dedication to a saint with more aquatic credentials’ said Pilgrim, Saint Peter or Andrew perhaps or….’ At this point I interrupted Pilgrim with a cry of recognition for I found myself looking at a familiar name on a gravestone of a man I had once known; a man terribly knowledgeable about cricket and something of an expert among many other things on the practicalities of looking after goats. Here he rested in peace, close to the wall of the church and within a walk of the river. To see him there brought back grateful memories of his kindness to me. We left him with a quiet prayer.

‘From here we walk down the river for a while towards Amberley.’ Who Knows assured us. Pilgrim looked doubtful ‘Like Saint Peter? ‘he queried mischievously. ‘There is a bridge further down.‘suggested Scribbler helpfully as we stood looking at our reflections in the slow moving water. ‘It is many years since the ferryman used to take people across.’

‘This is our first river crossing of four.’ I remarked, feeling as though there was some mystic significance, some rite of passage. ‘Perhaps we should mark it as such?’

‘Well I know what HB would do, find hospitality in a pub and refreshment in Sussex ale’ said Scribbler and taking him at his word we increased the length of our strides and within twenty minutes were under the roof of the Bridge Inn raising jugs of the finest Sussex brew, where Pilgrim reminded us in 1902 Belloc and his crew had sheltered from the rain. The weather had smiled on us thus far and The Bridge held one more surprise for the chef turned out to be none other than George – an old friend from times past. No Sussex man he, but from far flung Greece and now as then proclaiming passionately something that we four well understood as had indeed Belloc, a desire to be at home. And secure in the knowledge that we were doing something, albeit symbolically about reclaiming our Sussex patrimony we set off on our way with, as we headed east, the first of the four great Sussex rivers now behind us.

‘Physical landscapes are defined by the rivers that run through them. The sheer power of tons of water is one of the greatest forces on the planet’ said Pilgrim, throwing out his arms as if to embrace the scenery around us. ‘Carving valleys, borders and nation, the names of rivers, the Nile, Amazon, Thames, Jordan, powerfully evoke countless stories that have created a cultural identity, as well as quite literally bringing life to a region.’

‘Arun, Adur, Ouse, Cuckmere’ As I recited this litany the voices of the others one by one, joined my own, so that the name of the furthest river from where we now stood became a shout from four voices.

‘Time like an ever rolling stream’ is symbolized by any river.’ Said Pilgrim, continuing his theme ‘We talk of time passing as water that has flowed under the bridge. But the river is also a symbol of eternity, because it is the constant factor in the changing landscape. No matter how ancient its water always runs fresh and there is always the mystery of when and where it begins and where it ends.’

There was little to be added to Pilgrim’s customary eloquence on this subject. We had reached a fork in the conversational path.

‘Who was the first saint of Sussex?’ asked Scribbler who had been pondering the extraordinary story of James Hannington and his sacrifice, and inspired by such courage found himself wondering, as indeed we all did, what or who in turn had inspired him. We were at the top of the Downs having found our way up from Amberley and were sharing lunchtime rations before resuming the walk east.

‘Well the first Sussex saint wasn’t a Sussex man at all’ said Who Knows, since the others including me still seemed to be chewing the question over with our sandwiches.