him and as I caught up the man got to his feet thinking he would have to allow the backwards walker past. The man we had disturbed was holding a small sketch pad on which a pencil drawing could be seen.
‘I’m sorry’ my new friend said to the stranger although I have to admit that he didn’t look excessively contrite. ‘We were experimenting as regards the virtue of walking backwards.‘ There was a pause as the man seemed to be taking this information in.
‘A good way of not getting lost’ replied the other ignoring the narrowly averted injury to himself. ‘Every once in a while it is good to look back and memorise the scene behind you. If you take a wrong turn and have to retrace your steps you should be able to almost instantly recognise the way you’ve been.’
‘Very practical’ I replied, the novice walker that I was, suitably impressed. I noticed that when he spoke there was the slightest trace of some accent I couldn’t quite identify. It suggested to me that he might have travelled a long way with his pad and pencil to make this appointment with us. He was what in times past the Sussex native would have called, without any trace of unfriendliness a ‘furriner’. His complexion was dark and his tight curly hair completely white, but whether this foreigner was from Russia, Germany, perhaps the Middle East or even Kent, my ear could not detect with certainty.
‘Well I have a visual approach to life’ he replied, interrupting my thoughts, brushing himself down and holding up his drawing pad ostentatiously before replacing it in some pocket about his person.
‘We are on a pilgrimage’ my companion offered by way of explanation. ‘My friend is looking for a certain Hilaire Belloc. I am looking for saints. I fear that my church has stopped believing in holiness so my community let me out on a field trip to see if I could find any.’ He made them sound like some rare kind of butterfly.
‘And walking backwards helps you spot them?’ asked the newcomer, with apparent seriousness.
‘Er, could be… perhaps we recognise as saints those who have tended to go against the grain, choose a different direction, swim against the tide.’ As Pilgrim said this he peered around as though some might be nearby in the long grass or caught in the gorse bushes.
In the presence of this third party I became embarrassingly aware that the moment for introductions had come, but I did not know the name of my fellow walker. I was about to come clean when Pilgrim asked him ‘you’re an artist?’
You could call me a sort of scribbler I suppose and you?’
‘I am only a pilgrim, Scribbler and happy to be known simply as that. It is good to be joined by a scribe of the kingdom of Heaven who out of his treasure can bring forth things both old and new.’ I congratulated myself that the name I had chosen for Pilgrim was one he felt himself so perfectly close to the mark. There was a pause as they both looked at me. Who was I? I wondered if that was for me to discover; the unspoken question on this journey. Both sensed my hesitation. ‘Your journey is a pilgrimage too.’ said Pilgrim but the purpose is perhaps not as clear to you yet as mine might seem to be. I think Hilaire would respect your reticence; he would perhaps call you a ‘cautionary pilgrim.’ I smiled at the reference to the poet’s perhaps best known and most enduring if not most profound verses and thanked Pilgrim and Scribbler, but at the same time I knew I was searching for a greater confidence in myself.
As if reading my thoughts Pilgrim said ‘Caution is no bad thing in itself of course, and yet taking risks is liberating. The saints I’m looking for have often been judged foolish or silly, but in this part of the country we know ‘silly’ comes from the old word selig meaning blessed or happy. Silly Sussex has more saints per square mile than any other English county.’ I was not in a position to contradict the assertion, but my respectful silence was immediately broken in an agnostic tone.
‘Why should that be?’ asked an astonished Scribbler ‘What does Sussex have that no other county can boast?’ in reply Pilgrim calmly pointed to the ground on which we are walking and gestured towards the soft contours of the Downland landscape spread out green ahead of us and on either side. ‘Have either of you been to the Holy Land of Our Lord’s birth and ministry?’ We shook our heads, almost apologetically, certainly in deference as we sensed we were to be made privy to a matter of deep wisdom and insight.
‘The chalk Downs are nothing less than the landscape of the Bible’ Pilgrim declared. Long ago Palestine lost, through a changing climate the lush green that clothed its hills. If you took away the grass you would see the line of these gentle hills to be just the same as the Judean desert. When you traverse the chalk desert between Jerusalem and Jericho just as the Good Samaritan did, you are treading the same kind of terrain that forms our weald or and their wilderness – the words even mean the same; the weald means the wild. This land too is holy to God. We are also walking with our Lord on the sea.’
This last comment drew surprised looks from us both. Having our full attention, Pilgrim elucidated.
’Chalk is made of the remains of marine creatures which once formed the inhabitants of a vast sea, although that sea parted centuries before humankind ever arrived to walk over on dry ground there.’ I looked in wonder at Scribbler who I saw blowing out his cheeks and miming an underwater swimming action in slow motion. Sheepishly he stopped doing this as he saw us both look at his performance with amazement and recovering himself said, adopting a serious even scholarly tone.
‘Is there perhaps a memory of this in the Sussex churches that put fish emblems atop their spires? ’ I chuckled at the thought as did Pilgrim but…
‘Yes, possibly, and those same churches recall the saints who swam as it were against the current and prevailed in the strength of God if to the confusion of many’ added Pilgrim. ‘Consider James Hannington who on 29th October this very day as it should happen some one hundred and thirty years ago met his end violently at the orders of a ruthless tyrannical King of Uganda, simply because he brought the message of Jesus to that part of Africa and challenged the authority of such a despot. Hannington, a Sussex lad grew up in privileged circumstances north of Brighton. It is said his last words before being speared to death were ‘ I have purchased the road to Uganda with my blood ’ and it is true that the church has flourished in that part of Africa ever since.’
‘Our road by comparison seems a most welcoming and friendly one.’ murmured Scribbler thoughtfully. ‘HB picked up the skills of a draughtsman in early life.’ he went on. ‘It stood him in good stead when once with typical romance he tramped, almost penniless, across vast regions of America. He would pay his way by sketching local scenes in exchange for bed and board.’ During this speech, he had taken out his own pad and pencil and been intent on producing a drawing which he now showed us. At first glance it looked like one of the sturdy trees that steadfastly guarded the path but as we looked more carefully we detected a human figure seated on an old tree stump.
Not long afterwards we entered the shelter of some trees. Following recent high winds the ground was thickly carpeted with leaves and several large branches lay blown down around us. As our eyes grew accustomed to the dark we perceived a waiting figure sat precisely in the pose Scribbler appeared to have foreseen. She was a slight figure, not young. Her demeanour suggested the essence of purposeful waiting. Sitting very still, her steady gaze put me in mind of an owl and I don’t think I would have been perturbed in the least to have seen her flutter up into the branches of the imposing ash tree under which she sat, and resume her gaze from there. Instead she rose to her feet and with
