To Boldly Go...

Stardate 2017.  Through the medium of this blog, will you this year be my Will Riker, my Deanna Troi, my Worf, my Data, my Doctor Beverley Crusher, all beloved of memory? Will you accompany me virtually as I pursue my mission to seek out new worlds of Anglicanism in distant parts of the galaxy, to thoughtfully ramble around the diocese as the Spirit leads?

To recap. I've set myself the challenge of walking to every church in Peterborough Diocese by a series of circular, connected routes. Between April and December last year I visited ninety out of a total of about four hundred so there are still many miles to go before I sleep. The motives are curiosity and fitness, to explore how we can be members of one another within the eccentric, usually lovable conglomerate we call the Church of England, and to write a bit about the things that tickle my fancy as I walk.

I pick up the post-Christmas pieces in Pury End, following the Grafton Way a little way south east before veering due south towards Lillingstone Lovell. And yes, here I go breaking my 'rules' as soon as the new year begins, because LL is in Buckinghamshire, and until 1844 was actually an enclave of Oxfordshire: its church is still in the diocese of Oxford. But if I want a nice circular walk today, and I do, it fits the bill as my first point of call in 2017.

What difference does it make, worshipping in a particular diocese as opposed to any other? Having lived all my Anglican life in a single one, and experiencing the others only on holiday or in casual visits, I haven't a clue: you may know more than I. What I think I do know is that not much can ever be taken for granted. Things that seem obvious to one congregation or community can be seen as rocket science or abject nonsense in another. Expect the unexpected. And this may be a good thing. Let a thousand flowers bloom, perhaps. Resist conformity or uniformity, maybe. The Bishop of Peterborough has just released the 'charge' of his visitation to the Cathedral. I've read it, and some comments about it, and am still pondering its significance. There seems to be an agenda about promoting good governance throughout the C.of E., as well as in Peterborough, and possibly about a shift of power away from the Deans and Chapters of cathedrals: a challenge to their independence? And how does this sit with cathedrals as potential powerhouses of the Faith, with their attractive umbrella mix of solemnity and colourful celebration? And in this new and slightly scary era of politics, how does our renewing understanding of democracy interact with our Church?

More than twenty years ago a friend invited me to Geneva to help make a short film about one aspect of the work of the World Council of Churches. There was a steep learning curve as I encountered world Christianity, and over a few days a lot of my assumptions were turned upside down. I couldn't readily understand much of what I heard, and that was the stuff in English! Seeing the potentates of the churches worldwide all in one room together, dressed in their sometimes outrageously dandified finery, I was reminded at the time of the intergalactic gatherings which occasionally feature in Star Trek episodes. Like Socrates then, often best to consider yourself truly wise because you know nothing.

The fields are properly mucky now, and as I make my way on past Buckingham Thick Copse, each of my boots attracts several extra pounds of sticky clay, which is then washed off in the squelchy grass, a process that is repeated many times during the day. By the time I reach Lillingstone Lovell the sun's out. I stop and eat a sandwich on the Jubilee Bench outside the Church of the Assumption, which like our own St. Peter's sits atop a little bury. Whatever the first building here, quite a lot of earth was moved before its construction.

Down the road comes Philip Green pushing his trolley. Philip has Parkinson's. It's a trial. The tablets sometimes control the symptoms well, but then the effects suddenly wear off, and he has to rest when he'd rather not. Philip used to enjoy walking too, and on Exmoor, near where they lived back then, he and his wife would put in twenty miles a day. Oh, that's too much for me, I protest. Well, it was a score or so years ago, Philip admits. We talk a bit about the disease and the hopes for a cure, and then bid each other a cheery farewell. There's an ultra-physical word that's used in the Gospels for the emotion Jesus feels when an individual's plight moves him: it often precedes a healing intervention. I can identify a similar gut reaction, but of course have no means beyond tender prayer to do anything about it.

I turn north-west with Silverstone in my sights. The other side of the A413, the paths become vague again, so I zig-zag along the field margins to avoid dragging myself across tracts of tilth where the path should be. At the crest of a low ridge a grassy track takes me up between two strips of woodland until the stands of the Silverstone track at Becketts Corner come into view. A pair of red kites follow me for half a mile or so, swooping down overhead to within fifteen feet: I presume they've learned that humans will sometimes feed them, or perhaps they're hoping that I will die conveniently at their feet and they can pick me clean.. Their interconnected flight reminds me of the Falklands War when pairs of  USAF A-10 'Tankbuster' bombers would criss-cross each other in the Northamptonshire skies, diving and climbing, diving and climbing, confusing incoming fire, perfecting their deadly skill.

Silverstone was a Second War airbase, training the crews of Wellingtons for night bombing sorties. A memorial to the flyers stands at the entrance to the village. Of course, the protection of the view into today's motor-racing circuit is total, but for a couple of miles I follow its perimeter. In contrast to the previous pre-Christmas walk there's very little noise: just the occasional rasp of what might be a touring car. I've only ever actually watched one afternoon's racing at Silverstone, but there were a few years when I occasionally played at post-meeting parties in the workshop of the Eddie Jordan team, then bossing the world of Formula 3. These were Tom Sharpe-like episodes of raging testosterone excess (not mine!) I remember bodily sheltering my keyboard rig from showers of water and beer, some of it directed from the audience at the band, and, to be fair, some of it headed outward from the band towards the punters. 'Route 66' was always a point of danger, as lead singer Brendan would include heroic, rabble-rousing excerpts from Henry V at its climactic moment: 'Or close the wall up with our English dead etc.' A condition of employment was that Eddie should play drums on a couple of numbers: a southpaw. He could hold a tempo, usually frantic, more or less. But then, I shouldn't think he's ever contemplated giving up his day job!

At the top of the descent into Silverstone village I pass 'Graham Hill' and 'Brabham Close', and I spare a thought for my erstwhile classmate Tony Brise, killed in the aircrash that also saw the tragic death of Hill, a driver whose demeanour was so apparently in keeping with the fighter aces of WW2, moustachio-ed, debonair, gallant and modest. Tony was a karting champion, just beginning to make his mark on the world of Formula 1. At school he took little part in organised games because he was a chronic asthmatic, but none of us were in his league for sporting achievement. But for the accident, he too might now be regarded as one of the greats of British motor-racing.

A funeral is taking place at St. Michael's, Silverstone. From the church come the strains of 'Praise my soul, the King of Heaven'. (A friend has jovially taken me to task for referring to 'an organ playing', in a previous post. He properly reminds me that organs are generally - although not exclusively these days - played by humans, and I'm letting down the fellowship of organists by implying otherwise!) Outside St. Michael's the undertakers loiter in the street, discussing the route onwards. One of them crosses to the pub for a pee. His comrades banter that he'll be in trouble with the boss for drinking on duty. As I've said before, funny job: exact time-keeping, and the intensity of stage-acting combined with occasional flurries of disc-slipping physical activity and considerable periods of boredom. Wouldn't suit me.

The light is good, but fading. I take the simple option and walk the road to Whittlebury, rather than retracing my steps and using the fieldpaths. It's a longer pull up to the village than I'd reckoned and my quads are complaining as I turn into the path behind the church. St. Mary's is locked, so I look out over the churchyard and read a psalm. Whittlewood Forest (lovely, evocative name!) was once a great expanse of hunting woodland. The O.S. map shows some of the extent of the original, either side of the Silverstone complex. I'm sure there are good topographical or land-owning reasons why some parts remain and others have gone under the plough, but I'd need a geographer to tell me. A gentle, mostly downward path returns me to Pury End as the light ebbs away under clouding skies just before four o'clock. The day should have started and finished earlier. A man was killed in mysterious circumstances on the M1 during the small hours, and all the surrounding roads were in gridlock throughout the morning. An immigrant? A robbery with violence gone wrong? Alcohol? Whatever, a very sad, rather Midlands story...

Stats man:  18km. 5 hours. 10 degrees C. 10 stiles, 13 gates, 2 bridges. One goat-like hop over a brook. Robins, blackbirds, and more kites than the books say should be in Whittlewood. Two random walkers, one of them particularly disorganised and lost. One charming young woman on a handsome horse.

Lord
A sense of New Year disorientation,
A need to find my wobbly feet again,
A fear that I've lost my touch,
A concern that the light won't hold.
And oh, that flimsy, friable, fragility of life!
The gift that could in an instant be snatched away.
And what then?

I come back to You.
I rest in Your presence.
I ask that You will provide what I need;
That You will shelter me from the storms;
That You will give me the strength to endure;
That you will grant me the creativity to realise
Joy in my heart and
Celebration in our community
As I understand again
The nurturing love You hold for everything You have made,
Including me.
I ask it in Jesus' name,
Amen.