Pilgrimage as Spirituality

The Flowing Source

Today, less than twenty percent of English people claim they are religious. The remaining eighty percent may find the Medieval associations of pilgrimage instinctively condemn it as irrelevant to their modern lives. To revive English pilgrimage, it must belong to all/no religions.

Watts Chapel Door

This is perfectly natural. Pilgrimage transcends boundaries and beliefs, a human tradition unlimited by the precepts of any single faith system. But this does not render it secular. Along with music, pilgrimage is a core pillar of spiritual experience, the raw stuff from which religion is made. Without it, our spirituality relies on dogma and intellectualism. With it, we journey through the glory and mystery of creation. Pilgrimage is the desert, the sacred tree, the holy mountain and the eternal spring. It lets you feel God in your bones.

The root of pilgrimage as a holy journey is simple. If you believe in omnipresent creative forces, by whichever name, the natural creation is their expression. Walking slowly through nature is a way to become closer to such a God. Improving the health of your body is a way to become closer to such a God. Meeting and helping strangers on the path is a way to become closer to such a God. Pilgrimage is a full access route to such a closeness, whatever your belief scheme. It is simply sacred, a holistically holy holiday.

The circling gulls

What is English Pilgrimage?

So what is English Pilgrimage?

Such an important tradition is surprisingly unknown. Few people have experienced pilgrimage, or met pilgrims.

So here is our attempt to explain… (more…)

Anorak Magazine

We are very happy to be featured in: Anorak - the Happy Magazine for Children (The Myths and Legends edition). We like the Doggy Bowie cartoon best of all.


Ed and Will in Anorak Magazine

Ed and Will in Anorak Magazine

Two Spanish Poems

Two works by Spanish poets, which we read and thought oh!

Have them both:


“Proverbios y cantares XXIX”

by Antonio Machado
trans. Betty Jean Craige

Wanderer, your footsteps
the road, and nothing more;
wanderer, we have no road,
we make the road by walking.
As you walk you make the road,
and to look back is to see that never
can we pass this way again.
Wanderer, there is no road,
only traces in the sea.



Walking Around

by Pablo Neruda
trans. Robert Bly

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don’t want so much misery.
I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.

The Art of Paul Cummings

This is NOT about the well-established digital artist who works for Saatchi, called Paul Cummings. Find him everywhere elsewhere. We don’t know him.

This post is all about another Paul Cummings, who we met in Avebury at midsummer last year.

HMP by Paul Cummings

HMP by Paul Cummings - Chalk Pastel 835x595 mm

“You reckon that’s pacified your Gods? Cos it ain’t pacified mine”.

Click to read more, and see all the pictures… (more…)

The Songs We Sing

This post is an article, which can be freely distributed on any other website or publication as desired. For an introduction, photographs or recordings, please contact us.

The Songs We Sing

or, how we understand traditional music’s importance.

Christmas sing-it-up

woodland winter songs


Cartoon Cut Out “Ed and Will”

A man from St. Austell once sent us a picture.

We were flattered, because it was of us, and it was very good.

Ed Will by Trystan Mitchell

To find out more, please read on…


Cut Out Figures

The best way to make these yourself, is to right-click on them, ‘save the image-as’, then open them and print them yourself. Use medium-weight card, for best results.

Good luck. If you succeed, please send us a photo…

Press More for cut-outs


Kate’s Middle English Verse

This verse was sent in to us, by a lovely person named Kate, who we have met only through this webbed medium.
She has just gone to be a milkmaid in Ireland, we’re told, which seems an obvious choice for a young lady fresh from literary studies.
The verse is written in middle English, Chaucer’s Tales language, and we like it lots.
We’re promised it will “one day be a printed epic”, which sounds very good indeed.
Here it is:


Her on lond, a tale withoute lesinges:


Thre folk of man wandringe geten livinge,


Thre menes song singeth of haslewode,


Hem wend awei – the best of al manne fode.


Hem slepen al withouten hous or hom


For liken hem in wildernesse to rom.

Thank-you Kate. And if anyone wants more of the same or similar, let us know, and we’ll make the connections.

Thought for the mile vol.7

“If humanity does not opt for integrity we are through completely. It is absolutely touch and go. Each one of us could make the difference. ”

R. Buckminster Fuller