Scarcity and Abundance

A recent article of mine, entitled 'False Doctrine, False God, False Economy: Scarcity and Abundance in the Song of Solomon' has been published in the fantastic Kenarchy Journal: Kenosis for loving action – The Kenarchy Journal. Any feedback welcome!

The Enchantments of Mammon

It's taken something big or to bring me out of hiding (by which I mean my silence on this blog).

I'm currently reading The Enchantments of Mammon by Eugene McCarraher. So far my perception is that this is a magnificent tour-de-force which transcends the tired old dichotomies of political and economic debate to offer a brave new perspective on capitalism, modernity, and the nature of the cosmos. It's beautifully written and formidably argued. I am savouring every sentence.

Here's a taste (various forms of emphasis added - in case you can't tell, I'm very enthused by this book!):

"The world does not need to be re-enchanted, because it was never disenchanted in the first place. Attending primarily to the history of the United States, I hope to demonstrate that capitalism has been, as Benjamin perceived, a religion of modernity, one that addresses the same hopes and anxieties formerly entrusted to traditional religion. But this does not mean only that capitalism has been and continues to be beguiling or fetishized, and that rigorous analysis will expose the phantoms as the projections they really are. These enchantments draw their power, not simply from our capacity for delusion, but from our deepest and truest desires—desires that are consonant and tragically out of touch with the dearest freshness of the universe. The world can never be disenchanted, not because our emotional or political or cultural needs compel us to find enchantments—though they do—but because the world itself, as Hopkins realized, is charged with the grandeur of God.

Hence the importance of theology for this book, as I root my affirmation of the persistence of enchantment in a theological claim about the world: that the earth is a sacramental place, mediating the presence and power of God, revelatory of the superabundant love of divinity."

PREACH!!!

I am tempted to start a running commentary on this delicious book. However, I doubt I'll be able to top Lynn Parramore's recent review, which is worth a read in its own right: https://www.ineteconomics.org/perspectives/blog/the-gospel-of-capitalism-is-the-biggest-turkey-of-all. 

After starting this book today, it feels like my parched soul has been offered a deep drink of sweet water. 

The Commodified Christ and the Economics of Jubilee

I haven't been blogging very much lately. That's because I've been working on a project entitled 'the commodified Christ and the economics of Jubilee'. A first iteration has been published in the Kenarchy journal which is edited by Roger Mitchell. Check it out at https://kenarchy.org/ - and have a look at the other articles too! Participation in the discussion forum is particularly welcome.

Walking the Wainwrights: Favourite Paths

In my last post, I described my six favourite fells in the Lake District (plus six runners-up). Now I'd like to describe my six favourite paths (plus six runners-up).

It is of course impossible to separate a path from a fell. If I was starting from scratch, my favourite paths would likely mirror my favourite fells. A prime example is High Street, my all-time favourite fell, which, by no coincidence, is named after its main path. To avoid repetition, I've therefore chosen paths which offer something different from the fell-top experience. This also gives me the opportunity to celebrate a more diverse range of places, and thus to counteract the regrettable bias that 'fell-bagging' can bring. It pains me to imagine, for example, how many hasty summiteers must have bedgrudgingly hauled themselves to the northwest corner of the Lake District to tick Low Fell, Darling Fell, and Fellbarrow off their lists without tasting the heavenly delights of the Old Mosser Road.

A final caveat is needed before I get to the list. In my opinion, the Cumbria Way is the creme de la creme of Lakeland paths; but it is in truth a string of paths which together cross the entire District, forming a sort of Prime Meridian. It would have been greedy to treat the entire distance as one path, and most unfair to its smaller rivals. In any case, I have already commended certain sections of the Way in my previous post (most notably the Borrowdale section between Grange and Stonethwaite - although I will take this opportunity to mention it again) while conversely there are one or two sections that I have not walked (most notably the long stretch from Coniston to Ulverston - evidence, I think, of the fell-bagging bias aforementioned). I have therefore chosen to split up the route into a number of sections. These are essentially arbitrary; the section that I have chosen as my favourite path, while lying on the Cumbria Way, is relatively short and well-defined, whereas the others are more ambiguous.

Hair-splitting aside, here are my six favourite paths, broadly in order of preference:

1) Langstrath. The enchanted valley. The path starts in the Jaws of Borrowdale, where the beauty is almost too much to bear. The magnificent facade of Eagle Crag stands like a gatekeeper to a secret world, beckoning the walker's soul while repelling her worries and frustrations. From the very start, the walker is struck by a sense of the magical - a sense which only increases as she is pulled further and further into the valley, magnetically and mesmerically, the path becoming rougher underfoot, the slopes on either side becoming steeper. She who perseveres to the end is rewarded with the crown of life that is Angle Tarn. Once a mere pawn in this brutal world, she is now a queen, having reached the place where Earth becomes Heaven.

2) The Old Mosser Road. The ancient way. Nestled in a hidden corner of the Lake District, this path is a vestige of a bygone age, when the world still moved to the original rhythms of creation. The walker feels lighter here in all respects - physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Her feet are at home here; she almost has to stop them from running ahead of her, as if they were children in a fairground. She feels, too, that she is alone with the entire universe - that all of the illusions and delusions of the modern world have given way to what is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and worthy of praise. Just knowing that a place like this exists is enough to assure her that not at all is lost, and that one day everything will once again be as it should be.

3) Torver Lonning. A Via Dolorosa. I once saw a photo of a pool of water surrounded by a steep quarry, fed by a waterfall that seemed to come straight out of the rock. I immediately recognised the image from a dream; or perhaps the image, as otherworldly as it was, went straight to the part of my mind where forgotten dreams abide. In any case, when I finally visited the location, what made the strongest impression was not the pool, the waterfall, or the quarry, as liminal and entrancing as they were; rather it was the path that I followed to get there.

Walking along the unnamed bridleway from Torver to Banishead Quarry, which I have affectionately called 'Torver Lonning', feels like walking through somebody's soul. The path begins with glimpses of paradise, as if a ray of Heaven is glimmering through the clouds of this mortal life, or as if the immanent Earth is beginning to give birth. Once the walker emerges from the sheltered byway onto the open fell, her epiphany is interrupted by the destructiveness of man: deep scars in the ground and ugly piles of slate, abandoned as carelessly as they were formed, strip her of her innocence. Yet as she wanders mournfully across the apocalyptic wasteland, she finds in it a sort of hope, elusive but alive; and when she reaches the waterfall, which emerges miraculously from the rock to turn the largest of the rock pits into a pool of water, she knows that all things will be made beautiful in their time. Walking back along the lane, nestled quaintly between the grazing fields, her visions of Heaven are all the more joyful. (Local tradition has it that the waterfall is the doing of a few mischevious lads, who removed the stones which held back the stream. I think that fits the narrative rather well.)

4) Nanny Lane and Robin Lane. A crown of splendour. Both of these paths connect the bustling town of Ambleside with the quiet village of Troutbeck. Together, they form a sensational circuit which combines iconic views of the Langdale Pikes with the restful falls of Stockghyll Force. At the centre lies Wansfell Pike, a grandfather watching gladly as his children's children play around him; they are an hour older each time they run past, and so he cherishes every hour, knowing that they will disappear when the clock strikes twelve. A humble, ordinary fell, this wise old man is nonetheless glorious when adorned with its beloved paths.

5) The Glencoyne path. Out of sight, but always in my mind. Three parallel valleys run westwards from southern shore of Ullswater: Grisedale, Glenridding, and Glencoyne. The first two begin respectively in the popular towns of Patterdale and Glenridding, and both lead to the equally popular summit of Helvellyn. They are accordingly frequented by all and sundry - and justifiably so, for the towns and mountains, as well as well as the valleys themselves, are among the finest in the District.

The third valley, however, while equally worthy of admiration, neither starts nor finishes in any place of note; indeed, other than a narrow outlet running onto Sticks Pass, it practicaly turns around on itself. In other words, the only reason to walk in Glencoyne, in contrast to the other two valleys, is to visit the valley itself - which consequently remains 'Seldom Seen', as a row of old mining cottages near the mouth of the valley are named. Fortunately, though, the path seems to have been designed with this purpose in mind: whereas most paths follow either the valley floor or the summit ridge, the one here runs along a contour some half way up either side of the valley, virtually invisible from above or below. The result is a journey like no other. As the walker circumnavigates the hidden passage, she feels that she is involved in a dangerous mission, the success of which depends on her remaining undetected.

6) The northern section of the Cumbria Way. A way in the wilderness. As eulogised in my last post, the Northern Fells possess a unique mystique, a sort of holy sorrow which assures you that there is something to be found, something to be created, even in the midst of meaninglessness. The paths here wind their way between the fells to form a sort of deserted museum, eerie in its emptiness but soothing in its silence. I once witnessed a foxhunt on the slopes of Little Calva - an age-old tradition which has changed little since the days of John Peel, the legendary foxhunter who lived in nearby Caldbeck. It was an ethereal experience; dashing down the fellside on either side of me, neither the huntsmen nor the hounds seemed to notice that I was there, as if I, or they, were ghosts.

And now for my six painstakingly chosen runners-up:

7) The Cumbria Way between Elterwater and Tarn Hows. The grand tour. In my last post, I opined that the smaller fells often provide the most pleasant views. Something similar is true of bodies of water: what Eltermere, Tarn Hows, and Yew Tree Tarn lack in size, they make up for in beauty. For a full day out, the walker can return via Little Langdale, passing the equally adorable Blea Tarn and Little Langdale Tarn. If she is feeling particularly energetic, she can begin the walk in Grasmere, reaching Elterwater via Allan Bank - a veritable stairway to Heaven which must have inspired Wordworth, who lived in the estate at the bottom of the Bank. Overall, this section of the Cumbria Way is a sample of the finest scenery that the Lake District has to offer, especially when the recommended supplements are included. Especially prominent are the Langdale Pikes, which are pictured in numerous frames - fells, valleys, tarns - each of which seems to have been arranged for a postcard, a wedding photo, or simply a treat for the loyal walker, who has come to be satisfied with much less grandeur and who is therefore able to appreciate the full richness of the experience.

8) Boredale Hause. A pilgim's progress. In my last post, I elaborated on the special blessing that lies on the Howtown-Glenridding path. To avoid unnecessary repetition while also paying tribute where it is most definitely due, I'm focusing here on the nearby mountain pass between Patterdale and Boredale. The situation of this little jewel is incomparable: nestled between Place Fell, Beda Fell, and Angletarn Pikes, with Patterdale in one direction and Hartsop in the other, every way from Boredale Hause is the right way, every choice the best choice. The remains of an old chapel are still evident here, and the walker senses that the divine presence still lingers, waiting for the day when the ancient ruins will be rebuilt, the lost foundations raised up, the streets of habitation restored. Indeed, she feels that the chapel is more holy than it ever was, for it points to the place where God truly dwells: the whole world, which even now is being made new.

9) Tom's Lonning. The shepherd's fold. In a beautifully tragic poem fit for a ballad, Wordsworth tells the story of the shepherd (Michael) whose name is still preserved in the starting point of this path (Michael's Nook). At one level, the poem is a lament for the fragile bonds and sacred traditions which have been passed down for generations, only to be cast aside by the forces of industry. Yet, in its essence, the poem is a hopeful celebration of landscape and culture, which in this part of the world remain inseparable. If the walker follows the path to Alcock Tarn, she eventually comes to the immaculate Corpse Road between Grasmere and Rydal, which escapes my list only because of its constant popularity. To borrow some of Wainwright's endearing cynicism, there are too many actual corpses on this path - "dull folk", in Wainwright's words, who seek mere amusement and never bother to lift their eyes to the hills. Our walker now wishes she was back in Tom's Lonning, following the brook and wondering who Tom was. Wordworth's advice remains as sound as ever:

"IF from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude..." 

10) The Loweswater Corpse Road. The land of the living. I'd like to balance out my tongue-in-cheek comment regarding the Rydal Corpse Road by paying tribute to another corpse road (the name given to the paths which villagers once used to take their dead to the nearest churchyard). The path which skirts the fellside above the southern shore of Loweswater is a prime example of my earlier statement, hard truth for the snobbish hillbagger, that there's more to the Lake District than just the summits. Burnbank Fell and Carling Knott are relatively unremarkable; in fact they are arguably among the dullest of all the Lakeland Fells. Yet the road which tracks their contours is replete with interest; indeed it is among the most delightful in all of Lakeland. The view down the 'three lakes' - Loweswater, Crummock Water, and Buttermere - is so precious that it would be worth a stop even if one's wife was in labour or his house on fire. Near the end of the path - for it should always be walked west-to-east, incidentally the opposite direction than the corpses would be carried - the route cuts up into the valley before crossing the beck and emerging near High Nook Farm. Completing the journey, the walker senses that she has indeed passed from one life to the next.

11) Garburn Pass. The paths of righteousness. In my paean to High Street, I lacked the space to mention the holy trinity of Froswick, Yoke, and Ill Bell, which together afford what is arguably the quintessential ridge walk. When the walker descends, she expects that her elation with decline with her elevation. But it does not, for Garburn Pass cushions her fall, making her feel that she is still walking in the sky. If it is still too soon to return to reality, the road will gently lead her straight onto Sallows and Sour Howes, two unexpectedly gratifying Wainwrights which pack a larger punch than their names or altitudes would suggest. Only when she is ready will Garburn set her down in Kentmere or Troutbeck. When she regains consciousness, the breathtaking ridge will undoubtedly dominate her memories; and yet, for a reason which she cannot quite identify, it is Garburn which has captured her heart.

12) The Old Coach Road. A highway of holiness. Some paths are good because they afford good views, or otherwise allow the walker to access the goodness of the place in which they happen to be situated. Other paths are good because they are physically conducive to the act of walking. The Old Coach Road, which connects the motorised valley of St. John's in the Vale to the sleepy hamlet of Dockray, is a case in point. To be sure, there are views to be had, but one would not walk this path primarily for the views. More likely, she would choose the Old Coach Road if she wanted to let her legs 'off the lead' without having to worry about them. Since the road is made to facilitate wheel-based locomotion, the walker's feet, accustomed to much more challenging terrain, are rather spoiled. If she desires, the walker can indulge in over four miles of luxury, which, given the broadness and evenness of the road, not even the mountain bikes can disturb.

Walking the Wainwrights: Favourite Fells

In June this year, I completed my decade-long quest to walk all of Alfred Wainwright's 214 Lake District Fells. It has been a truly life-giving experience. I have loved every minute, every step, every fell (even Mungrisedale Common!).

You might expect me to feel a sense of accomplishment. To be honest, though, the dominant emotion is melancholy, or at least wistfulness. Though I will certainly walk many of these fells many more times, experiencing them in different seasons and through different routes, I will never again climb them for the first time, with the unique sense of thrill and anticipation that a first time brings.

After all, it was never about ‘bagging fells’ for me. I initially decided to walk the Wainwrights as an excuse and a motivation to explore the Lake District, particularly the far-flung corners which I would have otherwise neglected. As I got to know the place, my hillwalking hobby soon developed into a passionate love affair. It now feels as if the honeymoon is over. We will be partners for life, with many more adventures to share, but the relationship will be more mature, more familiar.

When the subject of my fellwalking conquest comes up in conversation, there is one question I am asked nearly every time: 'which one was your favourite?'. It's also a question that I've also asked myself many times - and it's one I've struggled to answer.

There are a number of reasons why the question is so difficult. For one, my perceptions of a given fell are shaped not by the fell itself in some objective sense, but rather by the particular experiences that I had while walking it - and these in turn are shaped by various contingent factors, such as the route I took, my mood at the time, and not least the weather. What's more, these experiences exist in the universe of memory, which is notoriously fickle, mischievously intermingling with the universe of imagination.

I even think that the name of a given fell can influence our perceptions of it. I doubt Helvellyn and Great Gable would be as popular if it were not for their epic names, whereas visitors are probably deterred from Barf or Grike before they’ve even put down the map. Personally, my favourite place in the Lake District happens to bear my favourite name in the Lake District. (With apologies to the reader, I’m not going to disclose which place it is, as its allure lies to great extent in its obscurity; but I will at least tell you that it isn’t a fell.)

There's also the fact that a 'fell' is an artificial concept, and an ambiguous one at that. In Lakeland, a single mountain will often contain multiple fells, particularly on the long ridges beloved by fellwalkers. Someone might say that Helvellyn is their favourite fell - but does that include Nethermost Pike and Dollywagon Pike, which are really just different segments of the same massif? Even Wainwright admitted that the definition of a fell is more or less arbitrary; compare Shipman Knotts, which he did include, and Iron Crag, which he didn’t. In part, it seems to depend on what has been given a name on the map. This is certainly evident in Wainwright’s selection; compare the indistinct Burnbank Fell, which he did include, and the unnamed but prominent summit above nearby Carling Knott, which he didn’t.

In compiling my list of favourite fells – for I could never settle on a single favourite - I've tried to let these two sets of problems cancel each other out. My perception of a fell is shaped by my experiences of that fell, and the definition of a fell is intrinsically arbitrary. So, for the purposes of this exercise, I have defined a fell based on my experiences. As an example, I would treat Whin Rigg and Ilgill Head as a single fell, since they are separated by only a trivial depression and nearly always walked together. To respect the noble traditions of fellwalking and the even nobler traditions of the local inhabitants - and not forgetting the memory of Wainwright himself - I am happy to refer to these fells separately as a matter of course; but in the realm of experience and memory they are no more separable for me than the twin summits of Mellbreak.

I like to think that Wainwright would have approved of this approach, as it’s actually quite similar to his own. The patron saint of fellwalking could have used a systematic method, for example defining a fell as any summit above a certain height, perhaps delineated from other fells by some minimum level of declivity. He was an accountant, after all. But instead, he called something a fell if it 'felt' like a fell. This is a principle which should resonate with any true fellwalker. Note, however, that my list of favourite fells is not fully commensurable with Wainwright's own list of "best" fells, which he reveals at the end of Book Seven of his Pictorial Guides. His is a list of the fells which most distinctively possess "the attributes of a mountain" - a criterion which excludes his favourite fell, Haystacks. Mine is simply a list of favourites.

A final caveat about my list is that it betrays a distinct northern bias. I am unapologetic about this. My favourite fell groups, corresponding to Wainwright’s guidebooks, are the Far Eastern Fells, the North Western Fells, and the Northern Fells, in that order. By and large, these are not the fells which attract the holiday-makers, the thrill-seekers, or the Internet-pleasers. That isn’t necessarily why I like them, but I do think there’s a connection: these fells offer a certain sense of solitude, which I crave and seek out but which others seem to find unappealing. More prosaically, I tend to prefer walking on turf than on rock – a matter on which I differ from Wainwright – and this preference is more readily satisfied in the north than it is in the south.

***

So, following Wainwright, here are my top six Lake District fells, in order of preference:

1) High Street. My first love. My first ever fell-walk was with my father, climbing Caudale Moor and Thornthwaite Crag from Kirkstone Pass. It whetted my appetite for fellwalking, which, though it has become more subtle and refined, remains as voracious as ever.

In naming High Street as my favourite fell, I am stretching my subjective approach to its max, for it’s really the whole Far Eastern family that I adore; indeed, the summit which bears the name is not really distinct from the rest of the range. Yet the excellence of High Street lies precisely in its extensiveness. As an old Roman Road, it really is a 'High Street' - once you're up there, you can walk for miles and miles on a highway in the sky. It feels like you are in a different dimension in both the external world and the internal world - indeed, the two worlds seem to merge into one. The descent is always a heartbreaking experience, assuaged only by the knowledge that, as my great-grandmother told me shortly before passing to the place where all mountains are made into roads, “this is not good bye, it is only so long”.

Something else I love about High Street is that it seems to be at home in gloomy weather. There is something wonderfully formidable about it, so while it's fantastic on a blissful summer day, it's even more enchanting in mist and moody clouds - particularly the views over towards Haweswater, a place which has an almost gothic atmosphere. To me, this side of the range also feels the most ancient of any place in the Lake District. Walking up Gatescarth Pass or across the Corpse Road, I feel like I’m following in millennia of footsteps - which, to be sure, I am.

I'd also give special mention to the northern side of High Street, graced with the likes of Beda Fell, Steel Knotts, and Place Fell (I would add Hallin Fell, but I think that would be stretching the ‘High Street’ rubric to the point of absurdity). Indeed, if I was forced to pick one fell from the High Street massif, it would be Beda Fell. Graceful and understated, quiet and friendly, it epitomises what I love about this little corner of the Lake District. There is a special blessing on this area - particularly the eastern shore of Ullswater, running from the unspoiled village of Patterdale (named after St. Patrick) to the secluded valley of Martindale (named after St. Martin). The path here tracks the foot of Place Fell, which once provided refuge to persecuted Quakers. About twenty years ago, my grandfather fell on this path and was saved by his backpack, which miraculously cushioned his head. Decades later, only a mile or so down the way, I had one of the most vivid experiences of the presence of God in all my life. Standing on the shore near Howtown after a long walk on High Street, I was spontaneously overcome by love, peace, and joy to the point of tears - an overwhelming awareness of the goodness of creation and my place within it.

And Hartsop - how could I forget Hartsop. This solitary hamlet is probably my favourite place to start a walk, whether it’s up High Street or westward to the Fairfield range. Hartsop is a fellwalker’s Heaven; it feels like a ghost town, except that the ghosts are angels. In Hartsop, I feel like I am resting in the shadow of the Almighty, surrounded by the mountains that give me my strength.

2) Blencathra. The home of my soul. In one sense, Blencathra is the 'guardian of the north' - its southern face is proud and noble, with its five fingers and its distinctive 'saddleback' ridge. The northern side, however, gives way to the rolling, grassy hills of the unfrequented Northern Fells - a quiet, empty place, full of secrets and mysteries, ideal for letting your mind and legs roam free. There are countless ways to climb Blencathra - including the well-trodden ridges of Hall’s Fell and Sharp Edge as well as the lesser-known slopes of Bannerdale Crags and Souther Fell – each of which has its own personality. The view down St. John’s in the Vale is imprinted in my mind like a dream which never ends. Blencathra is just so multi-faceted - for me, it's the fell that has it all. (Technically, of course, Blencathra isn’t a fell at all, but rather the place where multiple fells meet - a case which perhaps validates my poetic licence in defining fells).

3) Castle Crag. An old favourite. Castle Crag was the first fell I climbed using Wainwright's books as a guide, and for that reason alone it holds a special place in my heart. The views both ways - down towards the 'Jaws of Borrowdale' and up towards Derwent Water and Skiddaw - are sublime. Indeed, I often find that the best views are found on the lower fells, even if they don't give you quite the same ‘sense of space’ as the higher summits. I like to include Castle Crag in a meandering ramble, perhaps taking in the quaint villages of Rosthwaite and Stonethwaite, the hidden gems of Watendlath and Dock Tarn, or the picture-perfect postcards of Surprise View, Ashness Bridge, and Lodore Falls. Indeed, the best part about this fell is where it's situated: in the middle of Borrowdale, which itself lies in the middle of the Lake District, containing the square mile of countryside which Wainwright considered to be the most beautiful in all of England. It’s a simple, happy place, sheltered from the world’s hurries and worries.

4) Whiteless Pike. Fellwalking at its best. In my humble opinion, purely in terms of quality of walking, the North Western Fells are the pick of the litter. They seem to be made for walking - and nowhere is this more true than Whiteless Pike, which offers, in my humble opinion, the finest ridge walk in Lakeland. The summit also overlooks Loweswater, Buttermere, and Crummock Water, which, in my humble opinion, are the most magnificent lakes in the District. Crummock in particular is a family favourite; there is something vibrant and vigorous about the place, as if it were the beating heart of all of Lakeland.

5) Helm Crag. A memory of Eden. For me, this fell evokes a special nostalgia, stemming from childhood holidays in Grasmere - spending time with grandparents, playing in the rain with my little sister, and, of course, eating (and, better yet, smelling) Sarah Nelson’s gingerbread. I am also a lover of Wordsworth’s poetry, and this is a place I tend to associate with him. Of course, Wordsworth lived in several places around Grasmere, but I think the association also derives from his awareness of a benevolent ‘spirit’ which dwells in the Lake District - a creative muse, a guardian angel, a healing balm. Helm Crag is affectionately known as the Lion and the Lamb due to the appearance of a certain rock formation near the summit. In Grasmere, and on Helm Crag, I feel the presence of the Lion who revealed himself as a Lamb perhaps more than anywhere else in the District. It is as if I am walking in the Garden in the cool of the day, with the Creator Himself somewhere near - perhaps in the ground, perhaps in the air, perhaps everywhere. To quote Wordsworth’s contemporary William Blake in his poem The Lamb:

Little Lamb who made thee 
         Dost thou know who made thee
...
Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
         Little Lamb I'll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb: 
He is meek and he is mild, 
He became a little child: 
I a child and thou a lamb, 
We are called by his name.

6) Great End and Seathwaite Fell. A house with many mansions. My most treasured memory of the Lake District is of an impromptu swim in Sprinkling Tarn, between Great End and Seathwaite Fell, after camping near Glaramara. The blessed water cleansed me from a night in the wild and cooled me under a scorching sun, all before the world had woken up. As for the fell itself, the view northwards is similar to that from Castle Crag, only more expansive, and the surrounding area is a veritable playground. The path from Seathwaite, particularly on the western side of Taylorgill Force up to Styhead Tarn and following onto the Corridor Route, is especially outstanding. I also love the neighbouring Esk Hause, a cornerstone of so many great adventures.

***

There are so many other great fells, and to be honest I'd love to include all of the 214 on my list (plus a few more!). By way of compromise, here are six honourable mentions, again in order of preference:

7) Low Fell. A tribute to small things. Low it may be, but the view to the lake which shares its name is lovely - one of the loveliest in the Lake District, according to Wainwright, and for me perhaps the loveliest. As if that were not enough, the fell is also in reach of what are perhaps the loveliest paths (the track between Mosser and Loweswater and the Corpse Road on the southern shore) and the loveliest stretch of countryside (the Lorton Vale).

8) Mellbreak. A world in miniature. To the north, one of the most exhilarating paths in Lakeland; to the south, one of the most idyllic waterfalls; to the west, one of the most magical lakes; and to the east, one of the most lonesome valleys.

9) Wetherlam. A bottomless treasure trove. Surrounded by fascinating quarries and immaculate ridge walks, there is always something new to discover on Wetherlam.

10) Pillar. A rock of salvation. The direct ascent from Ennerdale is almost spooky in its otherworldliness, fearsome in its wildness. Meanwhile the descent via Black Sail feels like a homecoming ceremony, extravagant and celebratory.

11) Fairfield. A crossroads in the clouds. Fairfield presents the walker with infinite possibilities, each better than the last.

12) Ilgill Head and Whin Rigg. A valley lifted up. For someone who generally prefers walking on soil and grass, this long, broad plateau, invisible from the lake below, offers a way to enjoy the exquisite beauty of Wasdale without enduring the sharp rocks and treacherous scree of the surrounding fells.

***

In future posts, I aim to continue this memoir by describing my favourite paths, my favourite views, my favourite bodies of water, and my favourite places.

Walking the Tochar, Part I | Seeking the House of God

“Blessed are those whose strength is in you, in whose hearts are the highways to Zion.” (Psalm 84:5, ESV).

“Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.” (Psalm 84:5, NIV).

Psalm 84 is all about the House of God – the place where God dwells, the place where Heaven and Earth meet, the place where all that is wrong with the world is made right. The psalmist speaks of the loveliness of God's dwelling place, how he yearns and faints for God's courts, how one day spent in God's presence is better than a thousand spent outside of it.

At one level, this place is identified as the Temple – a specific building on a specific mountain, set apart as holy. At another level, though, it isn’t about a place at all. It’s about a journey. The pilgrim’s heart is set on the highways to Zion as much as on Zion itself; and she is called blessed not only when she arrives, but also as she journeys. What is more, she blesses all the places through which she journeys – she makes the Valley of Baca a place of springs, as the Autumn rain covers it with blessings (v6).

This was always the Way. Abraham was on a journey when he was seeking God's House, though he never saw it; Jacob was on a journey when he saw God’s House, though he was not seeking it; and we, as exiles, sojourners, and strangers in a foreign land, are on a journey, seeking God’s House even though we have already seen it.

***

I have been captivated by the idea of pilgrimage for years – so much so that I wrote a novella with pilgrimage as its central theme. This Easter, I decided to walk the talk. I travelled to a remote corner of West Ireland to traverse the Tochar Phadraig (St. Patrick's Causeway), a twenty-mile route from Ballintubber Abbey to Croagh Patrick (St. Patrick's Mountain, locally known as 'the Reek').

Why did I chose this route? To be honest, I’m not really sure. Admittedly, there were some practical reasons. For one, I've always wanted to go to Ireland, and thanks to a new scheme it is possible to combine an Irish pilgrimage with the Camino Ingles, one of the famous routes to Santiago De Compostela in northwest Spain, this one used by British and Irish sailors in centuries past. The Tochar in particular was an ideal length – achievable over the weekend but still long enough to count towards the Camino, should I ever wish to complete it.

But there were also more romantic reasons. Of all the saints after which the Irish routes are named, St. Patrick resonated with me most strongly. Patrick’s life is a beautiful story of good overcoming evil, of redemption in the most unlikely of circumstances. As a child, he was kidnapped from his home in Britain and held captive in Ireland. After escaping back to Britain, he later returned to bring the Gospel to the island which now cherishes him as a patron saint. I was also attracted by the layout of the route. Something about walking towards a Lonely Mountain and finishing on its summit seemed in keeping with the Biblical idea of pilgrimage, in which the pilgrim walks on the “highways to Zion”.

Actually, technically speaking, the route doesn’t finish on the mountain. After descending, the pilgrim makes her way to sea – something which was to prove equally significant.

Continue the journey to Part II

Walking the Tochar, Part II | O Destroying Mountain, Be Rolled into the Sea

“Behold, I am against you, O destroying mountain,
declares the Lord,
    which destroys the whole earth;
I will stretch out my hand against you,
    and roll you down from the crags,
    and make you a burnt mountain…
‘When you finish reading this book, tie a stone to it and cast it into the midst of the Euphrates, and say, ‘Thus shall Babylon sink, to rise no more, because of the disaster that I am bringing upon her, and they shall become exhausted.’” (Jeremiah 51:25,63; ESV)

“And the merchants of the earth weep and mourn for her, since no one buys their cargo anymore, cargo of gold, silver, jewels, pearls, fine linen, purple cloth, silk, scarlet cloth, all kinds of scented wood, all kinds of articles of ivory, all kinds of articles of costly wood, bronze, iron and marble, cinnamon, spice, incense, myrrh, frankincense, wine, oil, fine flour, wheat, cattle and sheep, horses and chariots, and slaves, that is, human souls...
Then a mighty angel took up a stone like a great millstone and threw it into the sea, saying,
‘So will Babylon the great city be thrown down with violence,
    and will be found no more…’” (Revelation 18:11-13,21; ESV)

“And they came to Jerusalem. And he entered the temple and began to drive out those who sold and those who bought in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money-changers and the seats of those who sold pigeons. And he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple. And he was teaching them and saying to them, ‘Is it not written, “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations”? But you have made it a den of robbers.’ And the chief priests and the scribes heard it and were seeking a way to destroy him...” (Mark 11:15-18; ESV)

“O destroying mountain, be rolled into the sea
O destroying mountain, be rolled into the sea
The mountains shall be levelled and the earth shall be set free.” (David Benjamin Blower, ‘Destroying Mountain’)

***

I spent my first day in Ireland thinking, reading, and praying about my upcoming pilgrimage. I had been tempted to start the day that I arrived, but my exceedingly wise (and generous) host Peter counseled that a pilgrimage should never be rushed. I’m glad that I took his advice. In our busy lives, we often seek to minimise times of idleness. Yet it is precisely during such times that we are often best placed to receive creative inspiration, to speak to and hear from God, and simply to ‘be’ - which I don’t think we do enough these days.

In this instance, it was during a day of idleness that God revealed to me the significance of the journey ahead. Wandering around the coastal town of Westport, I was treated to a fine view of my objective, the formidable Croagh Patrick (aka 'the Reek'), looming ominously across an inlet of the Atlantic Ocean.

As I surveyed the mountain, I recalled the lyrics of a song called ‘Destroying Mountain’ by David Benjamin Blower, a refreshingly unusual artist who creates laments, jeremiads, and other rare but much-needed forms of Christian music. The song, the lyrics of which are reproduced at the bottom of the page, had already been stuck in my head for about two weeks. But this time, in view of the scriptures above - and in view of the mountain itself - the song suddenly ‘clicked’.

One would assume that, in a pilgrimage with a mountain as its destination, the mountain would represent something sacred, or at least something positive. But what God emphasised to me as I scrutinised the mountain was that what my soul yearns and faints for - the House of God, i.e. the Kingdom of Heaven - is not the kingdom which reigns on the earth. This kingdom, in the Bible symbolised as Babylon, is the opposite of sacred. On the contrary, as the Apostle John describes in Revelation 18, it treats what is in fact sacred - namely human beings and the earth from which they are made - as mere inputs to be exploited, commodities to be traded, plunder to be seized. It is thus a system of violence, mammon, and oppression; of profanity, defilement, and desecration. It this system which is responsible for the countless forms of injustice, inequality, and insanity that plague our society, economy, and ecology.

It is this very system which provoked Jesus into a tirade of righteous anger when he encountered it in the House of God (Mark 11; cf. Matthew 12, Luke 19, John 2). The institution of the Temple was exploiting the poor, for example by allowing its money stores to be loaned out at interest, particularly to the most financially vulnerable who were already at risk of having their land requisitioned; by selling doves, which served as sacrificial animals for those, particularly women, who could not afford sheep or cattle; and by demanding tithes from destitute widows so that it could embellish its buildings and enlarge its coffers. This episode reminds us that, before we can reach Zion, before we can see Heaven come to Earth, we have to dethrone the system of the world which sits proudly atop the mountain - the “great city that has dominion over the kings of the earth” (Revelation 17:18), the cup of madness from which “all nations have drunk” (Revelation 18:2; cf. Zechariah 51:7).

This system is ultimately doomed, for it eventually destroys its own foundations, including mankind and landkind. In such an eventuality, the system falls, but only after it has inflicted irreparable destruction on people and planet. In his mercy, God will therefore intervene to destroy the destroying mountain: “Behold, I will stir up the spirit of a destroyer against Babylon….” (Jeremiah 51:1,26). It is only once this judgement has come to pass that the longings of our souls can ever be satisfied.

***

The Tochar begins at Ballintubber Abbey, a truly magnificent building which one would not expect to find in what seems like the middle of nowhere. I say ‘seems’, because it’s a fallacy of Babylon to define ‘somewhere’ as a place of trade, technology, industry, and wealth. Ever since Cain the brother-killer built the first city east of Eden (Genesis 4), we have designated such places ‘civilisation’. Yet when Abraham was looking for the City of God (Hebrews 11), he let his brother Lot have the first choice, settling in the land of Canaan - the middle of nowhere - rather than the more fertile Jordan valley (Genesis 13). When Jacob encountered the House of God, he was in the middle of nowhere, on his way from one city to another (Genesis 28). Though it may seem inauspicious and even invisible, it will be this City, this House, this Mountain, this Kingdom, which will stand when judgement comes, because is built on the only true foundation - Jesus Christ, whose blood speaks a better word than the blood of Abel (1 Corinthians 3:11; Hebrews 11:8-10,12:22-29).

Plenty of brotherly blood has been spilt in Ireland, and County Mayo is no exception. Through over 800 years of history, Ballintubber Abbey has endured a lot, including dissolutions, fires, and famines. At various times, it was illegal for Catholics to hold mass here, and priests were systematically hunted down by the authorities. The grave of a local priest-hunter, blackmailed into service after stealing a horse, is still marked in the graveyard. Whereas all the other graves face east, the locals buried this man facing north, where the sun never rises. An ash tree has since grown on top of his grave, splitting it in two - which I like to think is a symbol of death defeated, of reconciliation for the culprit as well as the victim.

Following the short drive from the house, Peter accompanied me into the Abbey and introduced me to Father Fahey, who led in restoring the Tochar and still acts as a sort of custodian. Father Fahey is a cheeky old man, a real Irish character, someone who always seems to be laughing inside as his last joke while he waits for an opportunity to crack another. After introductions, he leaves me alone for a minute to light a candle at the altar before I embark on my journey, representing a statement of faith. Only one other candle has already been lit in the dusty transept, which smells of ancientness. Perhaps a fellow pilgrim has set off ahead of me, or perhaps Father Fahey lights a candle for himself each day. Either way I felt blessed to join their company.

After providing me with a hand-drawn map and stamping my pilgrim’s passport - trusting, he says, that I will be honest enough to complete the journey - he leads me to the edge of the Abbey grounds where Patrick’s Causeway begins. He tells me that there six principles of the pilgrimage which I am to observe: Faith (light a candle before leaving and say a prayer after crossing each stile); Penance (no complaining; instead say ‘thanks be to God’); Community (include the stranger in your group); Mystery (observe periods of silence); Change of Heart (ask God what you need to change about yourself); and Celebration (share with each other).

He then gives me a smooth stone and instructs me to pick up a sharp stone from the ground. I pick up the first one I see and ask him whether it’s the right size. He tells me it should be larger, but points to an exceptionally large rock (which, incidentally, looks like a millstone) and tells me, “that one’s for real sinners”. When I reach the summit of the mountain, I am to throw away the sharp stone but keep the smooth one, an act which is meant to represent a change of heart. My hosts had told me about this practice; supposedly pilgrims used to put the sharp stone in their shoe as an act of penance, and some people still climb the mountain barefoot for this purpose. I ask Father Fahey about it; he tells me that, if I get the top of the mountain and God hasn’t shown me something about myself that needs to change, then I should put the stone in my shoe. That always seems to do the job, he says.

With stones in hand - along with a shell that I selected from the shore by home in Edinburgh, the symbol of those who walk the Camino de Santiago - I set off bright-eyed over the first stile, full of curiosity and expectation. Within minutes, my shoes are soaked in the morning dew, which still lingers in the long grass. And it isn’t much longer before my feet are completely submerged in a slimy bog. It looks like I will be paying penance after all.

The route is replete with interest. Every stile - and there are many - contains a plaque with information about the history, the geography, or the folklore of the area. St. Patrick features heavily in the landscape: along the way, I crossed such items as Patrick’s vat, Patrick’s seat, Patrick’s bed, Patrick’s stone, and Patrick’s church. These are particularly concentrated in the town of Aghagower (Field of the Spring), where Patrick lived during his local ministry.

Most pilgrims finish their first day of walking in Aghagower, which lies around half-way into the route. But I I wanted to keep walking. The spring sunshine had really blossomed, and, thanks to a hearty Irish breakfast, I still felt fresh. Thankfully, my host was a born-and-bred local who knows the countryside like the back of his hand - an expertise in which he took great pride - meaning that he could pick me up anywhere along the route, as long as I could reach a road.

I won’t bother recounting the walk in exhaustive detail - what I saw and what I thought; the bogs and the blisters; the hazel wood and electric fence; how I got lost and how I found my way. It wouldn’t mean very much to the reader, even though it means the world to me. That is the nature of pilgrimage.

There is however one part of the first day of my journey that I think is worth sharing.

***

Around 13 miles into the walk lies the Boheh Stone, also known as St. Patrick’s Chair. The Stone is an exceptionally well-preserved specimen of Neolithic rock-art whose concentric-circular engravings are thought to derive from pagan practices of sun worship. As was his way - more on that tomorrow - Patrick redeemed the site and turned it into a place of Christian worship.

Now for the trippy part. In the early ’90s, a local historian discovered a remarkable phenomenon known as the ‘rolling sun of Boheh’. On two specific days of the year - April 18th and August 24th, to be precise - the sunset, viewed from the Boheh Stone, appears to not only set on the summit of Croagh Patrick, but also to “roll down” the mountainside.

Credit: Ken Williams

A lump formed in my throat the moment I read this. I thought immediately back to Jeremiah 51:25, which I quote again here (emphasis added):

“Behold, I am against you, O destroying mountain,
declares the Lord,
    which destroys the whole earth;
I will stretch out my hand against you,
    and roll you down from the crags,
    and make you a burnt mountain...
‘When you finish reading this book, tie a stone to it and cast it into the midst of the Euphrates, and say, ‘Thus shall Babylon sink, to rise no more, because of the disaster that I am bringing upon her, and they shall become exhausted.’” (Jeremiah 51:25,63; ESV)

I thought, too of David Benjamin Blower’s jeremiad, which is based on this passage: “O destroying mountain, be rolled into the sea”. The Reek lies next to the sea, so the sun does indeed roll down the mountain and into the sea on the days when the phenomenon occurs - a vivid image not just of the fall of the false sun god, but also of the fall of Babylon.

What is equally remarkable is that April 18th and August 24th together divide the year into three equal parts - three, of course, holding a special status in the Celtic psyche. Even before reading this, I had an image in my mind of three periods of time: the fall of Babylon, an interregnum in which the mountain would lie under the sea, and the rise of Zion. In a happy if corny coincidence, these stages were neatly symbolised by the three objects I carried with me: the sharp stone, the seashell, and the smooth stone.

Since it was Easter, I was also aware that the three periods of time were broadly (but not perfectly) analogous to Jesus' death, three days in the ground, and resurrection - a sequence which Jesus Himself, having driven out the moneychangers and the merchants, associated with the destruction of the earthly temple and the appearance of the Heavenly one (John 2:19). In this regard, it's especially noteworthy that the Neolithic sun-worshippers likely associated the trinity of seasons marked out by the Boheh Stone with sowing, waiting, and reaping. Further down in Jeremiah 51 (verse 33), God declares:

“The daughter of Babylon is like a threshing floor
    at the time when it is trodden;
yet a little while
    and the time of her harvest will come.”

The Temple, of course, was also built on a threshing floor (2 Chronicles 3). At that very site, God had earlier relented from destroying Jerusalem, after He sent an angel of destruction to punish David for taking a census of the people (1 Chronicles 21; 2 Samuel 24). Importantly, this was a sin because it demonstrated David’s belief that he, rather than God, owned the people - and recall that the commodification of human beings is the hallmark of Babylon, the system which God vows to destroy (Revelation 18:13).[2]

Even earlier, it was on that same mountain where an Angel of the Lord had stayed Abraham’s hand from sacrificing his son, Isaac - a striking foretoken of the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus (Genesis 22).[2] Given that I was walking on Holy Saturday - the day after Jesus had died and the day before he had risen - the Boheh Stone thus seemed like a perfect place to ‘call it a day’.

***

'Destroying Mountain' by David Benjamin Blower (https://benjaminblower.bandcamp.com/track/destroying-mountain)

O destroying mountain, be rolled into the sea
O destroying mountain, be rolled into the sea
The mountains shall be levelled and the earth shall be set free

Behold, destroying mountain, the blood beneath your feet
Behold, destroying mountain, the blood beneath your feet
You’ve crushed the poor into the floor, beneath your own conceit

Be gone, destroying mountain, go terrify no more
Be gone, destroying mountain, go terrify no more
Put your weapons on the fire, your crown upon the floor

You’ve heard, destroying mountain, that the first shall be last
You’ve heard, destroying mountain, that the first shall be last
Before the wounded crucified, we all shall be disarmed

O destroying mountain, you too shall bow the knee
O destroying mountain, you too shall bow the knee
In the twinkling of an eye we shall be changed, both you and me

***

Notes:
[1] There’s an interesting commonality between the story of David’s census and the story of Abraham’s sacrifice. In 2 Samuel 24, God actually incites David to take the census, just as in Genesis 22 God tells Abraham to sacrifice his son. I think it’s an open question as to whether God really did will these things, or whether what we are reading are interpretations of events by people who believed, along with everyone else at the time, in a violent, dictatorial god. On this reading, the text demonstrates an evolving revelation of what God is really like - a revelation which culminates in Jesus. In fact, in the version of David’s census found in 1 Chronicles 21, it is Satan, not God, who causes David to sin, perhaps exposing the authors' changing conceptions of God.
[2] It's interesting to remember here that Jesus was born during a census, the first of Emperor Augustus's reign (Luke 2). Symbolically, census is an implement of empire - it represents the reduction of human beings to sources of revenue, be it profit or tax.

Continue the journey to Part III