The Inky Pilgrim
Issue 1
10th November 2023
Dearest friends,
A big THANK YOU to all of you who responded so generously to my Village Funder. It's been really heartening to receive your feedback and encouragement and financial support.
During a poetry performance, if ever I feel a slight internal wobble, I'll usually look up and around at the audience, and will always find friendly, engaged eyes that instantly give me a boost – a boost that then loops back into my performance.
Your responses to my Village Funder have provided me with a similar boost.
So, this is my first newsletter for you all. I have decided to call it The Inky Pilgrim. I hope you enjoy it - and if there's anything you'd like me to explore, or clarify or develop, do say. Also: if you've got interesting stuff to share about the places or themes, I'd love to hear from you.
On the back of your responses, I’ve already revisited Avebury, Stanton Drew, Cheddar Gorge and Glastonbury, and am currently writing it all up – weaving this writing pilgrimage into the original pilgrimage. I will reflect more on this process in Issue 2 – because I’m still in the middle of working out quite how to do the weaving and stitching and embroidery in a way that keeps me entertained, and therefore (hopefully) keeps you, my reader, entertained.
In this issue: some photos from the beginning of my writing pilgrimage; some haikus in progress; an old hitching poem; a snippet of my current writing.
One Love,
Stephen
A big THANK YOU to all of you who responded so generously to my Village Funder. It's been really heartening to receive your feedback and encouragement and financial support.
During a poetry performance, if ever I feel a slight internal wobble, I'll usually look up and around at the audience, and will always find friendly, engaged eyes that instantly give me a boost – a boost that then loops back into my performance.
Your responses to my Village Funder have provided me with a similar boost.
So, this is my first newsletter for you all. I have decided to call it The Inky Pilgrim. I hope you enjoy it - and if there's anything you'd like me to explore, or clarify or develop, do say. Also: if you've got interesting stuff to share about the places or themes, I'd love to hear from you.
On the back of your responses, I’ve already revisited Avebury, Stanton Drew, Cheddar Gorge and Glastonbury, and am currently writing it all up – weaving this writing pilgrimage into the original pilgrimage. I will reflect more on this process in Issue 2 – because I’m still in the middle of working out quite how to do the weaving and stitching and embroidery in a way that keeps me entertained, and therefore (hopefully) keeps you, my reader, entertained.
In this issue: some photos from the beginning of my writing pilgrimage; some haikus in progress; an old hitching poem; a snippet of my current writing.
One Love,
Stephen
AVEBURY HAIKU AT AVEBURY
Pilgrimage haikus
Alongside writing Sweaty Pilgrim, I’m also writing a series of pilgrimage haikus, which I will self-publish in a little booklet. Haikus are a traditional Japanese form of poetry. In English, they usually consist of three lines with a 5-7-5 syllabic structure. For example, here’s a haiku I really like, written by Vanessa Sorensen (from Zen Birds):
How lucky the air
to feel the graceful embrace
of the swallow’s wing
to feel the graceful embrace
of the swallow’s wing
Here are three pilgrimage haikus I have written so far. The first I am happy with, and have therefore committed to copper. I really enjoy hammering each letter home. The other two haikus are works in progress, perhaps finished, perhaps not.
One of the stories of the stone circles of Stanton Drew is that they are wedding guests who were turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath…
One of the stories of the stone circles of Stanton Drew is that they are wedding guests who were turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath…
Avebury
if these stones could speak
oh the stories they would tell
once upon a time
On The Road Again
the longest journey
begins with a single thumb
begging for a lift
Stanton Drew
midnight saturday
even though they know the price
the guests keep dancing
if these stones could speak
oh the stories they would tell
once upon a time
On The Road Again
the longest journey
begins with a single thumb
begging for a lift
Stanton Drew
midnight saturday
even though they know the price
the guests keep dancing
STONES AT STANTON DREW
This is an old hitching poem, which I’ve recently tweaked – and which I invoked at the beginning of my Village Funder and writing pilgrimage…
Saint Sid of Corby
Just east of Northampton
(by the Lumbertubs roundabout on the A43)
you pull over for me and my outstretched thumb
I lug my rucksack up into your cab
and climb up and over and in
with almost childish excitement
(for lifts from lorries are such a rarity nowadays)
Five minutes into the journey
as if on an angel's nod or wink
you quickly cross-fade our conversation
over to that Deeper Stuff we wayfarers are always hungering for
and I feel that hitch-hiking glow
in my hitch-hiker's heart
at the meeting of two comfortable strangers
"See that, Stephen," you say
pointing to the army of hairs on your forearm
now standing to attention as one
"That tells me something important is happening in here right now"
You drop me off just outside Corby
but as I climb down
you call me back up
"Stephen," you say
"If ever you find yourself
standing on the edge of something
you know you've got to do
but are dithering about doing it
just think of Sid
right behind you, mate
giving you a mighty royal kick up the arse"
Ah, Sid, many times over the years
I’ve remembered you and your words
(and blessed you and all that you love)
but until now
I've never dared redeem the threat of that promise that you made
But today
is the day
that this timid English hitch-hiking poet
needs to get out of the passenger seat
and into the driving seat
Ah, good Sid
wherever you are
by the hairs on your arm
and the hairs on my arse
let your sweet boot swing, my friend
let your sweet boot swing
https://www.pigandink.com/saint-sid-of-corby.html
Saint Sid of Corby
Just east of Northampton
(by the Lumbertubs roundabout on the A43)
you pull over for me and my outstretched thumb
I lug my rucksack up into your cab
and climb up and over and in
with almost childish excitement
(for lifts from lorries are such a rarity nowadays)
Five minutes into the journey
as if on an angel's nod or wink
you quickly cross-fade our conversation
over to that Deeper Stuff we wayfarers are always hungering for
and I feel that hitch-hiking glow
in my hitch-hiker's heart
at the meeting of two comfortable strangers
"See that, Stephen," you say
pointing to the army of hairs on your forearm
now standing to attention as one
"That tells me something important is happening in here right now"
You drop me off just outside Corby
but as I climb down
you call me back up
"Stephen," you say
"If ever you find yourself
standing on the edge of something
you know you've got to do
but are dithering about doing it
just think of Sid
right behind you, mate
giving you a mighty royal kick up the arse"
Ah, Sid, many times over the years
I’ve remembered you and your words
(and blessed you and all that you love)
but until now
I've never dared redeem the threat of that promise that you made
But today
is the day
that this timid English hitch-hiking poet
needs to get out of the passenger seat
and into the driving seat
Ah, good Sid
wherever you are
by the hairs on your arm
and the hairs on my arse
let your sweet boot swing, my friend
let your sweet boot swing
https://www.pigandink.com/saint-sid-of-corby.html
VIEW FROM GLASTONBURY TOR THE DAY I VISITED
Sweaty Pilgrim snippet...
Dad was a hitch-hiker back in the late fifties and early sixties, hitching between Stoke and Durham when he was training to be a primary school teacher, and then between Stoke and Dewsbury when he was courting mum. Every now and then he’d entertain us with one of his hitching stories: the lift with a ladies’ underwear salesman from Wigan; the time three tired business men picked him up, installed him in the driver’s seat and then all promptly fell asleep; the lift in the Rolls Royce; him huddled in the freezing pitch-black back of a lorry as it slugged it over the Pennines in deep mid-winter. And every now and then, when mum wasn’t in the car, we’d pick up a hitch-hiker – usually a young airman from one of the nearby RAF bases – one of whom had the smelliest, cheesiest feet ever.
Mum only tried hitch-hiking once, with her friend Mary, but they got hassled by a van of young men in the middle of nowhere in Norfolk, and ended up running into the road to flag down a bewildered couple in a passing car. But mum told the story with such a light touch – and, alas, I already seemed to know that women were bound to experience life very differently to men – that I never viewed hitch-hiking as something dangerous or out of bounds. It was always in my pot of possibilities. Perhaps even in my blood?
The first time I ever gave it a go I was a thirteen-year-old schoolboy on yet another pointless cross-country run. As per usual I was right at the very back, jogging along a quiet country road on the return leg. I heard a noisy vehicle approaching from behind and, in schoolboy jest, found myself sticking out my schoolboy thumb.
To both my horror and my delight, a bright mustard yellow van pulled up alongside me, its door opened and I was invited inside. There were three men sitting on a bench seat and I had to crouch before them, squeezed between the glove compartment and a jumble of knees. And every time we were about to pass any of my fellow runners, one of the men would grab the top of my skull with his big thick hand and, with a conspiratorial chuckle, push me down and out of sight. Oh, the generous solidarity of slackers!
I got them to drop me off just around the corner from the finishing line, did enough press-ups to break a credible sweat, and then went galumphing triumphantly around that bend and over that line – to the utter bewilderment of the geography teacher recording our return.
It was the first and the only athletic victory of my entire school sporting career. But, far more importantly, it was my first ever taste of the adventurous thrill of accepting – contrary to all wise “Charley says” advice – a lift from complete strangers. I knew I had done something wrong. But it also felt so good. I told, however, not a soul...
Mum only tried hitch-hiking once, with her friend Mary, but they got hassled by a van of young men in the middle of nowhere in Norfolk, and ended up running into the road to flag down a bewildered couple in a passing car. But mum told the story with such a light touch – and, alas, I already seemed to know that women were bound to experience life very differently to men – that I never viewed hitch-hiking as something dangerous or out of bounds. It was always in my pot of possibilities. Perhaps even in my blood?
The first time I ever gave it a go I was a thirteen-year-old schoolboy on yet another pointless cross-country run. As per usual I was right at the very back, jogging along a quiet country road on the return leg. I heard a noisy vehicle approaching from behind and, in schoolboy jest, found myself sticking out my schoolboy thumb.
To both my horror and my delight, a bright mustard yellow van pulled up alongside me, its door opened and I was invited inside. There were three men sitting on a bench seat and I had to crouch before them, squeezed between the glove compartment and a jumble of knees. And every time we were about to pass any of my fellow runners, one of the men would grab the top of my skull with his big thick hand and, with a conspiratorial chuckle, push me down and out of sight. Oh, the generous solidarity of slackers!
I got them to drop me off just around the corner from the finishing line, did enough press-ups to break a credible sweat, and then went galumphing triumphantly around that bend and over that line – to the utter bewilderment of the geography teacher recording our return.
It was the first and the only athletic victory of my entire school sporting career. But, far more importantly, it was my first ever taste of the adventurous thrill of accepting – contrary to all wise “Charley says” advice – a lift from complete strangers. I knew I had done something wrong. But it also felt so good. I told, however, not a soul...
GLASTONBURY TOR ON THE DAY I VISITED (NOT MY PIC) - NO WONDER IT'S SOMETIMES CALLED THE ISLE OF AVALON
