It was twenty years or so ago I lifted my eyes up from a
hot, crowded street in Barcelona and saw the thin towers of the Cathedral of
the Holy Family. Its unexpectedness stopped me. I had never seen such towers –
off centre, almost crooked, delicate. Here was an invitation. But we had two
young children, and waiting in a long queue to see a cathedral was not on the agenda.
It would have to wait.
We left, but the memory of that first sighting stayed. And a
clear idea formed: to bike to Barcelona from England. To undertake a
deliberately slow, probably difficult journey, to see Gaudi’s masterpiece. A
pilgrimage.
We live near Guildford, and here is Britain’s youngest
cathedral, uniquely called, the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit. So, this would be
a pilgrimage from the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit, to the Cathedral of the
Holy Family.
The Holy Spirit and Holy Family belong together. The water
flowed from the temple of Jesus’ body, not to an individual, but to a family – ‘Woman,
behold your son’, ‘Behold your mother’. The Holy Spirit is for the Holy Family
and there can be no Holy Family without the Holy Spirit. So – it made perfect
sense. To reach the Cathedral of the Holy Family, we must start at the
Cathedral of the Holy Spirit.
I shared my idea with an old friend, and a great lover of
cycling. He was interested, but pointed out that a bike ride from Guildford to
Barcelona was north of nine hundred miles and would take at least three weeks. He
had an excellent suggestion: divide the journey into three legs of roughly
three hundred miles. Even better, he would then come with me. And he spoke
French. And he loved navigating.
Things had fallen into place, and the first leg of the
pilgrimage, Guildford Cathedral to Poitiers was completed on June 30th,
2024.
Here are some brief notes from that first leg
Day 1: 24th June- Guildford to Portsmouth
The Downs: Sweat
There was silence and space in and around Guildford
Cathedral for the start of the journey. And just for the morning, we were
joined by the wife of my fellow cyclist. When she was a young mother God
unexpectedly breathed on her, first in her home, and then later she was filled
with Holy Spirit, fittingly in this Cathedral of the Holy Spirit. Before we set
off the Dean, the Venerable Stuart Beake, kindly came and prayed for us. He
asked God to protect us, and for our encounters with other travellers on the
way. He then blessed us.
Cycling from Guildford to Portsmouth is not easy. The north
downs; then the south downs. Hills, some steep, some just long. And for our
camping we had more weight than usual. However narrow the country road, there
were cars and vans, with faint aggression as their engines rumbled behind us. And
it was hot. In the gaps there were wide scenes of green English beauty, but the
final hour or so was more gritty as we weaved our way through the sprawl of
Havant, and dreary, run-down Portsmouth.
The stress made sense, for getting started is rarely easy.
God fills us with the Holy Spirit – but the hills, the heat, the exhaust fumes,
the urban grey, all remain, for a season.
A ferry though is waiting.
Day 2: 25th June - Ouistreham to Le Vey
The River: Ease
Less than five minutes from the ferry port in Ouistreham,
there is a canal which, in Caen, the River Orne flows into. Along the canal,
and the river, there is a wide, smooth, tarmac path, shaded by an abundance of
trees. It was nearly forty miles of cycling heaven. After our lunch, I entered
the cool of a church – they are usually open – said thank you, and dozed. We
reached our campsite in the afternoon, and enjoyed more rest in its shady bar
area.
An intense day, followed by a day of ease, nearly always by
a river. Sometimes it is difficult to sense the Holy Spirit in our lives – it’s
more hills and exhaust fumes; but there are other seasons where we see Him
flowing right by us as we bike down a smooth, shaded path.
Day 3: 26th June - Le Vey to Bagnoles de L’Orne
Heat: Unexpected Encounters
After the river path, we entered spacious country-side, with
long gentle hills. Soon the heat began. Today, it was a humid, sweaty ride. By
eleven thirty we were already tired and found rest in the village of La
Carneille. In the centre, there was a specially built shaded area with tables
and benches. Here we had our lunch, and then, again, I entered the cool of the
church.
When I came back, my friend had news. We had received an
invitation from a gentleman called Claude to visit his garden, and learn more
about the village. We accepted. Claude was probably in his mid-seventies, and
had much to say about the English and the Hundred Years War. Somehow the
conversation shifted to what it means to be children of Adam, and Claude was
clear that Jesus is the Saviour. He then showed us his garden – clematis,
sweet-peas, roses galore, and scores of cacti in pots in different old bath
tubs. For Claude, the garden was more than the physical. It was a way of
looking at life, so in different parts he had quotations, several from Monet,
and one from Erik Orsenna, a French politician and novelist: ‘Le Jardin c’est
la philosphie du visible’. Our talk continued with coffee, and more talk under
the shade of a fruit tree.
The Dean of Guildford Cathedral had prayed that we would
have good meetings along the way. This was certainly one. Another would be with
the owners of a roadside café. The husband was French, but spoke good English,
his wife was Brazilian. We talked about experiencing God, I encouraged them to
remember that Jesus is the Saviour, and to read Psalm 139 and John 11. And at
our camp site on our last night in France, there was only one other customer,
Thomas, a retired history teacher from Germany. He hosted us in his luxurious
camper van, and we had long conversations. As with shorter encounters with shop
keepers, the explanation of the pilgrimage – Holy Spirit to Holy Family – helped open things up.
Day 4: 27th June - Bagnoles de L’Orne to Brulon
Mist: Not Knowing
As we left our camp-site in the early hours, around six
thirty, there was a lot of mist. Surely it would soon clear. It didn’t. It got
worse. We stopped to put on our lights. As we rode along those quietish French lanes, in the fields
you could only see the shape of the trees.
Over breakfast I told my friend that the mist was for him.
He was quizzical. The day before over lunch he had asked the question many have
asked: what was the point of God creating man as a fallible being, so causing
thousands of years of suffering? Though he rarely talks about it, my friend had
lost some of his family in the Holocaust. The question was not academic.
I think he was a little surprised that I didn’t turn to any
of the well-known theodicies. Instead I told him of God’s question to Job –
‘Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?’ He is God, He knows
what He is doing. The invitation is to trust without knowing, to trust in the
mist.
Day 5: 28th June - Brulon to Rosiers
Backways: Singing and Conversations
Our early morning route was the D4. Sometimes France’s D
roads are idyllic; sometimes they are brutal. This section of the D4 was
brutal. It was straight, there was no cycle lane, and juggernauts were
thundering past us at sixty or seventy miles an hour. It was dangerous for
them; lethal for us.
We looked at the map, and swiftly chose another route. We took the backways. The quietness immediately
welcomed us, and we rode gently on, enjoying the fields, forests, and hamlets.
My friend was often ahead, and when I dropped behind I would sometimes sing. It
wasn’t difficult to worship amidst such quietness and beauty.
And there would be talk. We had so many discussions, often
about history – America, France, Britain. And politics. Once my friend
explained to me the entire education system of Germany which he had helped
changed when he was involved with pioneering an international testing system.
Our gentle roads eventually brought us back to a busier one
that took us to Rosiers and the Loire.
Backways take longer, and usually have more hills; but they
bring quietness. That is worth a lot.
Day 6: 29th June - Rosiers to Savigney
Storms: Providence
Setting off early, we enjoyed a blissful stretch of empty
road along the magnificent River Loire. As we left the river to head south, again
taking a back way, we came to the village of Beze where we rested. Here there
was a small memorial for those killed mainly in the First World War. Such
memorials are common; but my friend noticed something very different about this
one. First there were some names from the Second World War, and then, above
these, there was a plaque commemorating Daniel Rabitz, a Jewish man, who had
been murdered at Auschwitz.
Through this plaque, my friend saw another rare memorial to
a Jewish man in France. This was the grave of his uncle, Hans Serelman. We sat
on a bench by the memorial, and my friend told me about Hans.
Hans had been a much-loved doctor in Berlin, but had fallen
foul of the Nazi race laws in the 1930s. He was also an ardent socialist. So, Hans
was sent to prison, but such was his popularity that hundreds gathered to
protest and he was released. Hans left Germany, not for an easy life, but to go
and fight in the Spanish Civil War for the communists. After Franco’s defeat,
he arrived in France, and was soon fighting with the resistance. Towards the
end of the war, Hans’ unit, living in a remote farmhouse, was discovered by the
Gestapo. There was no surrender, Hans fought to the end. He now has a grave in
Oleron Saint Marie, the town near to where he died fighting. Several years ago
many of the family gathered in Oleron to honour Hans, sixty years after his
death. As my friend told the story of the uncle he had only heard
about, but never met, there were tears in his eyes.
After our rest, the skies soon darkened. Things became
dramatic, even Biblical. We were on a small country road, with fields
stretching out on either side. To the west, there was a huge shadow, like a
back curtain to a vast stage. And across this there were streaks of lightening,
the rumblings of thunder.
And then the rain: intense, powerful, hitting the road hard
and spitting up again. It was impossible, dangerous, to keep on cycling. We
needed shelter. Just as the rain opened fire on us, we saw the entrance of a
driveway to a chateau. This was the ‘Eternal Chateau’, which was temporarily
closed. And in that driveway, there was a small chapel. Its door was open, and
we were easily able to wheel our bikes in. Outside the rain was pounding down;
inside this quietness.
Our shelter from the storm was an intriguing place to be.
Its official name was ‘Martha’s Chapel’. The art-work was recent, but still in
a medieval style. After taking a good look, we settled down to play chess till
the rain eased. Just before setting off again I wrote in the visitors’ book,
‘Beautiful Providence, a Shelter in The Storm’. My friend did not use that
word, but he was quite taken by the way this chapel had appeared at the exact
time we needed shelter.
Beautiful Providence for us; but what about Hans Serelman
and Daniel Rabitz? A shelter for us, seemingly no shelter for them. There is no
answer, except what we have in Job, an invitation to trust the Creator.
Soon after I literally saw that invitation. The skies remained
dark as we rode along the quiet country lane. There was still silent lightening
many miles away. But very near where I was cycling, I suddenly noticed a white
bird – probably a dove. The bird flew near us for a while and then swooped
away.
The Holy Spirit is with us – before the storm, during the
storm, and after the storm.
Day 7: 30th June - Savigney to Poitiers
Cathedrals: Worship
We rode the twenty-five miles from Savigney to Poitiers
before breakfast. It was good to arrive at our final destination for this leg
of the pilgrimage. We soon made our way to the city’s glorious cathedral. I
went inside and sat on the front row, just before the first sanctuary, full of thanksgiving.
As I sat there, the priest and others were arriving to
prepare for Mass. In the midst of such grandeur, friendly greetings were
rippling around me. I was very struck by the first sanctuary immediately in front
of me. The lectern was a smallish human figure in wood, holding up their hands
to hold the Bible; further back was the bishop’s chair and rising from its back
was a larger figure, their arms held high; and opposite the lecture were three
figures, all with their arms raised in worship. The simple stone altar was, of
course, in the middle. It was a scene of worship. Later in Tours, waiting for the train to Caen, I spent time in another grand cathedral, where there was worship.
This end to the pilgrimage was entirely fitting. In a
cathedral, with a sense of worship and praise to the unseen God who is so
gracious. The God who has given us breath and health – in our sixties – to
cycle for around three hundred miles, and who has allowed us to enjoy the
ever-shifting drama of his creation, the mists, the storms, the sunshine, unexpected encounters, and the richness of
friendship.
Tom Hawksley, 3rd July 2024.
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