Full text of "NO DESTINATION" Satish Kumar 3

Full text of "NO DESTINATION"

https://archive.org/stream/nodestinationsatishkumar/NO%20DESTINATION%20-%20Satish%20Kumar_djvu.txt

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CONTENTS 

1 Mother 7 

2 Guru 21 

3 Ashram 4 1 

4 Benares ^7 

5 Wanderer 79 

6 Escape 121 

7 Floating 12.5 

8 Mukti 139 

9 Maya M5 

10 Hartland 157 

11 Small School 165 

12 Pilgrimage: Iona 173 

13 Pilgrimage: Return *2.3 

14 Japan 265 

15 College 281 

16 Mount Kailas 287 

17 Influences 2.95 

18 Realization 319 

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75 

Ch 12 PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

After giving me ultrasound treatment, the Salisbury osteopath 

suggested that I should put ice packs on my knee and ankle and 

someone else suggested putting honey on after the ice pack. 

Why, oh why are a pilgrim’s legs lacking in strength? Walking 

was my birthright. From the age of five 1 walked every day with 

my mother to our smallholding. Then from the age of nine to 

eighteen I had walked from village to village as a monk of the 

Jain order. When 1 left the Jain order and joined Vinoba Bhave I 

was again a part of a walking way of life. And then I had walked 

almost around the world! 

Walking was not solely a means to get somewhere. Walking in 

itself was an end, a form of meditation, a way of being. The journey 

was as important as the arrival. In fact the arrival was part of the 

journey. Growing up with such a training, 1 took walking as much 

for granted as breathing. 

However, since that long walk I had become a householder, living 

in the world of motorized transport. I had, unknowingly, lost touch 

with walking and with my earlier self. But 1 was glad to go back to 

my feet and was glad to rediscover the pain and pleasure of walking 

on my own two legs. 

Pilgrimage is best when you put your body on the pilgrim’s path. 

The Tibetans go on pilgrimage by prostrating themselves every inch 

of the way. They start by standing, rheir hands held in prayer, then 

they kneel and, bowing down, lie facing the earth and touching 

her with their forehead in humility. Then they make a mark on 

the ground with their nose, stand up and walk up to the spot 

marked by the nose (to ensure that they do not miss a fraction of 

the path). Then they stand and repeat the process, and this they do 

all the way to the temple, which might be one hundred miles away. 

For the pilgrim, every moment and every step is sacred. The holy 

places and temples are only symbolic destinations. By walking to 

the holy places a pilgrim is able to be free of speed, anxiety and 

desire for achievement.’Reflecting in rhis way, I gathered strength 

and kept going. 

From taunton i walked through the low-lying, willow-grow¬ 

ing country of Kings Sedge Moor, passing by many of the basket¬ 

making workshops of Somerset. Glastonbury Tor appeared high in 

lilt' distance, showing me the way I had to follow. My hosts, Ann and 

I >iivul Jcvons, met meat the outskirts of Glastonbury and guided me 

in t bailee House, which they run as a guest house. David was an 

ah i raft pilot and decided to give up his lucrative career so that he and 

In* wife could devote themselves to Glastonbury and to the spirit of 

I he New Age. 

By now the rhythm of the day was established. After arriving, 

my hosts gave me much-desired cups of tea, a hot bath, a lit- 

Hi* rest, a big dinner and only after that there was a gathering 

of people whom I addressed and exchanged ideas with. By ten 

iiYInck 1 went to bed. I read no newspapers nor listened to the 

iiidio. 

The next morning, Ann took me to Chalice Well, which is beau¬ 

tifully kept by a Trust. From the well the water flows out through 

-i slone spout and falls into an ancient channel. Ann on the one side 

*ntil I on the other washed each other’s hands as a symbol of service 

♦iiul spiritual support. I held some of the holy water in my cupped 

hands and looking into it said ‘Let all my desires, negative thoughts, 

fear and mistrust dissolve in this water.’ Then I splashed it on the 

ground saying ‘Let it go, let it go, let it go.’ That was a stunning 

moment. My neck and shoulders felt unburdened. My heart felt light 

and free. I could see my anger and attachment melting away. This 

was the start of my inner journey. The outer journey had become a 

I rigger for the inner journey. 

As 1 was lost in the vast and infinite space within, Ann called me 

.uid said, ‘Now take some more water in your hands.’ This time, as 

Ann guided, I said, ‘Through this water let love and compassion, 

irust and hope, freedom and joy enter my being.’ I drank the holy 

water. It was an experience of being free in spirit and being part of 

the passing moment. 

Ann told me that thousands of gallons of water flow from this 

well: there is an infinite source of water within it. We went to 

the actual well, twenty yards away, and lifted the lid with its two 

intertwining circles. The well is very small, not unlike a human 

body. I realized that the human body is also like a well, with an 

infinite spiritual source, if we can only let it flow. There are many 

holy wells, some hidden, some dried up, some ignored. Most of us 

drink processed, tested, treated, tap water, unaware of the ancient 

176 

177 

NO DESTINATION 

wells. Similarly we are trapped in quantified, measured, analys 

knowledge, unaware of the wisdom within us. 

From Glastonbury I walked through Wells and over the Mendi^ 

Hills to the little village of Dean in Somerset, where I had been 

invited by Miranda and Nicholas Schofield. In spite of my hopes 

for the April weather it was like winter: show, wind and bitter cold. 

When I arrived at Dean, the cottage of my hosts was filled with their 

friends who were waiting to receive me. Warmth came from the roar¬ 

ing Rayburn and from a hearty welcome—it was hard to say which 

was warmer. A sumptuous spread on the table gave no indication 

that I was staying with a not-so-wealthy young couple. When they 

showed me my room, 1 realized that Miranda and Nicholas had 

vacated their own bed for me. 1 was rather embarrassed to put 

my hosts out and make them sleep on the floor for my sake and 

urged them, ‘No, please don’t do this. I am very happy and very 

comfortable on a couch or on a mattress or even on the floor. Long 

practice as a begging monk has made my body accustomed to sleep 

soundly anywhere. Moreover, it will be good for my back to sleep 

on a hard surface/ But no way could I persuade my hosts to let me 

sleep anywhere but in their bed. They themselves slept on the floor. 

Such kindness was expressed many times by different people during 

my pilgrimage. Who says the British are not hospitable? 

Bed for the night and bread for the evening were the symbols of 

openness of heart, kindness of spirit and natural generosity. I hope 

that I received this hospitality like a honey bee. A honey bee goes 

from flower to flower, takes a little nectar and turns it into healing 

and life-giving honey. As it goes it carries pollen from one flower to 

another. A pilgrim transforms the love of people into pilgrim’s tales, 

spreading the stories of a sacred journey. Like honey, sacred stories 

heal wounded souls. 

As I went along 1 was told by people that my visit had put them in 

touch with old and new friends; my visit had been a good excuse to 

connect them with each other.,I took it to be the pollinating effect of 

my pilgrimage. 

From Dean my hosts accompanied me to Mere. Next day, joined 

by four others, I walked to Salisbury. And on the twelfth day, 

starting from Salisbury Cathedral, following the old Roman road, 

I came to Winchester. 

17 * 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

As I walked the Pilgrims Way from Winchester to Canterbury, I 

on i he same path that many thousands of pilgrims had walked 

licioir. [ had a sense that I was in the company of those people who 

Innt preceded me. As I stepped in their footprints I felt 1 was in touch 

wnh ihcir dedication, their purity, their sense of divinity. 

H»v very beauty of the Pilgrims Way is refreshing. In most parts it 

h illows the ridge of the North Downs. Even though Surrey and Kent 

.or riddled with motorways, conurbations and built-up areas, in the 

woods of the North Downs I was able to escape the secular world. 

Now and then I had to cross the motorways and dual-carriageways 

wiih their rushing lorries and speeding cars; I was amazed fo see 

(hr madness of it all. The speed of my rwo legs and the speed of 

Mini or way traffic are worlds apart. 

In spite of our society’s obsession with speed, I was impressed 

with the way this ancient path, over one hundred miles in length, 

i 1 * maintained. The Pilgrims Way is not the same as it was in the 

Middle Ages, as in some places industrial growth has swallowed it; 

Inn fortunately a new footpath, the North Downs Way, has been 

11 eated, which goes all the way to Canterbury. It is clearly marked 

■mil well-defined, and I met a number of people walking it. 

Mil-. TRADITION OF GOING ON A PILGRIMAGE is common tO all 

i cligions. The Muslims go to Mecca, the Christians go to Canterbury 

nr Jerusalem, and Hindus go to the source of the Ganges in the 

I limalayas. My mother used to say if you haven’t been on a pilgrim- 

igi by the time you are fifty then your time is up: you mustn’t put 

it off any longer. By the time you are fifty you have performed your 

essential duties in this world. You have paid off your mortgage to the 

building society, and seen your children through school. You have 

given enough attention to your family and your business; now is 

the time to pay attention to your soul, your spirit, your imagination 

.iih) your creativity. From now on whatever you do should be in the 

service of the spirit. So pilgrims’ routes have become established 

throughout the world. It was a great delight to walk that ancient 

path to Canterbury in my fiftieth year. 

According to Jain custom, the birthday is the day of conception: 

you are born into the womb of your mother, and you exist from 

then on. So 1 was making my pilgrimage between the day of my 

179 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

conception and the day of my birth. If ] was in India I would have 

gone to the holy places of many Indian religions. 1 would have gone 

to Ajmer to be inspired by the teachings of the prophet Mohammed* 

the prophet of peace—Islam means ‘in peace’. 1 would have gone to 

Bodh Gaya, the place of the enlightenment of Lord Buddha, the Lord 

of Compassion. I would have gone to Rajgir, where the founder of 

the Jain religion, Mahavir, taught the sacred nature of all creation. 

I would have gone to Kerala where St Thomas brought the teachings 

of Jesus, the Lord of Love, I would have gone to Gokul, the home of 

Lord Krishna, the Lord of Joy and Celebration, and 1 would have 

gone to Ayodhya where Rama, the Lord of Right Living reigned. 

But I am not in India, I am in Britain and therefore I go to the holy 

Christian places, to stone circles and ancient springs. 

In India, before you enter a temple you go around it. There is a 

precinct for that purpose, and by going once, twice, three times 

round you prepare and centre yourself. You leave your negative 

thoughts behind. When your body, mind and heart are ready, then 

you may enter the temple. Similarly, I am making a journey around 

the temple of Britain, so that I may enter into its mysteries. This 

pilgrimage is a pilgrimage to Britain, to its rivers, hills, moors, dates, 

fields, to all its natural beauty. Walking every day will take me four 

months. In India people go on pilgrimage for a week, or a month, 

for a year or even more; I know four women pilgrims who walked 

together the length and breadth of India, taking twelve years. 

In Canterbury Cathedral there is an area designated for silent 

prayer and meditation where pilgrims light a candle. In this dark 

corner of the Cathedral, lit only by the many candles, I too lit a 

candle and said the Prayer for Peace. After giving his blessings, 

Canon Brett led me to the chapel of Thomas a Becket. Although 

modernized, the chapel has an atmosphere of martyrdom, the sword 

hanging above the altar speaking the language of power and pain. 

I stood in silence and astonishment as Canon Brett told me the 

story. The Archbishop knew that knights were coming to kill him, 

His monks urged him to hide or escape or to order them to resist. 

The Archbishop was unperturbed. He said calmly, ‘Why should 

I hide? 1 am not afraid of death. One thing is certain, all of us 

will die one day; no need to hide or escape. As for resistance, 

we are not here to resist but to suffer. We will not take life, we 

will oiler our life/ And so Thomas a Becket died at the altar and 

nu time a martyr. 

I hr King had wanted to break the power of the church and so had 

< PI mimed his friend Becket as Archbishop of Canterbury. But when 

I In HiMs took his place in Canterbury, his inner voice told him that he 

mui he true to God; and being true to God brought him in conflict 

h ihe King. In exasperation, a drunken Henry said one day at 

It liner, ‘Will no one revenge me of the injuries 1 have sustained 

linn one turbulent priest?’ But when he heard that his knights had 

ultmlly killed Thomas, he wept. The sacrifice of Thomas a Becket 

raunformed the King: Henry repented, and walking on his knees 

»ri ante the first pilgrim to Canterbury. 

I i sterling to this story I felt my doubts and hesitation vanish, my 

uroveiipation with home, work and worldly responsibility dimin- 

mIi. I he tale of Thomas k Becket’s fearlessness and detachment 

mi led a moment of breakthrough for me. 

This breakthrough was further consolidated when 1 crossed the 

Hi limes Estuary by boat. Being in the water gave me the sensa- 

it mi of being away from the earth, sailing away, leaving the world 

»chind. 

There is no longer a ferry between Faversham and Southend-on- 

km. The usual route to Ely would have taken me to London and 

It rough the Dartford tunnel. I had all along tried to avoid walking 

It rough the busy streets of London. So thanks to John Harrison, 

was able to cross the wide Thames estuary on a personal ferry: 

ibr Orcades, the home of Andrew Kennedy and Stevie who make 

heir living as painters using watercolour and oil. The Orcades is 

tenerally anchored off Rochester, and came to Faversham to take 

no across the estuary under sail. 1 was expecting a crossing of a 

tiuple of hours but the weather was rough, the wind was blowing, 

he waves were high and the rain was tapping on the roof. When 

vc arrived at Southend Pier seven hours later at 6.oo p.m., the 

ky was heavy with dark clouds. I was in the midst of a roaring 

hunderstorm, with dazzlirtg lightning and heavy rain. Southend Pier 

lad suffered from fire a few years before and was still black, charred 

ind deserted. There was only one rusty, broken and slippery flight 

>f steps left. With pounding heart and shivering body I walked the 

>ne-and-a-quarter-mile-long pier. 

zBi 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

power arid nuclear weapons: a grotesque manifestation of negative 

energy. When two becomes one, the third emerges. When the one is 

divided and fragmented, it brings destruction. 

I had walked for about six hours, and as 1 was carrying no 

water I felt thirsty. When 1 saw a small farmhouse not far from 

the River Gapping, I left the path and walked across the field to 

it. I saw a women in her late thirties, her hair bound up in a scarf, 

making the most of this rare sunny day—the first of May. She was 

absorbed in gardening as if in meditation. 1 stood by the garden 

gate slightly concerned that I should disturb her, but fortunately 

for me she happened to look over her shoulder, her face serene and 

smiling. Looking at her I forgot my thirst; there was a moment of 

suspense—neither of us knew why I was there. This moment passed, 

and she said ‘Hello’. Gathering myself together I said, ‘I have been 

walking all day, the sun is hot, 1 am thirsty. Is it possible to get a 

glass of water?’ 

‘Of course, do come in.’ 

I followed her into the kitchen. ‘This man wants a glass of water,’ 

she said to her husband. 

‘Only a glass of water, or something stronger?’ 

‘Anything, but not alcohol, would be fine.’ 

‘Cup of tea? Orange juice?’ 

T would love a cup of tea.’ 

‘I would love one too,’ said the man, and offered me a chair by the 

long, pine table. 

He was curious to know how far I had walked, why I was walking, 

and where 1 was walking to. When I told him that I had walked from 

Devon and was going to Lindisfame and Iona and would be walking 

back through the mountains of North Wales, he said ‘Rather you 

than me.’ But I could detect beneath his comment a little hint that 

he would also like to be free and on the road. When I told him 

that I was on a pilgrimage he was even more intrigued. By the time 

I had told him snippets of my story and finished my cup of tea and 

home-made cake he and his wife asked, ‘Why not stay for supper? 

Stay for the night?’ I was touched. ‘It is very generous and kind of 

you to offer hospitality to a stranger like me.’ ‘But we don’t get 

a pilgrim walking around Britain every day. Stay and tell us more 

of your story.’ 

184 

However, I had already arranged to stay with Brian Keeble in 

tpswich that evening and therefore I had to apologize for not accept¬ 

ing their spontaneous invitation. Hospitality is alive and well in 

Suffolk, but unexpected guests are rare. 

One of the important elements of my journey was a pilgrimage to 

people. I had arranged my itinerary in advance so that people would 

know when I was coming, so they could arrange a get-together of 

Iricnds. I considered that those involved in care of the land, peace in 

I he world, and regeneration of spiritual life were all holy people from 

whom I could take inspiration, and it was to them 1 journeyed. 

One such inspiring person was Lady Eve Balfour, who lived 

about twenty-five miles north of Ipswich. Some months before. Lady 

I've had written to me for the recipe of how to make chappatis— 

unleavened Indian flat bread. It is something of a miracle that with 

just flour, salt and water you can create fresh, delicious bread within 

ii few minutes. Earth, water, fire and air come together to make a 

< happati. But it is hard to describe in words how to make it. Here is 

my attempt at a recipe: 

Take two cups of wholemeal, freshly stoneground, organi¬ 

cally-grown flour with one level teaspoon of sea salt mixed 

in. Add warm water to make a soft dough. Knead well and 

form into scone-sized balls. Roll these balls out round and 

flat and even. Place the chappati on a hot, dry, heavy frying 

pan, (preferably cast iron). Cook the first side until it forms 

a dry surface, then turn over and cook the second side slightly 

more until a few golden brown spots appear. Turn back to the 

first side and with a ball of cloth press the chappati onto the 

pan and watch it puffing. Be gentle and attentive, don’t let it 

burst or burn. When it has puffed up like a balloon, then it is 

ready. Spread a touch of butter on it. Serve immediately with 

cheese, salad or cooked vegetables. 

1 sent this recipe to Lady Eve. She tried it and replied ‘It didn’t 

work, it didn’t puff and it was bu*nt all over.’ I tried to explain again: 

‘Perhaps you didn’t allow it sufficient time to form the crust on the 

first side, or perhaps you pressed the chappati too hard and broke it. 

In any case, it is a question of trial and error. Try again.’ Lady Eve 

tried again but still couldn’t master it. So I said to her ‘During my 

185 

NO DESTINATION 

pilgrimage I will come and pay my respects to you and then I will 

demonstrate chappati-making.’ She was thrilled, and waited for the 

chappati session for three months. 

When I arrived she had prepared a wonderful three-course meal 

for me, with fresh lettuce salad, the first I had tasted of the year, 

from her garden. 

‘You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble. Lady Eve/ I said. ‘1 

have to pay you a fee for teaching me to make chappatis, don’t I?’ 

she laughed. 

"We made chappatis together. I had never had such an attentive 

pupil. Although in her late eighties, she could learn like a child. She 

did as I told her. No ego and no pride. As Lady Eve was learning to 

make chappatis from me, I was learning humility from her. She made 

perfect chappatis and we were both delighted. 

Many years ago when the wind of so-called technological progress 

was blowing hard and farmers were being persuaded to switch over 

to chemical farming. Eve Balfour stood firm for the principles of 

organic farming and launched the Soil Association together with the 

publication of her classic book The Living Soil. At the age of 89 she 

was still a beacon for people engaged in maintaining the fertility of 

the earth. A lifelong gardener, she had perfected the techniques of 

growing fruit, vegetables and flowers in all sorts of conditions. There 

was fruit under nets, small plants in cloches, seedlings in cold frames, 

lettuce in dutch lights and greenhouses of various sizes. In the first 

week of May 1986, when spring was late everywhere and everything 

was so behind, in the garden of Lady Eve everything was bursting 

with life. There were lots of little white flowers growing everywhere 

on the path. 

’What are these flowers. Lady Eve?’ I asked. 

’Mind your own business/ she replied. Taken aback, I wondered 

if I had asked something wrong, so apologetically I said, i was only 

asking.’ ‘Yes, that is the name of the flower!’ 

We both laughed. ’How do you manage to grow everything so 

well?’ I asked, i do nothing, just look after the soil and the plants 

look after themselves/ 

What a pearl of wisdom, I reflected. Everybody is so concerned 

with plants and crops and yields. Lady Eve is primarily concerned 

with the soil; but she gets the crops anyway. We do not realize the 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

importance or even the existence of the soil. We see trees growing, 

animals grazing, wonderful botanic and ornamental gardens flour¬ 

ishing, but underneath it all lies mother soil, largely ignored. 

As 1 went on from the gardens of Lady Eve towards Norwich 1 

mused on the connection between the soil and the soul. As flowers, 

fruit and grain grow out of the soil, intellect, arts, emotions, philo¬ 

sophy, thought, religion and so many other qualities grow out of 

the soul. We are ever so busy in developing all the qualities and 

faculties without paying attention to the cultivation of the soul. We 

use chemicals to increase the output of crops, and we pour much 

sterile information and ideas into our heads. 

An organic gardener like Lady Eve uses all waste such as weeds, 

autumn leaves and kitchen refuse in a compost, and recycles and 

1 ransforms waste into food for the soil. A seeker of spiritual wisdom 

can transform waste material such as anger, greed, lust, fear and 

pride into energy for the soul. 

Mother Julian of Norwich kept herself in a tiny cell to 

conquer her attachment to the flesh and cultivate the soul. She was 

able to overcome despair, writing ‘All shall be well, all manner of 

1 Kings shall be well/ This simple statement expressed a profound 

trust and faith in creation and in existence. My visit to the site of 

Mother Julian’s cell, while 1 was contemplating the soil and the soul, 

made me make a connection between Eve Balfour and Mother Julian 

of Norwich: one, the soil mother and the other, the soul mother. 

It is through the mother energy that our life is conceived, embod¬ 

ied, nurtured and sustained. With a profound sense of gratitude I 

went on from the cell of Mother Julian to the shrine of Our Lady 

of Walsingham. When 1 came into the dark inner room of the shrine, 

window less with a narrow entrance, 1 felt as if I was entering the 

womb of the mother goddess. The room is lit only by candles and, 

as all pilgrims do, I lit a candle. As I stood in silence, eyes closed, 

I saw a white silhouette of a goddess against a grey background. 

The silhouette was not external—it rose from within. It was an 

expression of the experience of the power of the feminine. I came 

out of the womb room to the holy well of healing water. Water 

from the well is kept in a clay pot for pilgrims to drink: thousands 

have come to drink this water and he healed. Faith in water expresses 

NO DESTINATION 

the feminine aspect of healing..I took the water in cupped hands and 

drank, feeling the mother energy revitalizing me. How it was special 

I cannot tell but certainly it was no ordinary water. 

I could not leave Walsingham without visiting the Russian Ortho¬ 

dox Church about which I had been told by a Resurgence reader a 

few days previously. I was not disappointed. An abandoned British 

Railways station has been converted into a beautiful place of wor¬ 

ship. A resident artist is with great dedication painting colourful 

icons of Russian saints and bible stories, which fill the church. 

Within an aura of calm and peace, a pilgrim is effortlessly lifted 

into a state of prayer. Like walking by the river or in the woods, 

the atmosphere of the place helps to still the mind. 

For ordinary mortals like me the physical atmosphere of calmness 

helps to encourage inner stillness. The wonder of Walsingham lies 

in its atmosphere of tranquillity. 1 don't know what happens when 

there are thousands of pilgrims crowding the streets, but on the sixth 

of May 1 seemed to be the only pilgrim there. 

Between Walsingham and Crowland I had no place to stay. Molly 

Stiles of Norwich, an ardent champion of small schools, said, ‘You 

must go and give your support to the parents of Bough ton village 

school which is threatened with closure. I know it is off your route 

but my friend Paul Coulten could pick you up in the evening and put 

you back at the same point next morning.' 

Since I wanted to accomplish my pilgrimage on foot, it was with 

mixed feelings that 1 accepted Molly's suggestion. As Boughton was 

far off my route it was not possible for me to walk there and keep to 

my itinerary, but at the same time I was keen to lend my support to 

this school in its struggle to survive. 

After walking about twenty miles from Walsingham, I rang the 

Coulten household reversing the charges. Mrs Coulten answered, 

‘Yes, Molly told me all about you. I will come immediately and pick 

you up/ And so she did. 

I arrived in the Coulten home and found myself in the lap of 

luxury. The house is set in an English garden of sumptuous size with 

flowering cherries, orchards, lawns and tall trees. We sat surrounded 

by flowers in a huge, heated Victorian conservatory, drinking sherry. 

Paul Coulten runs a family insurance business started by his father 

and had never heard of anything like Resurgence or the alternative 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

ideas represented in it. But that was no barrier between us. Mr and 

Mrs Coulten were warm, generous and kind hosts. 

Next morning they took me to see the primary school, which was 

set in the centre of the village faring the village green, complete with 

a most beautiful duck pond. Children were happily playing, as if 

in heaven. How could the bureaucrats in the county town even 

contemplate the idea of closing such a superb school in an idyllic 

setting? The local government officers of Norfolk, sitting in their 

urban centres, concerned with economies of scale, were obviously 

taking no account of the human cost of dosing such a village school 

and making little children learn to be commuters. Looking at the 

children playing 1 could sense their inner security, which was surely 

due to the fact that they knew that their parents were just around 

the corner, their roots were there and they belonged there. To bus 

them away to a place they don't know, to a modern box-shaped 

building, where they will be instructed in an alien environment, is 

a totally misguided notion. What has become of England? Where 

has the sanity and wisdom gone? Have we not destroyed our rural 

communities enough already? Have we not alienated, disorientated 

and displaced our young? Respect for the family, the community and 

the natural environment is no longer part of education, it seems; 

otherwise, why should such schools be closed? 

After our visit to the school, Mrs Coulten said to her husband, 

‘Darling, 1 am rather busy this morning. Could you take Satish back 

to his route?’ 

‘Oh no, sweetheart, I have a meeting in Cambridge at noon. How 

am I going to manage?’ Turning towards me, Paul Coulten asked, 

‘Would you mind if I fly you there?’ 

1 was slightly taken aback. This offer did not represent the simpli¬ 

city 1 had planned for. I had seen MrsCoulten’s Volvo, 1 had seen Mr 

Coulten’s sports car but I didn't know that 1 , a penniless itinerant, 

would be offered a flight through the air. Mr Coulten was obviously 

pressed for time, so what difference would it make if I were driven 

along a road or through the air? 1 agreed. 

We flew over the Fens, the flat and treeless landscape of East 

Anglia. Mr Coulten dropped me at an airstrip near to where 1 

had left my path. What a difference of speed! What had taken six 

or seven minutes in the plane, and half an hour in the car, would 

188 

189 

NO DESTINATION * 

have taken me perhaps six hours to walk. After being left at the 

airstrip, I had to readjust myself to my pedestrian pace. I had to walk 

through the Fens. 

The fields were square, edged with drainage canals. There was not 

a bird, not an animal, not a human being. Occasionally a tractor 

or chemical sprayer in the distance, otherwise only the open sky 

with which to console myself. Miles and miles of level land, every 

inch shaped by human hand. Walking through such monotonous 

landscape 1 felt bored and at times even frightened, reduced to an 

insignificant, lonely speck. 

I AM USED to DESERT. In the desert of Rajasthan, where I was 

bom, the sands shine in the moonlight like fields of silver; here in 

the Fens I experienced an intensity of emptiness normally associ¬ 

ated with the desert. It was an experience of exile, away from my 

home, my wife and my children, my friends and my colleagues, my 

neighbours and my village, the security of known and familiar siir- 

roundings, the cushion of set patterns, milkihg the cow and digging 

the garden and answering the phone. 

Here, I was all alone on the road, with no particular place to go. I 

felt in exile from Hartland, but is Haiti and really my home? After all, 

I have lived there only for seven years. I am in exile from my wife but 

even that relationship is only fourteen years old. I am in exile from 

India, but in India where do I belong and to whom? My father died 

when I was four, 1 left my mother, my family and my home when 

I was nine. The world is transitory and I am just passing through, 

searching for my real home. 

Walking from cropland ^ia Spalding, I was making for 

Swineshead when suddenly a car stopped. As I passed by, the woman 

passenger asked if 1 would like a lift. I was deep in thought and never 

expected this offer. ‘Thank you for your kindness, but 1 ara walking.* 

‘Where are you walking to?* ‘To Swineshead.’ *We are also going to 

Swineshead. It will take you at least two hours to walk there, so why 

don’t you get in the car, we will take you there.’ 

At that moment, company would have been consoling and wel¬ 

come, but I said: ‘You are very kind, but I must walk.’ The man said, 

‘Just here people stand for hours showing their thumb and seeking 

a lift. Here we are offering you one, but if you don’t want it, that’s 

pilgrimage: IONA 

all right.* They could not understand why I should refuse a lift and 

insist on walking. The man switched on the engine and was about 

to drive away. I quickly tried to explain that I was not trying to be 

rude or discourteous but that I was on a pilgrimage and had vowed 

to walk. The driver seemed unconvinced and with a grumpy face he 

said, ‘ok, if that’s what you want, good luck.’ 

They drove off leaving me standing there, misunderstood. This 1 

thought was the result of being on the road; looking again at my 

map, I discovered a dirt track leading towards Swineshead. I took it! 

After about a mile a farmer came along on his tractor. ‘May I ask 

what you are doing here?’ T am making my way to Swineshead.’ 

‘But you are trespassing on private land.’ ‘But this track is shown on 

i he map and is not a dead end. Moreover I am harming no-one and 

damaging nothing.’ ‘That is not the point, you are trespassing and 1 

don’t want ramblers and hikers using my private land.’ 

He was an example of some of the English country gentry who 

are extremely property-conscious. Offensive and ugly signs stating 

Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted; Private—Keep Out; Guard Dogs 

Protect This Property; and Beware of the Dog are everywhere, f 

knew that there was no point in arguing, so I apologized. ‘I am 

very sorry, I didn’t realize that this was a private track but since I 

am already half way along it, would you be kind enough to let me 

continue? I would be very grateful.’ 

He was gracious enough to let me go. 

At the point where the track joined a small country road stood the 

farmer’s house, guarded by several Alsatian dogs. At some distance 

from the house they heard the sound of my footsteps and started 

barking loudly. With some nervousness I carried on and as I came 

closer to the farm the dogs were frantic. On one side of the house 

there were two dogs chained, rushing up and down, straining to get 

at me but being jerked back by their chains. On the other side of 

the house a metal cage confined another two Alsatians trying hard, 

but unsuccessfully, to get out. They leapt up again and again at the 

bars of the cage barking at the top of their voices. My heart bled 

for these pathetic dogs. What has the farmer got that is so precious 

(hat he needs to imprison these poor dogs? This was not the only 

place where 1 experienced such a scene. People who whizz through 

cocooned in their cars may not realize it, but somebody who walks 

190 

191 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

every day through the English countryside will experience the horroi 

of farm after farm and house after house with imprisoned dogs t< 

guard them. The anger and ferocity of these dogs was a regulai 

irritation in my walking experience. 

My hostess near swineshead was Diane Moreland, who live* 

just outside the village of Fenhouses. It was not difficult to find hei 

as she had written to me to say that she bred Afghan hounds* ant 

there was a sign with a hound on the house. I entered the courtyarc 

of the Coach House* and saw in one corner, under a spacious coverec 

enclosure, the Afghan hounds: tall and serene with silky hair, with 

golden puppies playing around. Here the hounds were not bred tc 

guard, but for their beauty and their company. This was a totally 

different and much more pleasant sight. 

Diane opened the door and with a welcoming gesture took th< 

rucksack from my back. As she put the kettle on and I collapsed ir 

an armchair, she asked if I had had a good walk. The question was 

easier than the answer. Although physically 1 was not too tired, I 

felt as if 1 had been on the path and walking for a long, long time, 

much longer than eight hours. It was impossible to tell Diane whai 

kind of walk I had had that day and it is difficult to describe it ever, 

now, on paper. 

Diane and 1 had not met before and she was not a reader oi 

Resurgence , so while we were enjoying a cup of tea I asked, ‘How 

did you come to know that I was going on a pilgrimage ?* "Your host! 

tomorrow, Biff and Helen Vernon, belong to the Healers’ Network 

They looked in the contact list to see if there was anybody betweer 

Crowland and Sleaford, as there was a gap in your itinerary, anc 

they found me. Although I have never met the Vernons, they didn’t 

hesitate to ask me to put you up. I said yes, and then on the samt 

day I saw in the Radio Times that you would be featured on the 

programme Profile , sq I listened to it. I found your story interesting 

and wanted to meet you.’ 

Next morning Diane walked with me for a few miles, and later Bifl 

came on his bicycle to meet me and accompany me to his home. H< 

is a teacher, and lives together with his partner Helen and their twe 

children on a smallholding where they practise organic gardening 

and a life of self-sufficiency. They are part of a movement of younf 

prople who have left the cities to live a lifestyle compatible with their 

filed I of simple, wholesome and harmonious living. 

From their kitchen window.! could see the high tower of Lincoln 

(.’dihedral, seventeen miles away. 1 had been invited to lunch by the 

Hinhop of Lincoln and therefore had to make an early start to be there 

by one o’clock. Helen and Biff were very kind to get up at six o’clock 

in ihc momin| to give me breakfast and send me off. 

In this flat land, the city of Lincoln rests on a hill, and the cathedra! 

crowns it. The cathedral was guiding my path like a lighthouse. 

Sometimes I lost sight of it as I walked through villages and woods, 

hut for the last seven miles the towers never disappeared from my 

view. It drew me like a magnet, through the drizzling rain. 1 walked 

without stopping for six hours, hardly noticing distance or time. I 

was half an hour early for lunch. 

I nk bishop, Simon Phipps, and his wife Mary, welcomed me at 

their house situated at the East Gate of the cathedral. Seeing me wet 

through, he said, ‘As you have walked some distance, perhaps you 

would like to relax or have a bath while Mary is getting the lunch 

together?* I was delighted—I couldn’t have thought of anything 

brttcr than lying in the luxury of a palatial bathroom enjoying a 

midday soak. When I came down we sat together in the spacious 

living room, by the fire. 4 It is with great pleasure that I welcome 

you, Satish, to Lincoln and to my house’, the Bishop said. ‘Going 

on a pilgrimage is an ancient Christian tradition, but walking for 

lour months around Britain to its sacred places is not so common.’ 

'I am honoured to be your guest,* I said. ‘1 have indeed been inspired 

and renewed by being within many churches and cathedrals, but 

increasingly I am finding all places sacred and the presence of the 

divine everywhere.* The Bishop heard my comment with thoughtful 

nilcnce, and then said, ‘For us, God is above and beyond his creation. 

Wc aspire to reach God, but God and the world are not the same.’ 

'In the Hindu tradition the world is understood to be the dance of the 

k! Shiva, and yet the dance and the dancer cannot be separated. The 

world is not like a painting, a finished object which when complete is 

ween as separate from the painter. The universe is a living dance and 

(iod is in the heart of all beings and all things. We do not separate 

God and the world.’ The Bishop pondered and in a gentle voice 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

said, 4 1 believe that the world is God’s creation and therefore it 

is sacred. Human beings must act as responsible guardians and 

caring stewards. We must love the land and look after the earth in 

its glorious diversity. We have no right to plunder, pollute, exploit, 

destroy, kill or in anyway disrespect God’s creation. Like in a family, 

God is the Father and we are his children, and all members of the 

family should live in harmony with each other. God’s (amily includes 

the animals and the natural world. If we are sensitive and caring we 

can live with nature rather than against it. The advance of science 

and technology requires that human beings live with greater sensi¬ 

tivity than ever before, since we are now equipped with extremely 

powerful and potentially destructive tools. This destructive impulse 

is not part of God. God is good and good only.’ ‘For me, Divinity is 

neither good nor bad,’ I said. ‘It is like pure water and pure air. The 

human soul is also pure. Good and bad is a matter of perception, 

For example, from nature’s point of view creeping buttercups 01 

nettles are fine wherever they are; they will grow where the soil is 

right for them. From the human perspective, however, a gardener 

struggles to remove the buttercups and nettles; he regards them a; 

weeds, and complains when they overtake flowers. The rose and th< 

thorn are part of the same plant—we cannot have one without th< 

other. The analytical mind always attempts to separate the good ant 

evil, the decorative and the ugly, the useful and the non-useful, tht 

weed and the flower. I have seen during my journey people pullinj 

out foxgloves in one area and carefully planting them in another. 1 

we are to live in harmony with God’s family, we need to love th 

wilderness, the weeds and the wet.’ 

The discussion was getting deeper when Mary said, ‘It is all ver 

interesting, but lunch is ready. Let’s eat.' 

There was delicious food on the table: grapefruit and pineappl 

slices with chopped avocado and nuts in a delightful dressing fc 

the starter, pasties stuffed with rice, cheese, beans, mushrooms an 

herbs, served with cooked green vegetables, salad and red win* 

Then crystallized ginger chopped in cream with white dessert win. 

followed by Earl Grey tea. This was the meal of the month! ‘Than 

you very much for such a feast and for all the care and trouble yc 

have taken in preparing it.’ I said. ‘When first 1 heard that you wet 

a vegetarian I was taken aback,’ said Mary, ‘I had never cooked 

full vegetarian meal in my life, but it was a challenge and 1 enjoyed 

it. And now 1 am glad that you are enjoying eating it.* 

Laughingly I said, ‘Yes, you need an Indian pilgrim to bring 

vegetarianism to the Bishop’s house.’ We ail laughed and I said, 

‘It is good to feast and it is good to fast. It is good to celebrate 

and it is good to undergo a penance. My pilgrimage is a kind of 

penance.’ ‘What do you mean by penance?’ Mary asked. ‘Penance is 

a process of cleansing of the soul, undertaken entirely voluntarily. It 

is not a punishment or a penalty, it is not performed so as to achieve 

remission of sins, it does not arise out of contrition, it is not an act of 

self-mortification. As in the course of daily living our bodies require 

cleansing, as in the course of constant speech we need a period of 

silence, as after the company of others we need a period of solitude, 

so after fifty years of worldly life I needed to perform an act which 

would nurture my soul. Feast is food for the body and fast is food 

for the soul. Being in a secure, homely and comfortable environment 

is pleasant to the body and the emotions. Being on the road is hard 

on the body but is a state in which the soul can take wings and the 

spirit can be free.’ ‘That’s a very interesting definition of penance,* 

Mary replied. ‘As a Jungian analyst I understand it well, but such an 

act of penance must be absolutely voluntary. When it is imposed by 

someone else, even by a priest, it becomes a punishment.’ ‘We almost 

need a new word for the kind of penance 1 am talking about. A word 

to imply a purifying activity rather than a mortifying activity.’ 

Simon and Mary were marvellous hosts. After lunch 1 was offered 

a comfortable bed on which to rest, followed by a guided tour 

of the magnificent cathedral. Once in the cathedral 1 could feel 

the dedication of the stonemasons, carpenters and others who in 

previous centuries created this splendid edifice to the glory of God. 

In our times people build to the greater glory of banks and insurance 

companies! I was led to a small, intimate and cosy chapel in the 

cathedral. In the tranquil calm of the chapel we meditated together 

and 1 was brought to tears when Simon prayed for me and the 

completion of my pilgrimage. I felt like a baby held in caring hands. 

Later I learned from a mutual friend that he was praying every day 

for me, and on my arrival back in Hartland, 1 received a postcard 

from him desiring to know if I had arrived home safe and sound. 

How could I not, when he was praying for me? 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

From Lincoln onwards I pursued my journey with a settled 

mind and strong spirit. Now it was truly Spring. Deep in the woods 

I found a bank covered with delicate yellow flowers. They were not 

primroses and 1 had not come across flowers like these before. I 

wondered what they were, and with some hesitation I picked one and 

put it in my hat to ask later what it might be called. But 1 did not need 

to—the first person I met asked where 1 had got this ‘cowslip* as they 

are so rare. 1 explained that 1 had found a place in the woods where 

they were growing in abundance. Some inspired farmer had left a 

wide belt of woodland between ploughed fields, growing willows, 

sweet chestnuts, ash and alongside them, flowering cherry, 

This must have been one of thegreatest years for cherry blossom. 

Never, since I was in Japan in the spring of 1964, had 1 seen such a 

stunning sight. 1 stood there, spellbound, gazing at the glory of God. 

I was in an enchanted land where every single bud was in full bloom, 

flowering to its utmost perfection. All my walking from Hart land 

to here, all these forty-six days, were worth it to be at this moment 

under these cherry trees. 

After an overnight stay with Gary Miller at Willingham-by-Stow, 

1 followed a little used path along the Weir Dykes in the direction of 

Barrow-on-Humber. The path was overgrown with thigh-high dewy 

grasses so that even though the weather was dry and sunny my only 

pair of shoes were constantly filled with water and my trousers were 

saturated. The grasses are the colourful clothing of the earth; they 

hold the soil together and protect it from erosion. The soft caresses 

of the grasses contributed to the bliss of walking along this unspoilt 

and secluded path* 

The bridge over North Kelsey Beck, which runs into Weir Dyke 

and interrupts the path, was broken: a sign said, ‘Danger—Bridge 

Not Safe To Cross’. I could not contemplate turning back, which 

would surely have involved at least a ten mile detour, so 1 risked it. 

The path showed no sign of being in use and 1 met nobody walking 

it. I enjoyed every moment in complete peace and solitude. Walking 

became a meditation and every step was teaching me to be mindful. 

I relaxed to the sound of my own breath as it issued into the deep 

silence surrounding me. Breathing in 1 inhaled the warmth of the air, 

the smell of the wet grasses, the coolness of the water, the purity of 

Nature; I was breathing the universe into myself. Breathing out I was 

196 

offering my energy to the universe. Breathing was my connection 

with the cosmos. I was one with the world. 

As I breathe, 1 breathe the breath of God, the breath of all the 

peoples of the world. 1 receive a breath transfusion from exist¬ 

ence itself. The birds, the cows, the sheep, the deer, the trees and 

the grasses greet me by giving their breath to me as I pass them. 

My breathing is the sharing of life itself. Suddenly 1 found myself 

chanting: 

Lead me from Death to Life, 

From Falsehood to Truth, 

Lead me from Despair to Hope, 

From Fear to Trust, 

Lead me from Hate to Love, 

From War to Peace, 

Let Peace fill our hearts, 

Our world, our universe, 

Peace, peace, peace. 

Again and again I kept chanting. Many other childhood chants 

from Sanskrit, Pali and the Jain scriptures came to me. Chants which 

1 had never used in thirty years appeared dear in my memory. The 

ecstasy of walking and chanting held me for hours. What freedom, 

being on the path. What a holiday does for your weary body and 

tired mind, a pilgrimage does for your soul and your spirit. 

A night’s rest with Betty and Ben Whitwell at Barrow-on-Hum ber 

well prepared me to be oh the path again. I was always grateful 

to have night between the two days’ walking. Without the night 

the day would be a burden; without the dark the light would be 

unbearable* Thanks to the night, every morning, no matter what the 

weather, wet or dry, sunny or windy, cold or warm, I was able to be 

on the road. 

On the morning of 15 th May, as 1 sec out from Barrow, 1 could see 

in the distance the huge Humber bridge, a symbol of technological 

achievement. I followed the’railway line to Burton-upon-Humber 

from where ! walked over the one-and-a-half-raile-long suspension 

bridge. The wind was particularly strong as it whipped up the 

estuary. My hat flew off and I had to run after it—I saved it just 

before it fell into the river. Thereafter I had to hold my hat on my 

197 

NO DESTINATION 

head tightly with one hand. After crossing the bridge I followed the 

River Humber westwards to Goole. The gusty wind of the bridge 

was now followed by heavy rain. At one point, very near the path 

along the river, 1 sought shelter in a garage. Scarcely a moment 

had passed when a young woman opened the door of the house 

and with a big smile asked, ‘Are you alright in there. Isn’t the rain 

dreadful?’ ‘I’m sure it will soon pass. May I shelter in your garage 

until then?’ ‘Of course you can,’ she said and went away. A little later 

she returned, this time with a cup of tea. 

In Gooie I stayed at the Natural Healing Centre where Kath 

Huddleston practises crystal healing. Members of the Centre were 

holding crystals in their hands, in every room crystals of all sizes, 

colours and shapes, from all parts of the world, were displayed and 

gave out their healing influences. Kath told me that different people 

respond to different crystals and therefore it is quite an art to match 

the crystal to the person. For those who do not respond to crystal 

healing there were facilities for homoeopathy, massage, acupuncture 

and other forms of herbal and natural treatment, including spiritual 

healing. In the beginning of my journey I would have tried all these 

forms to alleviate the pain of my body; now I could observe these 

therapies with interest but without the need to try them myself. 

I followed the River Ouse to Selby, and from Selby a disused 

railway line, recently converted to a bicycle path, bore me on to 

York. What a brilliant inspiration it was to bring back these disused 

and closed lines, which were still in perfectly good condition, for 

the use of walkers and cyclists! Free from the fumes of motor cars 

and protected on both sides by steep banks, I was able to reach 

York without the sight or sound of traffic on the road. I was told 

that the Manpower Services Commission (msc) had provided the 

labour force to make it possible. 1 am sure that future generations 

will associate these paths with the period of the msc and the great 

unemployment of the eighties as we associate so many bridges and 

railways with the Victorian era. 

There must be thousands of miles of disused railway lines in 

the country, complete with bridges, lined with trees and passing 

through most scenic countryside. If alt .of them were to be brought 

back into use for walkers and cydists, it would reduce a lot of the 

congestion on the roads as many short distance travellers would 

198 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

lake to bicycles. It would also bring good health to the nation, as 

walking and bicycling are perfectly good physical exercise, and it 

would reduce the number of unemployed, as thousands of people 

would be required to work physically and with simple tools to adapt 

these railway lines to cycle and pedestrian use. I was only surprised 

that so few of these projects have been undertaken. 

York is a lovely city: the people have managed to keep out 

ugly modernization. Even the chain stores and department stores 

have been kept under control, with the old and the new standing 

side by side in harmony. It is usually a disappointment to come to 

big cities like Birmingham or Leeds—they don’t look any different 

from one another. The same shops with the same goods, the same 

roads, the same kinds of houses, a monoculture of modernity that 

makes you wish you had stayed at home. Even as a stranger, I felt the 

friendliness of York’s streets and houses and also the friendliness of 

those who dwell within them. 

1 stayed in St Paul’s Square, which is like a little hamlet or village: 

a community, closely knit together, everybody knowing each other, 

helping each other, and their children playing together on the open 

green of the square surrounded by magnificent trees towering above 

the tall houses. Although it is called a Square, the houses- in fact 

encircle the green. The roundness of the square makes it even more 

attractive, intimate and homely. 1 remembered the American Indian 

Russell Means saying, 4 Roundness is equivalent to sacredness. The 

sun is round, the moon is round, the earth is round, the tree is round, 

the human body is round. Everything round is sacred.’ And I also 

remembered Ivan Illich saying ‘You tell me where you live, and I’ll 

tell you who you are.’ I wanted to tell Ivan that the people of York 

live in intimate squares like St Pauls Square and they are very happy 

and human. 

People were still talking about the lightning which had severely 

damaged a part of York Cathedral. Was it an act of protest on the 

pan of the deity at the enthronement at York of David Jenkins, a 

man who disputes the Virgin Birth, as the Bishop of Durham? Or 

was it a punishment to the church as a whole for discarding the 

principle of holy poverty? Or indeed both? Why did the lightning 

strike only the cathedral and nowhere else? It must have been an 

1 99 

NO DESTINATION 

pilgrimage: iona 

act of Providence. 1 heajd the arguments with some amusement. 

What struck me was that the Bishop of Durham was preferring 

history ro myth. For myself I consider myth to be more capable than 

history of encompassing the complexity of truth. History is merely 

the accumulation of facts. Truth includes intuitive, experiential and 

even irrational as well as rational aspects; fact is one aspect of the 

truth but truth is greater than fact. How could a Bishop be prepared 

to sacrifice truth to establish the facts? Apart from reflecting on this 

I could not offer any opinion on the act of the deity. 

From York 1 came to the ruins of Fountains Abbey, which are well 

maintained by the National Trust, but more prettified than 1 would 

have liked them—presumably to please the tourists. The monks 

must have chosen this place for its wildness. By taming nature and 

turning it into a well ordered park, some of the original magic of the 

place has been lost. 

From Fountains Abbey I went to Rievaulx, and all my dreams of 

finding a ruined abbey in natural splendour were fulfilled. The ruins 

of Rievaulx stand in Rye Dale, a wooded valley of great power. 

Again the monks had chosen a magnificent site, and not an easy 

one. A canal was dug to connect the river Rye with the quarry so 

that stone f6r building the abbey could be brought to the exact spot; 

that most magical, inspirational and holy place. 

It is incredible to be in a monastery—built by human hands and 

with simple tools, and yet so ambitious a project. But in those days 

the monks were not obsessed with speed: they were not working for 

money, and the building of a monastery was an expression of their 

an, their craft, their livelihood, their dedication and above all their 

good work in the service of the spirit. People told me that a lot of 

cheap labour was used, and the living conditions and the living 

standards of the workers were poor. But I couldn't help feeling 

that the quality of their life must have been good to produce such 

a monument of quality. 

But of course when these abbeys and monasteries became centres 

of political power, and when material wealth and worldly pos¬ 

sessions took precedence over spiritual seeking, their existence was 

threatened. The dissolution of the monasteries is not something over 

which I can shed any tears. Religion is an expression of the released 

spirit. When the Holy Ghost is imprisoned in monasteries, churches. 

temples, institutions and disciplined orders* then it becomes fright¬ 

ening and haunting. 

Accompanied by my host Otto Greenfield, Enzo, a novice 

of Tibetan Buddhism, and a young student called Neil, I walked 

along the River Rye and through Cropton Forest to Lastingham, 

to the crypt which was built by St Ced of Lindisfarne fame. Thank 

goodness that St Ced did not go for building great institutions like 

the abbeys of Fountains or Rievaulx, but built a small church with 

a cave-like crypt conducive to meditation in the bleak surroundings 

of the Yorkshire moors. This crypt could not evoke envy; this 

small, simple space surrounded by stone walls embodies centuries 

of deep peace and eternal tranquillity—a perfect place to say the 

Peace Prayer. 

From there Otto and Enzo turned back; Neil and I carried on 

through thick fog over the wild North Yorkshire Moors. Neil, a 

student of architecture from Leeds, had joined me the previous day 

to walk from Fountains Abbey to Ampleforth. His intention had 

been to return home the same evening, but a day’s walk had whetted 

his appetite. He asked my hosts, Otto and Rosemary Greenfield, if 

he could stay the night and walk on the next day. 

As we walked over the wild North Yorkshire moors in the middle 

of May in thick fog, I was grateful that Neil had taken the decisiorv 

to continue. Walking on my own would have been hair-raising. He 

said, T love walking in the fog. I cannot see anything except the wet 

path under my feet but I can imagine the rugged moorland around 

us. The fog is temporary. In a few hours, perhaps by evening or 

by tomorrow, it will be clear.’ I liked his relaxed, optimistic and 

carefree attitude. There would have been no point in having someone 

complaining. He could easily have said, ‘How dreadful; we are only 

spending one day on this moor and it is foggy.’ But he didn’t, and 

we walked as much in the land of the imagination as we walked on 

the moor. We had very little idea whether we were going north, east 

or west. We believed that we were not going south since that was 

where we were coming from, but apart from that, we were totally 

in the lap of mist and mystery. The path was zigzagging and leading 

in all directions, but we followed our noses. I said to Neil, ‘We don’t 

want to get lost in these moors, or our hosts tonight will be sending 

2.00 

201 

NO DESTINATION 

pilgrimage: IONA 

out helicopters in search of lost pilgrims/ But Neil was much more 

adventurous and without worry. He reassured me that it wouldn’t 

come to that. 

After about an hour* which seemed like ages, I was able t^ come to 

terms with the fog and I said to myself, ‘Whatever happen^, we are 

in it* so why worry?’ There are times in life when you don’t know 

where you are and there is no alternative but to keep going in faith, 

trusting that in the end everything will be alright. Sure enough* by 

the time we approached the steep descent to Rosedale Abbey the fog 

lifted and we could see the magnificence of the moor all around us. 

Our stop for that night, the 20th of May, was at Botton Village, a 

Camp hill Community of the Steiner Movement. The village is spread 

along the south-facing slopes of the valley, where approximately 

three hundred people* the majority of them physically and mentally 

handicapped, live and work together. The community is divided into 

many households, each with ten to fifteen handicapped members 

and two housepa rents. I stayed in one such mini-community. 1 

was much moved to see all the members cooking together* eating 

together, cleaning together, and supporting each other within the 

family-like environment of the household. What a world of differ¬ 

ence between institutions where handicapped people are dumped, 

looked down on and seen as a burden to society, and this thriving 

^village, where they are participants in the whole range of daily 

activities, and contribute a large percentage of the income. 

I went to see the farm, the creamery, weaving, candle-making, 

carpentry, glass engraving, printing, building and numerous other 

activities where handicapped and non-handicapped were working 

side by side. I was particularly inspired by a visit to the bakery 

where the slowness of the handicapped bakers was no handicap at 

all. Rhythmic.kneading of the dough by hand in a particular Steiner 

style was bringing everybody together. I could immediately feel that 

baking of bread for them was a sacred act. They were baking their 

daily bread for the whole Botton community as well as for a number 

of shops in the area. Baking bread was a source of healing the soul 

and feeding the body. 

One of the members said to me, ‘If only people.could learn to bake 

bread and share it with their family and neighbours* it would be a 

beginning of spiritual renewal in our society. We are what we eat. 

# 

Bread is a staple and central part of our food. If we could bake bread 

with care and attention our unhappiness, alienation, frustration and 

bad relationships would diminish/ This was a big claim. I looked 

into his face, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes, 1 am. I know what I am talking 

about and you can see it for yourself. Jesus Christ chose bread as 

the symbol of his own body—he could have chosen some other 

symbol, couldn’t he? But he didn’t, because bread is the real staff 

of life, and you cannot leave it to factories to make good wholesome 

bread for you/ 

I was impressed by his conviction. At home, my wife had always 

baked the bread. I decided that after the pilgrimage, when 1 returned 

home, 1 would begin to bake bread. 

In the evening 1 was invited to speak about my journey to the 

residents of the village. I was warned that if any member of the 

audience should interrupt or distract me with noise or irrelevant 

questions, 1 should take no notice. When I stood in front of the 

packed hall, I was slightly hesitant and worried but 1 started to speak 

in my normal way. As the story unfolded 1 could see beaming faces 

and eager eyes looking at me totally engaged. I spoke for an hour 

and not once was 1 interrupted. Pure eyes and innocent faces in front 

of me with no trace of negativity, judgement, criticism or scepticism 

made me feel that their handicap was only on the surface; their hearts 

are whole and souls unwounded. After my talk people were keen 

to come and thank me and shake my hands and invite me to their 

house, 1 was in tears with the warmth and love showered upon me. 

If these are the people whom we call handicapped, what is the word 

for the rest of us? 

In the morning we climbed out of the valley and on to the moor 

again. Neil decided to walk with me for another day> We followed 

the Cleveland Way. The moorland here is rather boggy so it was 

a great blessing to find this path studded with stepping stones. I 

wondered how such beautifully-shaped stones had been found—if 

they were brought here, it must have been a laborious task. 

In the days of pre-industrial Yorkshire, the people built beautiful 

stone walls, taking decades, sometimes generations, to turn their 

fields, farms and landscapes into works of art. We make so much 

fuss about paintings, sculptures and the art of building cathedrals, 

but people have unselfconsciously nurtured and cared for their land. 

202 

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NO DESTINATION 

pilgrimage: iona 

their trees, and their paths in such a way that now and for gen¬ 

erations to come, we can enjoy the fruit of their work and And 

sustenance for our living. On my way to Guisborough the landscape 

itself appeared as a great painting. Old stone walls, with moss and 

lichen growing in them, but still firmly holding together, follow the 

shapes and curves of the hillsides. Fields are rounded and of different 

sizes. Standing on a viewpoint and gazing at the landscape was a 

fabulous feast for my eyes. 

O Yorkshiremen and women of past generations, I thank you for 

leaving the land in such good heart and good shape. I hope that 

we also can leave the land in such a state that our children and 

grandchildren can be nourished by it. 

Drunk with the beauty of the moor, Neil remembered the saying; 

‘Live as if you will die tomorrow but farm as if you will live forever.’ 

The shepherds of Yorkshire still live through every stone, every wall 

and every field. 

Filled with feelings of awe, we reached the Beacon near 

Eston and from there looked down to see miles and miles of concrete 

and tarmac—the smoke-filled conurbation of Middlesborough and 

Billingham. What we humans do to the earth! Yet the earth is so 

tolerant, forbearing and forgiving. Neil and I held our breath and, 

without much looking around, rushed through Middlesborough. 

The situation was much eased when a group of peace activists hold¬ 

ing a ‘Welcome* banner, met us on the bridge of the River Tees: they 

had organized a prayer meeting and reception for us in Billingham 

Church. We spent the night enjoying the warm hospitality of the 

minister of the United Reform Church and his wife. 

I was not sorry to leave Billingham behind; 1 followed a disused 

railway line that had been converted to a footpath and cycle track. 

Although the path lasted for only a few miles, it was good to be 

on it, and when I left it I found myself*in the midst of fields and 

woods. I was struck to see a herd of deer. I stopped walking and 

hid behind a hedge, curiously watching their swift movements. They 

were extremely alert and at once noticed ray presence. \ saw some 

kind of nervousness erupting, and they ran in all directions. One of 

them moved across the field like lightning and leaped over a high 

hedge. What a shame that Neil had left this morning and was not 

204 

with me to witness the leaping deer on the way to Durham! I was 

astounded by the sight of it. What energy! What suppleness! They 

live on grass and leaves alone—perhaps that is why they have such 

pure energy and innocence. Yes, innocence. When 1 was watching, 

before they ran away, I saw no sign of sin or ego in their eyes. They 

looked at me deeply, directly and penerratingly. 1 saw some signs of 

confusion and perhaps fear, but that is all. 

I arrived in the Durham of St Cuthbert, a great Celtic Saint. His 

remains are in the Cathedral and yet he lives in every comer of this 

splendid city. St Cuthbert embodied the innocent divinity of a deer. 

He had no difficulty in communicating with birds, otters, and other 

members of the animal kingdom, as well as with human beings. He 

was a healer of wounded souls and a teacher of deep compassion. 

Along the River Weir at Finchale Abbey, I saw a gypsy man who 

seemed to me an incarnation of St Cuthbert. As 1 approached the 

Abbey I was stopped by him for no apparent reason. ‘Where do 

you come from?* he asked with a tremendous force. ‘From Devon/ 

‘Now tell me the truth. Where do you come from?’ ‘From India, 

then.* ‘There you are. Where in India?* ‘Rajasthan.’ ‘There you are. 

The Queen of Rajasthan is the world queen of all Romanies and 

gypsies. And as a gypsy, my people originate in Rajasthan. Now, 

hello brother/ He put out his hand to shake mine, in my wagon I 

have rice and spices. Will you come and eat with me?’ it is very kind 

of you to invite me, but I must keep on the road. I have a date with 

people in Newcastle/ ‘Never mind, next time. Tell all our people 

from Rajasthan that their brother lives here and has rice and spices 

for them/ Then he opened the buttons of his* jacket and showed a 

waistcoat which he claimed had been given to him by the queen of 

Rajasthan. ‘We gypsies believe that all boundaries, racial, national 

or religious are fake. That is why we do not make boundaries and we 

do not live within boundaries, that is why we follow the free spirit. 

We will go where the wind leads us, we will go where the clouds 

lead us. All men are brothers and all living creatures belong to the 

same family/ 

1 heard his words, which were spoken with deep emotion, and 

could not help but conclude that St Cuthbert would not have said 

anything very different. Walking in the land of St Cuthbert, I felt 

205 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

he was accompanying me in spirit and showing me the way to 

Lindisfame, which is only about one hundred miles away, five days’ 

walk. 

1 left the River Weir as it turns towards Sunderland and walked 

through Chester-1 e-Street to Newcastle, where 1 was the guest of 

the Catholic chaplain, Tony Battle. In Tony’s house a young man in 

white robes suddenly walked into the room. ‘Hello, I am a Buddhist 

novice and 1 would like to walk with you tomorrow, if I may.’ 

‘Where do you live?’ 1 asked him. in the newly-founded Buddhist 

monastery of Harnham. 1 would like to invite you to our monastery 

but unfortunately we are a few miles off your route.’ 

So far 1 had been to Christian centres only, and therefore a sugges¬ 

tion of taking my pilgrimage to a Buddhist monastery immediately 

grabbed me—I decided to make the detour to Harnham, next day. 

The monastery is in an old farmhouse, situated on top of a hill 

which falls away steeply on all sides. It reminded me of the Potala 

Palace in Lhasa, the former residence of the Dalai Lama of Tibet. 1 

was welcomed in the main hall of the monastery by the monks. A 

great brass statue of the Buddha stood m the background. All of us 

sat down on cushions on the floor. 4 lt is a very new monastery, and 

we are pleased to welcome you here,’ the monks said. 

Hardly a moment passed before two novices in white robe? 

brought a chair and a bowl full of hot water with mustard powdei 

in it. 1 was asked to sit on the chair and soak my feet in the bowl while 

we drank tea and talked. ‘Our founder the Venerable Sumedho speni 

twelve years in a forest monastery in Thailand where he practised i 

life of deep meditation, totally removed from the modern world. Foi 

the purpose of self-realization, it is essential that we do not spenc 

our energy in trivial matters and distract ourselves from the profounc 

task of bringing an end to all suffering/ one of the monks said. ‘Hov 

can one bring an end to all suffering?’ 1 asked. ‘Not by thinking abou 

it, not by analysing it, not philosophizing or speculating a bout it, bu 

by being fully aware of it. A total awareness of our situation wil 

bring about a natural and appropriate action and that will bring at 

end to all illusion and suffering. But unfortunately, people indulge ii 

mental gymnastics and theories, and miss the point. Once the Buddh; 

was responding to a similar question; he said “If someone is hit by ai 

arrow, what do you do? Do you spend your time asking from whicl 

direction the arrow came, what the arrow is made of, or what is the 

size and weight of the arrow? All these questions are irrelevant, a 

waste of time. The only appropriate action is to remove the arrow 

immediately from the wounded body.” There is a right action for 

every situation and for every form of suffering. Right action is 

accompanied by right thought and right living. Although there 

are no rigid rules for everybody to follow, if we are motivated by 

compassion, we will be able to help reduce and eventually overcome 

our own suffering and the suffering of others. Compassion is the 

key to open the doors of enlightenment. When you are filled with 

feelings of compassion, there is no room for ego, for anger, greed 

or desire. These four are the cause and the source of suffering.’ the 

monk concluded. 

By now my legs were revived and 1 was ready to walk around 

the buildings and woods of the monastery. No wonder that the 

Thai monks believe in living as forest-dwellers, close to the earth. 

Dwelling in the forest, they derive their inspiration from the earth 

and the trees. The Buddha himself sat under a tree meditating. He 

believed that from a tree he could learn compassion. What an act of 

giving the tree performs when it sheds its leaves, pan of its own body, 

so that the earth may receive nourishment! The Buddha also believed 

that the true answers to our deep problems come not from the mind 

but from the earth. What forgiveness, compassion and forbearance 

the earth shows! It is dug, ploughed, built upon, but it never denies 

anybody anything. It does not refuse or protest. We put one seed into 

the earth and it returns a hundredfold. When philosophers, intellec¬ 

tuals and sophists came to the Buddha with sceptical questions often 

he would not answer with words—his answer would be to touch the 

earth. He would sit in meditation for hours in his renowned posture 

of Bhumi Sparsb Mudra , the posture of touching the earth with the 

fingertips of both hands, which symbolizes reverence for the earth 

and recognition that all and everything, our body, our knowledge 

and our wisdom, comes from the earth and returns to the earth. 

We disregard the earth at our peril. The monks of the forests are 

the embodiment of the earth’s spirit. 

Having been inspired by the living example of these monks it was 

a wonderful experience to spend the next day wandering through the 

woods along the River Coquet to Alnmouth. 

NO DESTINATION 

That night I stayed in a Franciscan Friary. St Francis too, very 

much like the Buddha, took his inspiration from Nature. He is 

without any doubt the patron saint of ecology. The Buddha gave 

up princely possessions and went with his begging bowl, practising 

holy poverty. St Francis also discarded the trappings of wealth and 

welcomed Lady Poverty. The lion and the deer sat side by side 

listening to the words of the Buddha; birds and the beasts of the 

field and forest came to talk to St Francis. Thus St Francis is the 

Buddha of the Christian tradition. The friars of Alnmouth follow 

their great master and live by the sea of nature without, And the sea 

of faith within. They spend many hours in prayer. One of the friars 

said to me, i need many hours of prayer to arrive at that perfect 

moment of prayer in which I am one with God.’ ‘You said it! I 

replied, it has taken two months of pilgrimage for me to arrive at 

some inkling of that state/ The friar said, ‘Often people start to pray 

or meditate and they get impatient. The first lesson is to learn to be 

patient. You have to paint many paintings and only one or two of 

them will be the ones you feel satisfied with. You need to play music 

for hours to get to a moment of ecstasy. The Japanese spend twelve 

years in order to learn flower arrangement. A student spends seven 

years learning medicine. But when people seek to learn meditation 

or the art of praying, they want to do it in one day. The path of 

prayer is not for the impatient. Prayer is not just kneeling down in 

a chapel and saying the words; one’s whole life is prayer. When St 

Francis was feeding the birds, that was his prayer—prayer was his 

way of life/ 

The friar was quite at home connecting prayer and nature in this 

manner, as the whole of the Northumbrian coast is vibrant with this 

connection. This is the coast and the country of St Cuthbert, whose 

love of birds and animals evokes the memory of St Francis. 

* 

Battling along the north coast with the wind blowing in 

gusts of ninety miles an hour, I came at last to Lindisfame, the Holy 

Isle, the Isle of St Cuthbert. I arrived in time before the tide closed the 

causeway. I was in a sacred temple of which the sea is the keeper. 

Twice every day the sea opens the gates of the temple to let the 

pilgrims, the visitors and even the tourists in. Tourists generally 

return before the sea closes the gates, but pilgrims are in no hurry. 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

Ikey stay the night or a few nights, to be soaked in the tranquillity 

and purity of the place. The monks who chose to build the priory 

here were very wise; there are very few such sacred sites where the 

sea is the guardian of the soul. The moment I stepped on the white 

sand l was free of the busy worid. Here I was in the company of the 

sun, the sky, the sea, the sand dunes and the spirits of saintly souls. 

St Cuthbert prayed and meditated in solitude, totally surrendering 

himself to the sacred sound of the sea. Every night after midnight 

when all his fellow monks were asleep he would get up and go out. 

On one occasion, a curious monk, a light sleeper, noticed this and 

followed him. He found him in the sea up to his armpits where he 

spent the night, occasionally singing hymns, and with only the waves 

for accompaniment. At daybreak Cuthbert came out of the sea and 

knelt on the sand to pray. Two oners followed in his footsteps, licked 

his feet and warmed them with their bodies. This is the island where 

humans, nature and religion are one. 

The enchantment of being on this sacred island was further 

enhanced by the presence of my wife June and my children Mukti 

and Maya, who had come to see me after two months’ absence. I 

was making my pilgrimage by being away and June was making a 

pilgrimage by staying at home, taking responsibility for Resurgence , 

the house and the children, by herself. The longer l was away, the 

more I became aware that my voyage was only possible because June 

had stayed at home, and released me: her letting go was a gift of love 

to me. 1 am deeply grateful to her for this. Leaving June, children and 

Lindisfarne behind felt like travelling on without a ticket. But the 

Cheviots on my left and the Lammermuir Hills in front were like a 

gravitational force pulling me towards them. 

Emerging from the Lammermuir Hills on the 30 th of May 1986 , 

I stood on the northwestern slopes gazing at the form of King Arthur. 

There he lies on his back, almost filling the horizon, his forehead, 

pointed nose and broad shoulders resting on the land, but bis feet 

deep in the sea. From there he'rules Edinburgh and yet eternally he 

is asleep. As I walked closer, the shape of the sleeping giant appeared 

even more dear, until I was almost under his shadow, at which point 

he was transformed into nothing more than a large hill known as 

Arthur’s Seat, frequented by Edinburgh citizens for walks and for 

±09 

NO DESTINATION 

meditation. Arthur makes Edinburgh so attractive that people of 

arts and culture, poetry and music, education and religion have 

gathered around him. Edinburgh embodies the spirit of the court 

of King Arthur and his round table. 

Arthur and his ambience makes Edinburgh the most attractive city 

of Britain. Not too big, not too small, not too commercial, not too 

crowded, it is a city graced by the sea and Arthur’s seat. A night’s 

sleep in the midst of a living tradition and ancient myths renewed my 

spirit for the eternal quest. Leaving Edinburgh 1 followed the Union 

Canal, now disused but still a path to paradise for walkers. Never 

mind, O Canal, my sister, if the longboats have deserted you! Trees 

and birds and green algae can flourish in peace now that you arc 

a romantic wilderness. Weeping willows embrace you, water lilies 

adorn you, and herons keep you company. How happy I am to be 

walking at your side. 

I was deeply immersed in thought when 1 was suddenly stopped by 

a Scot holding an umbrella in the drizzling rain. 4 Do you know what 

the date is today?’ ‘It’s the first of June isn’t it?’ I replied, wondering 

why 1 was being stopped to be asked such a mundane question. ‘And 

it is raining, and it is cold!’ 

Pointing his finger at me he said, ‘You must be from India. Now 

you have too much sun which you don’t want, we have too much 

rain which we don’t want. Is it fair?’ 

I could hardly be held responsible for Nature’s unfairness, but I 

wanted to defend her* Before I could get a word in, the stranger 

asked, ‘What are you doing in Scotland?’ 

The moment he knew that I was on a pilgrimage to Iona he said, 

‘O, a pilgrim? 1 want to tell you a strange experience I had—please 

bear with me. Perhaps a pilgrim may be able to understand me. Not 

long ago 1 went to the Lake District, camping with my family. One 

evening, as my wife was cooking and my children were amusing 

themselves, 1 went for a drink. On my way back from the pub, 

as darkness fell, 1 saw a face, a head without a body, sitting on a 

stone wall peering at me. It was a saintly face, compassionate eyes, 

most serene. I had never seen anything like it before. I stopped. 

Was it Jesus Christ, I wondered? I could not move—my legs were 

frozen. 1 was taken over by fear and amazement but within seconds 

I recovered. Summoning my courage, I went to the head and lifted it 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

with both my hands. I carried it a few steps. I heard a voice “Why are 

you carrying me away. I belong here, to this place, to this wall, to 

these surroundings.” The voice made me shiver. 1 put the head back 

exactly in the place from which I had taken it. I retreated and all the 

time the face was smiling at me. 

‘When 1 arrived at our camp 1 told my wife and children what I 

bad just experienced: an encounter with Jesus Christ, an encounter 

with the all-embracing smile. My family laughed at me. “It must 

he a hallucination, perhaps you are drunk”, they said. There was 

no point in arguing. I have told this story to my friends but they 

have all received it with scepticism. As you are a pilgrim, you 

will understand. Forgive me if I am detaining you. Although that 

encounter happened sometime ago, I am still stunned by that most 

wonderful smile. Jesus Christ sat there on that wall telling me that 

if you can smile you can love. When you smile you are free from 

stresses and strains and worries of life. When you smile you please 

everyone and hurt no one. That experience changed my life and that 

is why I am no longer shy of speaking to strangers.’ 

Terry, and two other companions who were walking with me, 

srood in silence listening to his story. It was his true experience 

and we were honoured to celebrate the transformation of his life. 

'I know you have to go a long way and perhaps 1 am talking too 

long. Thank you for listening to my story and I wish you well in your 

journey.’ He smiled, shook hands and said goodbye. The rest of the 

day our minds and our conversation were filled with the man and his 

remarkable story. 

Terry and the two companions who had joined me were not 

used to walking twenty miles. In the evening they found that their 

feet were blistered, their hips were hurting and their legs aching, 

but during the day the influence of that strange encounter carried 

them along. 

We arrived at the house of Hazel Wood, who lives on a council 

estate in Larbert. When Hazel found that although she had offered 

hospitality to just one pilgrim, there were now four of us, surprise 

showed for a moment on her face. But she showed no reluctance 

in having us all. While we drank tea and rubbed our feet, she made 

arrangements. She herself would sleep at her mother’s house, her 

son would stay with his friend, her daughter with a neighbour and 

no 

ill 

NO destination 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

the whole house would be at our disposal, ‘No, you can t do that , 

1 protested. ‘You stay in your own rooms and we will sleep on the 

floor in the living room. Pilgrims don’t need the luxury of beds/ ‘Do 

you want me to spend the whole night in agony and without sleep? 1 

will not be able to bear to sleep in the comfort of my bed while my 

guests are on the floor. In any case you are my guests, and you have 

to do as you are told!’ 

We all laughed. How grateful 1 was to Hazel and to my hosts 

everywhere who, night after night, gave me their love and made 

me feel at home. For the last sixty-three days I had stayed in sixty 

different homes. Sometimes in a flat, sometimes in a mansion, some¬ 

times in a council house, a farm cottage, a bungalow, but everywhere 

the same warmth of welcome. My hosts had included retired mili¬ 

tary men, dvil servants, dergymen, small farmers, headmasters, 

businessmen, media people, doctors, lawyers, opticians, students, 

a few communities and several monasteries. Wherever 1 went, I was 

received with love. Hazel ^Vood embodied all the great qualities of 

Scottish hospitality. We were comfortable, relaxed, happy, and we 

had a good night’s sleep. 

However the pine forests of Scotland were not so hospitable. 

On our way to Callander, Terry and I followed a footpath, west of 

Aberfoyle, into the forest of Achray: a large commercial forest with 

many tracks, utterly confusing, each tree identical and every track 

the same. We followed a track which seemed to us right according 

to the map. It led us higher and higher to a viewpoint on the 

Menteith Hills, from where we could see magnificent mountains 

and highlands, but could recognize none of them. We could see one 

or two lakes in the distance, but were uncertain which ones they were 

on the map. We should have returned the same way as we had come 

but, reluctant to waste time and hoping that we might be heading 

in the right direction, we came down a steep slope. We met another 

track, and, being without a compass, tried to guess which direction 

we should take. Naturally we followed what we thought was north, 

but after about a mile the track came to an abrupt end. This time 

we had to return, as it would have been foolish and impossible to 

venture through the thick forest without knowing where we were 

going. For about two hours we kept wandering round and round, up 

and down, backwards and forwards, frustrated, exhausted and lost. 

Suddenly from the top of a hill we recognized the town of Aberfoyle 

and realized that instead of moving west towards Callander we had 

regressed and were east of Aberfoyle. ‘Let’s sit down and eat our 

lunch,’ Terry said in a worried voice, ‘and thank goodness we still 

have most of the afternoon in which to find our way.’ 

We sat down, had our lunch and looked at the map as hard as we 

could. None of the tracks through the forest were on the map. We 

reflected that we were lost only because we wanted to go somewhere! 

We could easily build a small shelter from the wood around, and 

there was plenty of fresh water in the streams. We were surrounded 

with delicate flowers and delicious berries. We could dear a bit 

of land and grow food. This would be a perfect place of peace, 

meditation and the simple life, but we were bound with our plans, 

with our ideas and illusions and therefore we wanted to get out of 

this paradise. We lacked courage to pursue this vision. 

After about half an hour’s rest, we decided not to spend any more 

time there, but to try to find our way. The search for the path was not 

easy without knowing what it looked like. In the maze of the forest, 

neither sitting down and resting nor looking for the path seemed 

to do much good; nevertheless, the only course left to us was to 

keep searching. We came to another fork: one branch was heading 

marginally northwest, the other turning northeast. We took what 

seemed to be the northeast fork, heading—we thought—towards 

Loch Venachar. The path again came to an end but this time we 

were faced with tall deer fencing and a new plantation. We climbed 

the eight or nine foot fence and ventured through the boggy ground 

between the waist-high lines of sitka spruce. The light and air made 

us feel that we were coming out of the forestry land, and gave us a 

ray of hope. Further along we had to climb another deer fence and 

we found ourselves on a high hill. We saw a lake, compared the shape 

of it with the map, and decided that it must be Loch Drunkie. ‘If it is 

Loch Drunkie, we are not too far from Loch Venachar,’ Terry said. 

We saw a lookout tower, and near it a small lodge; we breathed a 

sigh of relief. Perhaps we could go and find somebody there who 

might be able to help us. As we headed towards it, we soon found 

ourselves on a tarmac road—a sign of civilization again. As we 

approached the lodge, a man appeared. Before we had any chance 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

to ask him the way he shouted, ‘What are you doing? You are 

trespassing on private land!' Terry and I could not help ourselves 

—we shrieked with laughter. Here we were lost in the forest for 

hours, what had seemed an eternity, and the first person we meet 

is screaming at us to go away. 4 We are very sorry but we don't know 

where we are. In fact we are lost.' But he was not interested and he 

would not help us. The tarmac track led to another tarmac track and 

eventually to Loch Venachar and to Callander. 

We were in the land of lochs ; Loch Katrine, Loch Lubnaig, 

Loch Voil, Loch Earn, and most glorious of them all, Loch Tay, 

which is the Gaelic word for peace. Spending a couple of nights 

in Kiliin, overlooking Loch Tay, was truly an experience of living 

in peace. If the gods were to choose an abode for themselves, they 

couldn’t do better than the mountains surrounding Loch Tay. Those 

who dwell in this land, breathing pure mountain air, drinking water 

from pljre streams and immersed in the true wealth of nature, are 

living in the neighbourhood of the gods. If 1 were to judge the people 

of this area by my host Renwick Russell and his neighbours, who do 

not have power, position, or the trappings of modem living, then 

1 would conclude that their life is one of Contentment, harmony 

and happiness. 

Walking the hills and glens on the footpath of the West Highland 

Way, Terry and I were joined by Lorenzo, lovingly called Enzo, who 

had hitchhiked from York to join us for a week on the last leg to 

Iona* Enzo was both a good hill-walker and a good map-reader, 

and therefore I could leave him to guide us through the Grampian 

Mountains. We passed through Tyndrum and the Bridge of Orchy, 

from where we followed a small road by Loch Yulia, which brought 

us on a footpath along Glen Kinglass. There we were in the midst of 

mountains and away from any sign of civilization or population. The 

mountain stream of Kinglass was the purest stream I have ever seen 

in my life. I looked down into the stream, the water ten or fifteen 

feet deep, and still could see the rocks underneath, crystal dear. Not 

a speck of dust or dirt could I see anywhere. We put our rucksacks 

aside; sitting by the pool, praising the wonder of water, we washed 

our faces and drank as much as we could. We filled our bottles and 

wished we could live there forever. Before this experience 1 could 

never have imagined that water could be so clear and delicious. No 

wonder Scotland produces world-famous whiskies with this water. 

If you live by Kinglass stream you don't need to drink whisky, the 

water itself is intoxicating enough—it is an elixir of life, so sweet, 

so soft, so gentle. It quenched our thirst, we could put it on our eyes, 

and yet it is so powerful that the rocks have eroded and given way to 

its speed. But the water takes no pride in its power and strength. It is 

so humble that it always finds the lowest level. We were honoured to 

be walking by the stream of Kinglass; it led us to Loch Etive, where 

we were sad to leave its company. 

Following the River Lonan we arrived in Oban where we were the 

guests of Jeremy Ingiis. Jeremy does bed and breakfast in his own flat 

and runs a restaurant in the town. For him, helping young visitors 

by providing simple, inexpensive, self-help accommodation, is more 

important than money. There were Americans, Australians, French 

and Welsh travellers staying there, all using a small kitchen. We were 

quite happy helping each other and being friendly. The atmosphere 

was much more of a community centre than of a place that offers bed 

and breakfast. On the kitchen shelf there was a line of teas: Assam, 

Darjeeling, Lapsang Souchong, Orange Pekoe, Jasmine, Camomile 

—you name it, it was there. Different varieties of jams, chutneys 

and pickles made by Jeremy were on another shelf, which made us 

feel at home. He lives in one room of the flat, which serves as his 

study, office, bedroom, dining room, living room and the common 

room for the guests. By keeping his establishment to the basics he 

can run it on a shoestring and charge a very modest fee of £ 4.00 a 

night. And when pilgrims like us arrive he can offer his generous 

hospitality without charge. ‘Jeremy, are you sure you can afford to 

let us stay for nothing?' I asked, i never gave that a thought. I want 

you to stay with me. If I keep worrying whether I can afford it or not, 

I can't afford anything; but if 1 don t think about things, they take 

their own course and keep ticking over. Having pilgrims to stay here 

is a rare honour.’ 

1 was touched by his sentiments. As we were talking, Jeremy said, 

‘There is a letter for you.* 1 opened the envelope, and saw that it was 

from Janet Banks of the Erraid Community near Iona. She wrote: 

i wish I could join you to walk across Mull, but am not able to do 

so. I will join you on the day you walk to Iona, but when I think of 

11 4 

215 

NO DESTINATION 

pilgrimage: IONA 

you, a pilgrim without money, I wonder whether the boat company 

is going to let you cross the Firth of Lorn and the Sound of Mull? I 

hate to think that you will be stopped at Oban and unable to come to 

Iona. So, please allow me to send you a small present of the enclosed 

boat ticket.’ . , 

Until then I had been so absorbed in my walking that I hadn t given 

any thought to this problem. How considerate it was of Janet to send 

me this essential gift! 

Mull lives in the shadow oflona. Every step l took, 1 medi¬ 

tated on Iona. The sweet sound of the word became my mantra ; 

Iona, Iona, Iona. Walking through the sparsely-populated island 

of Mull, we came across a house with barns and outbuildings, 

where we decided to shelter front the rain. A young woman in 

her teens answered the door and readily allowed us to rest in one 

of the buildings. After only a few minutes a Land Rover drove up 

to the house. Soon a man came in. "Who are you? What are you 

doing here?’ ‘We are pilgrims travelling to Iona.’ ‘And where do 

you come from?’ ‘My friend Terry is from Edinburgh, Lorenzo is 

from York and I have walked from Devon.’ The man looked at us 

in surprise and his face softened. We carried on this conversation for 

a few minutes, then he said, if you were not invited into the house 

by my daughter, that is because she is not allowed to let strangers 

in when she is on her own, but please come in and have a cup of 

tea. It is warmer in the kitchen.’ We were feeling rather tired and 

thirsty so we were very grateful for his invitation. As he led us to 

his house, the farmer explained, T look after sheep on about three 

thousand acres of land here. The owner lives in Kent. Sometimes it 

can be lonely and bleak, but in the main I enjoy being on the road to 

Iona, and the quietness of Mull.* 

As we drank tea and ate biscuits, a collection of walking sticks in 

the corner of the room caught my attention; gnarled and twisted, 

well-made, well-polished, works of great craftsmanship. Loving 

hands had shaped them. Each one was individual. The man said 

in the winter time when I have less work, I enjoy playing with them, 

paring the bark, polishing the wood and joining intriguing handles 

to the sticks. As 1 walk the hills, chasing my sheep I come across these 

piecesof wood. When I find them they look rather ordinary, but I can 

see their uniqueness beyond their rough state. In fact all sticks have 

the potential of being a perfect stick. They need caring hands to bring 

out their special quality. These sticks give me a tremendous sense of 

fulfilment. What would I do without them? How would I be able to 

spend long winter evenings? 1 don’t know. As I work on them, so 

they work on me.’ ‘Do you sell them, or are they just a hobby?’ ‘They 

are more than my hobby, they are my love, but occasionally I do sell 

them. They can fetch anything from thirty to fifty pounds, but many 

of the sticks you see here I cannot bear to sell. They are part ol me.’ 

The evening was drawing near so we had to say goodbye to our 

stick-making shepherd and find Willow Bank, the house of Graham 

Martin, where we were invited to spend the night. ‘You can’t miss 

Graham’s house, it is very near. About three or four miles. You will 

see a log house which he has built himself.’ And so it proved to be. 

Graham is a Resurgence reader and had gathered together a 

number of his friends for the evening. 1 discovered to my surprise 

that here in the middle of Mull there were quite a lot of Resurgence 

readers. ‘Resurgence is particularly helpful in this rather remote 

island as it keeps us informed and in touch with kindred spirits 

elsewhere,’ said one of them. ‘Resurgence always uplifts me,’ said 

another. ‘I have come to say thank you for what you are doing,’ a 

third voice added. 

I was pleased to know that so far away, so many people appreciate 

what we do. It was encouraging. 

While we were talking, Lorenzo made a brilliant suggestion. ‘We 

must prepare a present for the community of Iona, an offering to 

them for their work of renewal of the spirit—which is after all 

not dissimilar to the work of Resurgence. And there can be no 

better present than bread which we can bake tonight, keeping Iona 

in our minds.’ 

The rest of the evening we spent together baking bread. Gra¬ 

ham devoted himself tq getting the Rayburn oven up to the right 

temperature. Enzo looked after the yeast. I kneaded the dough and 

other friends watched and advised when the dough had sufficiently 

risen. Graham plaited the dough into a Celtic knot. The outcome was 

a wholesome and handsome-looking loaf of bread which we packed 

in fine white tissue paper and put in a box. I was made responsible 

for carrying it with care and devotion. 

NO DESTINATION 

Next morning at eight q’CLoex we started to walk to Iona. 

Grey and black clouds hung low in the sky, resting on the brown 

hills. Waves came towards us, pounding the sea shore, loud and 

strong, affirming that the waves alone rule Mull. Cold wind and a 

steady drizzle knew not that it was the beginning of summer. Trees 

were still grey and leafless. The spring and summer of 1986 were far 

too late in Mull. But the severity of the weather and landscape was 

no obstacle to us: we moved on full of vigour and anticipation. The 

long winter which has held on right into June must come to an end 

soon. The thought of Iona made me feel the coming of the spring in 

tny soul. Iona, Iona, Iona! 

Helen Steven, a member of the Iona Community, met us at mid¬ 

day. Janet Banks from the Erraid Community, by whose courtesy I 

had crossed the Firth of Lorn, also joined us. Similarly a number 

of local people had come to be pilgrims for that last stretch. Helen 

led the singing of songs of Iona, which further raised our spirits 

and warmed our hearts. As we approached Fionnphort we saw 

the Abbey, the sacred site of Iona. The Abbey was hardly distin¬ 

guishable from the hills surrounding it; a modest monument of 

great charm, built from local stone, blending with the landscape so 

harmoniously. 

It was the ninth day of June. St Columba’s Day. The moment I 

took my first step on the white sand of Iona I was overcome, unable 

to walk or move. Stunned by the spirit of Iona I was in tears. Helen 

held my hand and Terry put his hand on my back and they helped me 

to walk slowly to the Abbey. 

Before we entered the Abbey we walked around its perimeter. 

That circumambulation helped us to leave ail thoughts behind and to 

enter as light as feathers. Entering the Abbey was the peak moment, 

the peak experience, the peak of the pilgrimage. We reached the 

green altar of Iona marble, shiny and pure. We sat down together 

in silence, in peace, in prayer, at one with the place. In the evening 

Helen spoke about the life of St Columba. He was a Prince of 

Ireland. He was a scholar and a devoted student of the scriptures, 

but only priests and monks could have free access to the holy books. 

One night, in his passion for learning, Columba entered the Abbey 

library, and in the candlelight started to copy the Bible. But he was 

discovered and taken to the King for his due punishment. 

1.18 

PILGRIMAGE: IONA 

Columba was found guilty of stealing the scriptures and disobey¬ 

ing the church, but his pride prevented him from submitting to the 

judgement of King and court. As a result a battle was fought. Many 

men were killed. When Prince Columnba realized what he was doing 

to save his face and pride, he repented. He accepted exile and left 

Ireland. He pledged himself to go as far away as not to be able to see 

his beloved country and to save at least as many souls as the number 

of men who had been killed in battle. When the boat drew away from 

the shores of Ireland he came to several small islands, but everywhere 

he was within sight of his country. In the end he arrived in Iona, and 

from here Christianity spread far and wide. 

I presented our gift of bread to the community and they shared it 

with the congregation. Someone came to me and said, ‘How good 

the taste of real bread is. What a shame that the church has given in 

to the convenience of wafers. Jesus could not have dreamt of giving 

wafers as his body and Coca-Cola as his blood! He gave real bread 

and wine and we must revive the old tradition/ Another person said, 

‘After tasting your bread I don’t think I can eat Mother’s Pride white 

sliced any more. How did you make it?* ‘Water, flour, yeast and salt,* 

I said. ‘That’s all you need. The rest is simple. People don’t bake 

bread not because it is difficult to do but because they are too busy 

to do it. So say to yourself that when God made time, he made plenty 

of it, I have plenty of time 1 6 make real good bread.* ‘But I haven’t 

got very much time.* ‘Yes, this is where Mother’s Pride comes in. If 

you don’t want to eat Mother’s Pride any more you will have to take 

your focus away from the time which has passed in which you could 

have done a lot of things but didn’t, and turn your attention to the 

time which is coming, flowing endlessly towards you. An eternity 

of time awaits you: not only of one lifetime, but of many lifetimes. 

The magic of St Columba is still working, although apparently his 

life ended long ago. The message of Iona for me is not to want to 

do too many things at once. So when you bake your bread just bake 

your bread without worrying about anything else.* ‘It is all very well, 

but what do you do with salt, water, yeast and flour? Of course 1 

ought to get a bread book/ the man said. ‘A book will certainly 

help/ i agreed. 

Walking on and around Iona was like walking in the land of 

dreams. The entire island is an embodiment of tranquillity and 

219 

NO DESTINATION 

peace. People walking, standing in shops and doorways, smiled at • 

me and waved their hands. They were kind, confident, self-reliant 

and relaxed. Their houses were simple, modest and yet friendly and 

warm. Nothing extravagant, nothing out of proportion, nothing 

grand, and yet people in them are happy and well. There is nothing 

in Iona to arouse envy, apart from its serenity and sanctity. If 

people of the world lived on the scale and in the simple ways of 

Iona, there would be no burden on the earth and no risk to its 

ecology. Iona is a dream island, a community where people live 

in harmony with themselves and with their natural environment. 

Through the centuries people have come here to revive themselves 

and their spirits. Many of them come once a year as a retreat. Here 

pilgrims come and find what is timeless and eternal. 

In the shadow of iona there is another island, the Isle of 

Erraid, which hosts a community of people in the old lighthouse 

keepers' cottages. This island, with its terrace of cottages, belongs 

to a Dutch family who live in Holland. The community has made 

a remarkably sound arrangement with the family, by which the 

community is the steward of the buildings and the land for eleven 

months, and the family come for one month for their summer holi¬ 

day. This arrangement frees the community from the responsibilities 

of ownership and capital investment. The Dutch family also benefit 

in that throughout the year the buildings are cared for, looked after, 

maintained and lived in, at no cost to them. 

This is where Janet Banks lives; I stayed there for one day with 

the community. When the tide was out, Janet and I walked to 

Erraid from Mull in ankle-deep water. ‘We are a more or less 

self-sufficient and self-reliant community,’ Janet said. ‘We grow 

most of our vegetables, we make compost from the seaweed, and 

we have a few cows to provide us with plenty of milk, butter, cheese 

and yoghurt. We have weaving, knitting and various other crafts. 1 

make candles and stained glass. Visitors come to stay for a week or 

more, and contribute to the cost of living here. As we pay no rent 

and share everything, the cost of living is very low.’ ‘How do you 

organize the work?’ I asked. ‘Every morning we meet for half an 

hour, and we have developed a way of planning the day quickly and 

efficiently. ’ There was no doubt that the community was functioning 

pilgrimage: iona 

efficiently. The whole place looked clean and loved: the garden full 

of vegetables, the. kitchen full of good food. Before members begin 

any activity or work, they hold hands together, stand in a circle 

and attune themselves to the fulfilment of their tasks in harmony 

with each other. This way they create a positive flow of energy and 

mutual support which is the backbone of any community. ‘Only 

with open and generous hearts and care for others can a community 

flourish,’ said Janet. 

In the evening the community gathered around the fire with tea 

and cakes and listened to stories of ray pilgrimage. They were keen 

to ask details of my journey. We kept talking late into the night. A 

young mother with a baby in her lap said, ‘1 am a very practical 

woman. Can I offer to wash your clothes?’ Everybody shrieked 

with laughter. ‘Since you walk every day, and while walking you 

must get sweaty and sticky, I thought I must offer you washing.’ it 

is most kind of you,’ I answered ‘but 1 have left most of my clothes 

with Graham in Pennyghael for washing as I will be walking back 

and staying with him tomorrow.’ ‘All right then. I am a hairdresser. 

Would you like a haircut tomorrow morning?’ This time there was 

an even bigger shriek of laughter. Everybody could see that my 

moustache and beard and hair were overgrown. I accepted her offer 

with heartfelt thanks. 

The next morning I duly had my haircut. A few days later, when 

summer suddenly arrived, I thought with gratitude of the community 

of Erraid and its hairdresser, as I walked under the hot Scottish sun. 

I was pleased to have completed my pilgrimage to Iona, the spir¬ 

itual capital of the north. Now 1 headed back to the homely south. 

zzo 

ZZI 

Chapter Thirteen 

Pilgrimage: Return 

T HAD a DATE with readers of Resurgence : there was to be a 

± weekend gathering in Edinburgh, with Kathleen Raine as guest 

of honour. So after seventy-four days of walking I reluctantly took 

the train from Oban to Edinburgh. My only consolation was that I 

had walked over this ground on my way up to Oban. 

!* was strange being i„ the train and looking at Ae magnificent 

Highlands through the glass of a window. These were the hills, rivers 

and woods among which I had wandered: feeling them, smelling 

them, tasting them, touching them and being one with them. Passing 

them now at speed I could only get a fleeting glimpse. This hurried 

journey removed any possibility of experiencing the sacred beauty 

of these hills. 1 felt a betrayal of my pilgrimage, which was still with 

me on my arrival in Edinburgh that evening. Those mesmerizing 

moments of looking at Arthur’s Seat and walking step by step closet 

to it a fortnight ago were only a memory. Now from the railway 

station 1 could not even guess in which direction Arthur’s Seat was. 

My spirits lifted next morning when I saw Kathleen Raine. With 

a colourful shawl from Kashmir thrown over her red silk dress she 

looked the queen of all the poets-happy, charming, and full of 

vigour It was the 14th of July, her birthday; a bouquet of flowers 

from Rosalind Brackenbury, and from me a copy of Learning By 

Heart which was rushed hot from the press for this day, added to 

her )oy. She received this beautifully-produced poetry anthology 

to which she had contributed, with surprise. She had the first of 

the one hundred and seventy-five numbered copies which had been 

specially produced in aid of the Small School. Having read some of 

the poems and seen the list of prominent poets who had contributed 

to it, and the beautiful illustrations by Truda Lane, Kathleen said ‘I 

am delighted with this anthology. There is so much rubbish being 

written in the name of poetry that I a m often appalled. 1 am all 

X13 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

too familiar with the universal banality of most modern poetry. Of 

course it is good for people to express themselves, but I wonder if 

it would not be better if people were to read more and write less. 

Read real poetry, I mean. Poetry is a craft, a vocation, a dedication, 

a commitment, not something people can do in their spare time— 

except, of course, for their own pleasure/ 

Kathleen has made that commitment. She has dedicated herself to 

the renewal of the sacred in poetry and the arts. In the hurricane of 

modem materialism, most traditions of art and poetry, which relate 

to the human soul and the universal spirit, have been uprooted. 

Kathleen Raine is one of the few who has stood her ground. Her 

latest act in the fight against declining values is the publication of 

Temenos , a review devoted to the arts of the imagination. The true 

function of the arts is to nourish the soul, and through Temenos she 

has been able to do exactly that. 

At seventy-eight Kathleen is a dynamo of energy, busy at editing, 

writing, speaking and participating in seminars and conferences 

around the world. It has been a feat of willpower and tenacity to 

bring out each issue of Temenos . She has sold her furniture and her 

paintings to pay the printing bills and keep the arts alive. 

She has many friends in Edinburgh, and it was a rare occasion for 

them to have her in the city on her birthday. The evening sun shone 

until late; the garden of the Salisbury Centre was filled with guests. 

She spoke and read poetry with eloquence and authority, and we 

heard her in an enthused silence. 

A weekend with the readers of Resurgence heartened me. It is 

always surprising to know who they are. Artists, craftspeople, poets 

and smallholders are the expected subscribers to Resurgence , but 

here I found that a number of them were involved in computer tech¬ 

nology, city finance, fashion design and shopkeeping. Outwardly 

they came from varied backgrounds, but they all had one thing 

in common: spiritual values were fundamental to their personal 

and social life. 

The previous week in Iona 1 had met Jeanne Knight, a student 

of theology from Cambridge, who wanted to walk with me for a few 

days. After a brief discussion we agreed that she would meet me in 

Edinburgh when I resumed my walk south. 

I set off again on Monday morning together with Jeanne and a few 

other pilgrimage enthusiasts. As soon as we were out of the city 

we found a pleasant path to walk on. In the midsummer warmth, 

blessed by the hot sun, I took my shoes off. With bare feet on the 

ground, touching the grass and soil, 1 was in my element once more. 

Following a small bum through an ancient woodland we became 

immersed in the magic of the natural world, ‘This is the kind of 

untamed landscape which inspired those saints, St Francis and St 

Seraphim/ Jeanne remarked, i know of St Francis, but who was 

St Seraphim?’ 1 asked. ‘He was a Russian saint of the eighteenth 

century who lived in the woods. He wished for no distraction from 

his total devotion to God, so he chose the wilderness; by so doing 

he was able to heighten his awareness of God’s presence in creation. 9 

‘When did he live?’ I asked. ‘He was bom in 1759, the son of a 

builder, but deeply religious: he entered a monastery at the age of 

nineteen. The monastery was situated in the midst of the immense 

forests of central Russia. At the age of thirty-five, Seraphim had an 

inner call to go deeper into the forest. He built a little log cabin as 

his-hermitage by the River Sarovka, with a table, a log for a chair, 

an icon in a comer, but no bed. He grew vegetables, kept bees and 

lived in holy poverty: As St Francis of Assisi had his falcon and his 

wolf, St Seraphim had his bear. When St Seraphim came out of his 

hut, foxes, hares and snakes would gather round him/ 

After about three hours walk we arrived in Roslin, where we vis¬ 

ited the House of Transfiguration, an ecumenical and contemplative 

community. Brother Jonathan received us warmly,.even though he 

was not expecting us. As he showed us around the community, 

to our amazement we came upon a cell dedicated to St Seraphim. 

‘He is the patron of this community/ Brother Jonathan said, point¬ 

ing to the large icon of the saint which hung on the wall. I had 

neither heard of St Seraphim until that morning, nor knew that 

the House of Transfiguration had any connection with him; it was 

an extraordinary coincidence that Jeanne’s introduction to this saint 

should be followed immediately by our visit to a community dedi¬ 

cated to his path. 

The members of this community live in utter simplicity. Each 

brother has a wooden hut approximately eight feet by six. In each 

hut there is an icon, a table, a chair, a bed and nothing more. The 

NO DESTINATION 

brothers have a minimum of clothes and books; they have reduced 

their needs to the very basics so that maximum time and attention 

can be devoted to prayer and silence. Their food, which they prepare 

and share in the communal house, is simple. 

In answer to our apology for not telephoning him to let him know 

that we were coming, Brother Jonathan said, ‘The telephone is a 

great distraction. We have thought much and long about whether 

it is necessary for us to have a telephone. Even our Bishop suggested 

that we should have one in case of emergency, but we said to him, 

jokingly, that God doesn’t send his messages over the telephone! 

When we are at prayer, when we are sharing a meal, when we are 

having a meeting, the telephone could ring and disturb us. So a 

telephone was never installed.’ He added, ‘Not only the telephone 

but all modem machines are intrusive. They make a constant noise 

in the background. Silence is the casualty of gadgetry. The more 

possessions we have, the more time we have to spend in looking 

after them. They are all a distraction. The teachings of St Seraphim 

tell us to keep our lives as simple as possible.’ 

It was a refreshing relief to be in a Christian community which has 

returned to first principles. In a world of cathedrals, bishops’ palaces 

and rambling rectories, it requires great courage and commitment to 

return to a life in a cell with minimum possessions and no mod. cons. 

One of the members commented, ‘We arc at a loss to understand 

how it is that in spite of being Christian, Western society leads the 

world in its rush to capitalism, high living standards, economic 

growth and increasing personal wealth; whereas the teaching of . 

Jesus is that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle 

than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.’ 

Roslin is an ancient place for pilgrims. From here they used to 

begin their journeys, walking and riding to Santiago di Compostella 

in northwest Spain. They visited holy places along the route, and on 

their return to Roslin they brought shells, the symbol of St James, 

and placed them in the church to mark the completion of their 

pilgrimage. Now the church is desacralized, a sight for tourists, but 

nevertheless a very mysterious place where the past is strongly felt. 

From Roslin, Jeanne and 1 picked up a little-used track over the 

beautiful moorland of Hare Moss and Auchencorth Moss, many 

miles of unpopulated wilderness. For Jeanne, not being used to 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

walking long distances, the twenty-five mile trek to West 

was long and tiring. But in spite of blistered feet and aching lepUjt 

kept up the pace in a determined way. That determination is the 

essence of Jeanne’s life. At the age of twenty-five she has taken a vo# 

of life-long celibacy so that she can dedicate herself to God and tO 

the service of people. I asked her: ‘Isn’t it better to realize God not 

by turning away from the world, but by living through the world?* 

‘This wonderful world is not a monotonous creation. There are 

many kinds of landscape—rugged mountains and moorlands, lush 

valleys and woodlands—all of them are part of the glorious tapestry 

of creation. Similarly, celibacy is one of the many colours of that 

tapestry. A life of celibacy is not turning away from this world, it is a 

way of serving the world with all my energies. Through this one form 

of denial, 1 am more able to accept the world. To me, celibacy is the 

key to a life without fear. Celibacy channels the energy in such a way 

that 1 can act with full vigour,’ explained Jeanne. To many people 

a life of celibacy appears to be bare and harsh,’ I commented. ‘But 

bare mountains and deserts have always attracted saints and seekers. 

The very quality of harshness inspires thoughts of divinity. A life of 

celibacy attracts me for its bare simplicity. For me all children are 

my children, the whole of humanity is my family. I have transformed 

my romantic love into love of the divine. It is the universal love I am 

seeking through celibacy.’ These were strong words and they were 

coming from her mouth with passion. 

Jeanne paused for a moment, looking at the Pentland Hills. She 

said. The hills have their heads in the clouds, but they create the 

valleys, attract the rain, and are in no way removed from the ground, 

they connect the heaven and the earth, and for me that is ideal. If 

you get bogged down in the world of bodily comforts you become 

isolated in your own comer. If you remove yourself totally from the 

workings of the world and live only in the vision-world of abstract 

thought, then you too are in a comer. But like the Pendand Hills, if 

you can be in the clouds and on the earth at the same time, then you 

are a bridge. Celibacy is a bridge.’ This was Jeanne’s firm conviction, 

and I salute it. 

The hills are a source of inspiration to many religious people. The 

lamas of Tibet say the mountains are the abode of the goddess Tara. 

Whenever the lamas needed clarity and upliftment they went to 

2 . 2.6 

2 Z7 

NO DESTINATION 

the mountains. Some of the lamas who were displaced from the 

mountain monasteries of Tibet, during the Chinese invasion of the 

I 95 os > cam e to Scotland and searched for a landscape with the same 

soul. They found it here, in Eskdale in the Lothian hills and started 

the community, Sam ye Ling, at Eskdalemuir. 

But, alas, this community of the Tibetan order was not on my 

route. When I expressed my sadness to my hosts, Bill and Peggy 

Bartlett of Elvanfoot, they said, it may be off your route, but it 

is not very far to drive. It is about forty miles away. It would add 

four extra days to your journey if you walked there and back, but if 

you can delay your departure by one day, we will take you to Samye 

Ling/ Bill added further, ‘We have been living here so close to the 

community, but have never been there, so taking you will be a perfect 

opportunity for us to visit the lamas as well/ That was enough to 

persuade me. 

Jeanne, Peggy, Bill and I got in the car and headed towards 

Eskdale: over the fast-flowing River Annan, through the old town 

of Moffat, and past the Black Esk River, we followed the White 

Esk River. No wonder the Tibetan lamas chose to be here, as these 

mountains look so much like a Himalayan range, and yet they have 

a Scottish serenity. 

Bill had already phoned and made arrangements for our visit; we 

were warmly received by one of the members, who took us to the 

central hall of the temple where morning meditation and chanting 

takes place. The smell of sandalwood incense filled the air, and a 

larger-than-life statue of the Buddha gave off a golden glow. In 

front of it a large bowl of fruit and flowers lay as an offering. The 

walls were resplendent with intricately-painted Tibetan tankas , the 

floor was covered with thick pile carpet on which lay cushions, 

drums, gongs and other ceremonial equipment. The atmosphere 

of the place was rich and luxurious: I could not help making a 

mental comparison between the austerity of the community of St 

Seraphim, which 1 had visited only the day before, and the splendour 

of Samye Ling. The young man who showed us around had been 

living at Samye Ling and practising the dbarma for some time. The 

teachings of the Buddha were evident on his face and in his being. He 

talked and walked at a slow and settled pace as if all problems were 

under his control. He seemed immune to anger, panic, frustration 

218 

pilgrimage: return 

and anxiety. ‘What did you do to become so calm, composed and 

happy >* 1 asked, being impressed by his demeanour. ‘Nothing very 

much,* he replied. ‘Surely, you must do something to achieve this 

state? Otherwise why aren’t we all like you?’ i do meditate morning 

and evening/ He was self-effacing and reluctant to speak about his 

personal practice. ‘What do you do while you meditate?’ I pressed. 

Nothing very much. I sit quietly, gaze at the Buddha, and listen to 

the lamas/ And he quickly moved on to explain various practical 

activities of the community. If years of meditation can help you to 

find your true self and a state of equilibrium, then time spent sitting 

in the lotus position is well worth it. 

The young man took us to the site where the lamas and volunteers, 

with the advice of professional builders, were busy building a new 

temple in Tibetan style. ‘Everyone was amazed that the planning 

department could be so courageous as to allow such a monumental 

building, in such an alien, though elegant, style to be built in this 

part of rural Scotland,’ our guide told us. ‘Lords, Ladies, mps, civil 

servants, farmers and city dwellers have all joined to raise money, 

which has amounted to over one million pounds, for this temple/ 

‘How did you find this wonderful place?’ 1 asked. ‘Many years ago, 

when hardly anyone had heard of Tibetan Buddhism, Chogyam 

Trungpa was offered this beautiful house and land. He was taken 

aback. The house was situated at the confluence of two rivers, the 

White Esk and the Black Esk. The meeting of these two waters, as he 

saw it, would facilitate the harmonious coming together of the orient 

and the Occident, of the masculine and the feminine, of the spiritual 

and the material: all dualities would end at Eskdalemuir. Moreover, 

when he looked at the breathtaking mountains surrounding this 

place, so evocative of Tibet, he could not refuse the offer. Ever 

since, thpusands of people have come here and learned a way of 

compassion and detachment/ 

As we walked and talked we came to stand under a tree; I immedi¬ 

ately felt the close connection between trees and Buddhism. The 

Buddha received his enlightenment under a tree. He had said that. 

The Bodhi tree under which I sit is a perfect example of compas¬ 

sion and detachment/ Ashoka, Emperor of India and a passionate 

follower of the Buddha, instructed every citizen to plant five trees 

a year, to look after, nurture, and respect them, not only as a 

219 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

means of food, wood, and'shade, but as a source of inspiration 

and enlightenment. Ashoka had said ‘Go and sit under a tree. You 

will become calm, you will become still, and, if you sit there long 

enough, you will be enlightened/ 

Now it was lunchtime, and we were invited to the members’ sim¬ 

ple and yet sumptuous meal. While we were relishing the wholesome 

brown rice with stir-fried cabbage and soya sauce, our conversation 

moved from subject to subject. Bill Bartlett was keen to find out 

about the importance of Tibetan chanting as part of daily practice. 

A Tibetan nun, who had joined us at the table with her young son, 

came to our aid. ‘The mind makes you leap either into the past or 

into the future—it is like a wild horse. The sound of the chant is used 

by the Self as reins to guide the mind. Meditating on the full meaning 

of the mantra which we chant, we can come to the realization of 

our rrue being. For example, we chant “Om mani padme hum” 

which means W J am the jewel in the heart of the lotus.” Now, we 

don’t need to think of the meaning of the words linguistically. The 

real meaning is in immersing our whole being into the pure sound 

of the chant. When we are enchanted by the chant, we need not 

indulge in the intellectualization of concepts. We simply become 

the chant, we become the jewel, we become the lotus, we become 

ourselves. It may take long practice but the journey begins with the 

first chant. The more you chant, the more powerful and charged the 

chant becomes.’ 

This reminded me of the image used by Eknath Easwaran, an 

Indian teacher, about the mahout taking his elephant through the 

market. The elephant is bound to be attracted to the fruits on the 

stalls. So the mahout gives the elephant a stick to hold in his trunk. 

No matter how delightful are the goods along his path, the elephant 

cannot be distracted. The stick acts on the elephant like a mantra on 

the human mind. 

But Samye Ung is by no means a community of meditators, sitting 

and chanting all day long. The members here work with their bodies 

as much as with their minds. ‘Sitting in a comer and contemplating 

is only a starting point,’ we were told. ‘Eventually all our activities 

should become meditative.’ As we visited various workshops of 

pottery, printing woodcarving and other artefacts, we witnessed 

that meditative quality. Everyone was truly engaged in the work 

2.30 

without appearing to be frantically busy or being under pressure. 

As my hands turn the day into a pot, 1 realize the process of 

change taking place within me. When I came to this community, I 

was like raw clay. With the help of my teachers and with the help of 

meditation, I am turning myself into a useful pot,’ said the woman 

who received us at the pottery. I understood her. It was dear to me 

when I looked in her calm and mellow eyes. ‘How do you feel being 

in Scotland?’ I asked a Tibetan member of the community. ‘I feel 

fine. Sometimes blessings come in disguise. We were getting a bit 

lazy in Tibet. The Chinese invasion woke us up; we had to get on 

our feet and start moving. We had to come out of hiding and offer 

ourselves in the service of the world, particularly the West.’ ‘Why 

particularly the West?’ 1 asked. ‘It is very simple. The West leads 

the world in the religion of materialism. But materialism is reaching 

its limit. People are looking for something which will satisfy their 

inner needs. Perhaps we can make some contribution in this field 

with the teachings of the Buddha. We Tibetans need to learn a bit 

of materialism tool It will be a balancing act, a two-way process.’ 

Our day at Samye Ling was an inspiring experience. As we drove 

back to Elvanfoot, we reflected on the life of the community which 

seemed to us like ‘a laboratory of rich experiments’. 

The next day Jeanne stayed with the Bartletts, as her burst 

blisters meant that she could not manage any further walking. I 

continued alone, along Daer Water to the dramatic Dalveen Pass. 

Here Steygail stood close on my right, 575 metres above sea-level, 

and Well Hill loomed up on my left at 606 metres. Step by step, like 

a human figure in a Chinese painting, I kept moving on this road 

which wound like a snake. Although it is an ‘a’ road, there was 

hardly any traffic on it; fortunately the newly enlarged A74 trunk 

road had taken the through traffic away and left these mysterious 

mountains all for me! Mountains are Nature’s cathedrals. I put my 

rucksack down and sat on a stone, gazing at the glorious rocks. 

Sheep grazing in the foreground, birds flying above them and a 

stream flowing below. There was no sense of time or space, just a 

slow movement in the eternal stillness. I understood the words of 

the woman lama about the ‘enchantment of the soul’. She had said 

When intellectual concepts end, life becomes a constant flow.’ 

231 

NO DESTINATION 

pilgrimage: return 

I walked to the picturesque village of Dunsdeer and then followed 

a minor road to Drumlarrig Park and Poets Comer. 1 kept moving 

along the River Nith to Thornhill where I was met by Richard, the 

son of Maggie Sale, on his bicycle; he led me to his home in Penpont, 

where I was to stay the night. 

Appropriately, my bedroom resounded with the sitar music of 

Ravi Shankar, the air perfumed with the scent of incense. No one 

was to disturb me until I had my bath, rest and dinner. I was.treated 

as an honoured guest, with the utmost care and consideration. 

Maggie’s home is a refuge for those who need help: battered wives, 

drug addicts and the homeless. Maggie receives them with an open 

heart, consoles them, counsels them, and gives them help and advice 

as appropriate. Maggie is a giver of love: she gives and gives, and 

seems to have an endless store of energy, and time for everyone. In 

the kitchen she keeps a pot. Anyone staying for the night or having 

a meal can put a contribution in this pot, if they are able and if they 

so desire. The pot has been there for many years and it has never been 

found empty. Some give more, some give less, some give none, but as 

the Indian proverb goes: ‘Annapooma, the goddess of grain, keeps 

the pot full/ 

I stayed two nights at Maggie’s house, meeting many of her friends 

who, like her, are involved in the movements for peace, education, 

ecology and social justice. Some of them accompanied me as I 

continued my walk from Penpont to Lothlorien community and 

then on to Dumfries. 

Of Dumfries I knew nothing, apart from the lines in the T.S. Eliot 

poem, The Railway Cat , which my daughter Maya recites with rel¬ 

ish: ‘But you saw him at Dumfries; Where he speaks to the police,’ 

Alistair Warren, my guide in Galloway, had told me that this town 

has a much closer and greater connection with another great poet, 

Robert Bums. So, my first desire on arrival there was to make a 

pilgrimage to the newly created Robert Bums Centre in a converted 

mill on the banks of the River N^th. 

As Alistair and I were looking around the museum, we came to a 

room in which there stood a life-sized statue of Robert Bums, the 

handsome poet, dressed in elegant clothes of velvet and lace. The 

sculptor had achieved a tremendous feat in putting life into the 

statue, from which grace was pouring out. To our amazement, Bums 

was being embraced, caressed and kissed by a beautiful woman of 

about twenty, also elegantly dressed in black and white. Alistair and 

I stood astounded a few feet away, gating at the sight of a couple 

in love. ‘The statue is luckier than me, isn’t it?’ I said laughingly. 

The woman overheard me and also laughed. ‘Don’t look so sad and 

sorry’ she said, and to my pleasant surprise, she embraced me and 

gave me a warm kiss on my lips. Then she said ecstatically, ‘Burns is 

my love and my hero, he can never die. He lives through his poetry. 

He wrote for the people. When working people got their weekly 

wage they would divide it between bread, beer and Burns, buying 

his latest book. I read him passionately, I come here often—I love 

him, for me he is the greatest poet.’ 

A land where people love poetry and dance to the rhythms of 

Robert Bums is a sacred land. I felt uplifted by meeting this woman 

who valued poetry above all else. 

I was invited to narrate the story of my pilgrimage to a gath¬ 

ering of people at St Joseph’s, a school in Dumfries run by Catho¬ 

lic Brothers. The gathering Took place in the building where the 

Brothers lived. They had very kindly offered the room. About fifty 

people of all ages had come to listen to ‘A strange story’, as Maggie 

Sale described it, ‘reviving the ancient tradition of pilgrimage by 

depending on the freely-given hospitality of people. Here is someone 

who finds spiritual nourishment through walking in nature and 

meeting people/ 

I spoke for about forty minutes, ‘Carrying no money,* 1 said * 

gave me the opportunity to stay with people and receive their help 

and support.’ As 1 sat down, one of the brothers was provoked to 

stand up and comment, it’s all very well for you to go without 

money, but if everyone went on such a journey where would we 

be? Under the guise of spirituality, there are far too many people 

living off others. A true traveller should be self-reliant and not 

take food from others/ His words came like a bombshell and the 

audience was stunned into silence. The enthusiasm 1 had generated 

was dampened as if cold water had been poured over it. I felt as 

if I had received a physical blow. The last person from whom I 

had expected to receive such a comment was a monk! It took me 

a few moments to gather my thoughts together. And then in a 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIM ACE: RETURN 

hesitant voice, I offered my explanation. ‘It is hypothetical to ask 

what would happen if everyone did the same thing. It is extremely 

unlikely that everyone would go on a pilgrimage without money at 

the same time.’ 

The Brother stood up again and asserted, ‘But one should set an 

example which anyone can follow. If something is good for you to 

do, then it must be good for everyone else to do. I don’t see how 

everyone can go without money, seeking shelter and sustenance 

from others.’ 

The point seemed logical but there was something not quite right 

about it. Alistair Warren came to my defence. ‘Giving hospitality 

to pilgrims is an old Christian tradition. Those who were on a 

pilgrimage would receive hospitality from those who were not, 

and at another time their roles would be reversed, so all could 

receive mutual hospitality. Christian monks and priests have always 

depended on the generosity of the community/ 

The doubting Brother would have none of this: he stood up 

again and persisted, ‘I teach children here in this school and by 

this I am earning my living. Christian priests perform a particular 

service to the community; it is their job, and therefore they earn 

their keep. In my view people wandering in the name of pilgrim¬ 

age or peace are just taking advantage of other people’s good¬ 

will, and by calling yourself a pilgrim you make other people gull¬ 

ible.’ 

Obviously the Brother and I were on very different wavelengths. 

I said, ‘You are a Brother, you have taken a vow of celibacy. Can 

everyone take such a vow? If you are saying that nothing is valid 

unless it can be practised by everyone, the first thing you need to 

do is go out, find a woman, get married and have children, because 

if everyone became celibate like you, the world as we know it would 

come to an end!’ 

There were shrieks of prolonged laughter from the audience, and 

the Brother himself joined in. The ice was somewhat broken. ‘I take 

your point/ the Brother said smilingly, and gave way to other 

questions. But the atmosphere of the meeting remained uneasy and 

negative. There were few questions after that. Even tea and biscuits 

could not do much to lift it. As we talked informally, one of the older 

Brothers said to me, ‘I am sorry that you were put to such harsh 

questioning.’ That apology from a fellow Brother put some balm 

on my wound. 

When Maggie, Alistair, my hostess Kathy and I returned to her 

house we spent the rest of the evening discussing the matter. A potent 

seed of doubt had been planted in my mind and no amount of kind 

words from Kathy, who is an Irish Catholic, could comfort me. I 

retired to bed early, leaving my friends still sorting it out. 

Going to bed was easy but falling asleep was not. My mind kept 

spinning round and round. Thoughts, arguments, counter-argu¬ 

ments, questions, more questions and even possible answers kept 

me awake. As I tossed and turned, I felt pain in my back and sat 

up in bed trying to calm my mind. The words of the Brother were 

like a barb in my flesh. I thought of my whole past* I thought of 

India which I had left behind. Was it right to leave India and come 

to live in the West? Shouldn’t I have stayed close to my own culture 

and my roots? Then 1 thought of June, my wife, Mukti and Maya,> 

my two children—was it right to leave them alone at home and go 

around wandering like a pilgrim? Perhaps the Brother was right—I 

have always been escaping from my duties and responsibilities. 

I lifted the edge of the curtain and looked out of the window. 

The sky was dark, no stars, no moon, no light. Everything seemed 

without life. I lay down once more, trying not to think about the 

dark outside and doubt inside me. I concentrated on my breath and 

started to count. That seemed to work. My legs, arms and body 

began to feel heavy. My eyes, cheeks and lips began to relax. I was 

half asleep and half dreaming. I became aware of a hand coming 

towards me which then lay soothingly on my forehead. Then I saw 

the arm and then the body. I looked into the kindly eyes of this 

person. For a moment I could not recognize them, then I did. It was 

no-one else but my hostess, Kathy, saying simply, ‘It is past midnight, 

you must go to sleep.’ ‘Did you think the Brother was right?’ I asked. 

‘No, the Brother was wrong. Everyone has their own pattern of life, 

you are your own pattern. The Brother was trying to make everyone 

fit the same pattern. That cannot be right. So go to sleep/ Then she 

became silent, kept looking unblinkingly at me. I felt as if she was 

trying to mesmerize me into sleep. 

I woke up. There was no person there. The light was coming 

through the window, it was morning. I was still feeling tired but 

234 

*35 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

it was time to get up and be on the road again. I got out of bed, 

washed, dressed, put my rucksack on my back and came down to 

the kitchen. Kathy had laid the table for breakfast; orange juice, 

porridge, toast, marmalade, tea, but 1 did not have any appetite. I 

drank a cup of tea. 

Kathy said. ‘I will walk with you for a while, then my daughter 

will come in the car and bring me back. Quite a few people who 

attended the meeting last night have phoned to say that they want to 

give you lunch and be with you again at Ruthwell Church/ I heard 

this in silence. 

We walked through the well-kept and beautiful gardens of the 

Royal Hospital, full of old, mature and graceful trees. Kathy sud¬ 

denly came to a stop, ‘Satish, don't you think that this is the most 

wonderful tree of all?' We stood before a magnificent oak and gazed 

up at its lofty branches. I stood there feeling the protection and 

♦magnanimity of this great tree. Kathy began to sing an Irish song. 

I think that I shall never see 

A poem lovely as a tree. 

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed 

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; 

A tree that looks at God all day, 

And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in summer wear 

A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bpsom snow has lain; # 

Who intimately lives with rain. 

Poems arc made by fools like me. 

But only God can make a tree. 

Listening to Kathy’s sweet voice, my worries receded. 1 hugged 

the tree, strong, solid, firm, and unconcerned with the ways of the 

world. Whether someone sings songs of praise or blame, the tree 

takes no notice. 

We walked on. Past Rosebank Farm, we turned right and followed 

the road alongside the River Nith. My dream of the previous night 

came vividly to my mind, of Kathy coming into the room and putting 

136 

her healing hand on my forehead. But I was not able to talk to Kathy 

about it. Instead I repeated the question I had asked her in my dream, 

‘Was the Brother right?’ 

Kathy said, ‘The tradition of pilgrimage is practised in different 

countries and different cultures in different ways; some people have 

gone on pilgrimage with money and some without it, one does not 

invalidate the other. What surprised me is that he expressed his 

opinion in such a harsh way.’ 

The only thing I could gain from this experience was to learn to 

practise Right Speech. According to the Buddhist tradition, speech 

which causes pain is against the principle of Right Speech, one 

element of the eight-fold path. Right Speech means that we should 

speak words that will bring about love, friendship, unity, and har¬ 

mony and never say things that may bring about hatred, enmity, 

disunity and disharmony among people; we should speak pleasant 

words and never those which are rude and insulting. We should 

speak only useful and meaningful words and not waste time in idle 

or foolish babble. 

We were so engaged in our thoughts and talk that our arrival 

in Glen Caple rook us by surprise. Kathy said, ‘Gosh! This is not 

where we are supposed to be^my daughter will be waiting at Bank 

Knd which is miles away and the people who have offered us lunch 

will be waiting at Ruthwell, which is even further. And the vicar of 

Ruthwell, who is expecting you to visit the church and its ancient 

cross will be waiting as well. Where did we lose our way?’ 

Looking at the map and asking people, we found that the path had 

been lost in Dumfries itself. Maggie Sale came to the rescue. ‘I hope 

you are not too inflexible to give up walking a few miles. Since people 

are waiting for us, we had better take a lift.’ 

I felt frustrated and irritated. Why hadn’t I been alert? We had 

been on a direct road to Bank End. What had possessed us to turn 

away from it? It is no good travelling with a disturbed mind. 

With some trepidation I agreed to Maggie s suggestion. She 

remembered some friends who lived in Glen Caple; we went to their 

house and quickly a lift was arranged and we were put on the right 

road to Ruthwell. Happily we started walking again, through Dock 

Ridding Wood and Comlongdon Wood, and arrived at Ruthwell 

Church, to meet the vicar and a dozen or so people for lunch. We 

2*37 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

were late but everybody cheered when they saw us coming. It was 

nearly half past two, and we were hungry. 

A large cloth was spread on the ground, and we sat in the cool 

shade of a tree. People had brought salads, soup, quiches, bread, 

cheeses, a variety of puddings and all manner of drinks. It was a feast 

and it was a celebration. With much joy and high spirits we shared 

the lunch. This was all Maggie Sale’s superb organization. She had 

even invited my host for that evening. Dr Barry Dale, to meet us there 

so that he could guide me to his home on the estuary. 

After the lunch everyone from Dumfries said goodbye to me and 

returned. Only Tom, frail and fragile-looking, decided to accom¬ 

pany us to Powfoot. 1 could see concern on Barry Dale’s face. He 

said to Tom, ‘We will be walking along the sand of the estuary, 

on Priestside Bank, the terrain will be difficult—marshy, muddy 

and wet.’ But Tom was determined to come. ‘Don’t worry, 1 have 

come prepared with my Wellington boots. 1 may look slight but I 

can walk long distances.’ So we set off at a brisk pace, Barry with 

his long staff leading the way. He looked like St Christopher, the 

patron saint of travellers, reassuring and confident, giving us a sense 

of safety and security. When we reached the estuary we realized that 

Barry’s warning was no exaggeration. We were confronted by the 

enormous expanse of the Solway Firth. 

I stood there, overwhelmed, looking at the wide stretches of water 

where four great rivers, Eden, Esk, Annan and Nith, meet the sea. 

The power of water had created a landscape of sand, mud, marsh 

and sand dunes. 1 could see the struggle taking place between land 

and sea, almost a battlefield. As we started to traverse the marshy 

surface of Priestside Bank, we were constantly jumping various pools 

and streams. One of the streams was quite wide. Barry plunged his 

long staff into the middle of the water and using it as a pole, jumped 

over, then he passed his staff to Tom to follow his example. But 

unfortunately Tom landed in the middle of the stream, completely 

submerged in exceedingly*cold water. Seeing him fall, I felt as if a 

snake had crawled up my back. But he was swift to stand up in the 

waist-high water. Barry took his hand and pulled him out, a true St 

Christopher. Tom was shocked and shaken, but undaunted. ‘Don’t 

worry,’ he said. Til get dry as I walk with you,’ but Barry was too 

concerned to allow it. ‘You are shivering—you’ll get pneumonia. 

We have to walk three more hours at least before we get home. 

I will walk with you back to the road from where you can take 

a lift or a bus to Dumfries.’ But Tom was unwilling to give up: ‘I 

was not expecting an easy path, and a pilgrim’s path is not an easy 

path.’ Barry and I were a bit bewildered. We did not feel that Tom 

should risk continuing for several hours with the wind blowing on 

his wet body, but we did not wish to hurt his feelings either. ‘You are 

with us in spirit, but please take Barry’s offer. I will wait here until 

Barry returns.’ At my request, Tom agreed. 

After about half an hour Barry returned and we carried on. Walk¬ 

ing on the wet sand was slow, and hard on the knees. Barry took my 

pack, as he was so at home and at ease on these sands and scars. 

By the time we got to his house in Powfoot, it was after nine and 

beginning to get dark. But his children and his wife Sue were waiting 

for us with a hot dinner in the oven and the table beautifully laid. I 

had been on the go for thirteen hours. But once I arrived, the warm 

welcome of the Dale family dispelled all my fatigue. 

The next day was going to be even longer. I rose early and, 

equipped with a great pack of sandwiches, I departed alone. I trav¬ 

elled north and east to meet the bridge over Annan and then south 

again along the footpath at the estuary’s edge through Gretna, zig¬ 

zagging down to pick up the footpath along the River Eden. From 

my map I could see that there was a railway bridge at Stainton: the 

railway line had been dismantled, but there was a bridge over the 

Eden, I decided to cross the river at that point, but when I arrived 

at the bridge it was fenced off with a wood and steel structure about 

twelve feet high, covered with all sorts of signs, prohibiting trespass, 

declaring the bridge was unsafe and illegal to use. 

1 could not afford the time to change my route and walk a few 

more miles to the next bridge, so I had to ignore the prohibitive 

notices. The bridge looked strong and in good condition and I saw 

no reason why it wouldn’t take my weight; my only fear was that 

someone would see me and try to stop me. I looked around carefully. 

There was no one in sight apart from a couple of anglers down below 

the bridge. So I climbed the fence with some trepidation and walked 

over the bridge, excitedly looking at the fast-flowing River Eden 

below me. As I started climbing a similar fence on the other side of 

the bridge I felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction and achievement, 

* 3 ? 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

and no fear any more: nobody had seen me, and even if they saw me 

now it was too late to stop me. 

I walked through the city of Carlisle alongside the River Caldew, 

on the beautifully kept public footpath, the Cumbrian Way. Some¬ 

times it was overgrown but I pushed my way through with pleasure. 

The quietly-flowing Caldew was shaded by trees, and branches hung 

low into its waters. On the other bank, where clumps of wild flowers 

were scattered between the trees, I could hear the constant hum of 

the honey-bees. I could not see any hives, so I wondered if these were 

wild bees and whether I would come across a wild hive on a tree. I 

kept looking in the branches of every tree: I had a strong urge to find 

wild honey, but was not lucky enough to find any. 

I came across a small clearing with shafts of sunlight warming the 

ground near the water, so I sat down in the sunny spot to rest. As I 

opened my sandwich box, I heard a sweet yet strange sound. It was 

very near, above my head. I looked up. There was a bird flying this 

way and that, sometimes high and away and then back low and near, 

making louder and louder sounds; koor-lyou, koor-lyou, koor-lyou. 

It had an elegant grey body with a long curving beak. I felt the bird 

had some message for me and that was why it was keeping so close 

on this secret and sacred river bank. Not being a bird-watcher, I did 

not know what it was, but I certainly felt that it was a brave and 

courageous bird, without fear, and later when I described it, people 

said it must have been a curlew. 

After walking beside the Caldew for several hours I felt its pres¬ 

ence as a friend and I had to part from it with some reluctance. 

At about five o’clock in the evening as I was marching along at 

full speed a car stopped; out stepped a woman with fair hair and a 

big smile. She was my hostess for that evening. By this time, having 

walked alone all day, 1 was certainly in need of some company. How 

pleasant it was that she had met me on the road, how reassuring 

that I was on the right path and could not now lose my way, and 

how comforting to know that my destination was only a couple of 

hours away. 

Jacky had come equipped with very detailed maps of the area and 

therefore we could leave the tarmac track, follow a ploughed-up 

footpath to the River Ive, and walk along it to her home at Thomas 

Close. Her husband Tony was cooking the supper. They live in 

240 

I )ufton farmhouse, practising some of the principles of a lifestyle 

which is in harmony with the earth and environment. 

Our conversation went on late into the evening. In spite of having 

walked over forty miles, perhaps the longest walk yet in my pil¬ 

grimage, I was feeling quite relaxed and comfortable in my body. 

Next morning l walked only a short distance, about ten miles, to 

Penrith. Ana and Nick Jones of the Water Mill at Little Salkeld 

were my companions and guides for the day. They are old friends, 

so being able to walk with them and come to their mill gave me 

great pleasure. 

Nick and Ana are living examples of people who practise the 

values in which they believe. In spite of many difficulties of all 

kinds—personal, financial, social and cultural—they have created 

a means of Right Livelihood in the Buddhist sense. They are earning 

their living through milling flour, baking and serving wholesome 

bread to the community, and cultivating the land. They do no 

harm to their own being, to others, to animals or to the natural 

environment. This is the kind of blameless profession commended by 

the Buddha. Nick and Ana gave up their steady, well-paid jobs, and 

bought the mill when it was disused and derelict. They restored it and 

brought it back to life through a terrific amount of perseverance and 

endurance. Eventually they were able to create a situation such that 

neighbouring farmers could grow organic grain to be milled locally, 

and thus strengthen the local economy and the community. The mill 

has become a beacon for their area where people gather for spiritual, 

intellectual and physical sustenance. 

By the evening train, June arrived. I had not seen her since she 

came with the children to Lindisfame. Although I knew that I was 

wandering in the wilderness of Britain with the blessing of June, 

the fact that she had come to walk with me for a week gave me 

a sense of great satisfaction—it was proof of her endorsement of 

my wandering, it is good, June, that you have come to walk with 

Satish,’ said Ana in her smiling way. ‘This pilgrimage is going to 

be the talk of the family and friends for a long time to come, so I 

didn’t want to miss the experience myself,’ said June. ‘Yes, we were 

talking about you and wondering how you have been getting on,’ 

Ana commented, it’s been hard. But ever since I first knew Satish 

it was clear that he would do something at the age of fifty, and at 

*41 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

least he hasn't disappeared into the Himalayas.’ June replied. ‘I could 

not go to the Himalayas leaving a young family behind/ 1 interjected. 

‘By the time the householder departs for the Himalayas, the children 

should be grown up and able to take on responsibility/ 

Accompanied by jacky, we took the most glorious path into 

the Cumbrian Mountains, following the River Caldew to its source 

in Skidd aw. Surrounded by magnificent mountains, there stood 

Skiddaw House, desolate and derelict, telling the story of the past 

when men and women lived in the solitude and simplicity of these 

mountains, keeping sheep and gathering food as gifts from nature. 

As far-as we could see there were bare, brown hills, but under our 

feet was soft green grass tended by the sheep; it felt like a cushioned 

carpet, cooled by the waters of Caldew. The previous evening we 

had arranged to meet our host, Alan Hankinson of Keswick, in 

this wonderful place. We sat, lay down and rested in anticipation 

of meeting Alan, but almost an hour passed and there was no sign of 

him. We wondered whether we had misunderstood him In the end 

we decided to walk on without him. 

We followed the Cumbrian Way along the edge of Lonscale Fell, 

towards the town of Keswick. The rough stone-strewn, rocky, irregu¬ 

lar mountain path made it hard going for us but then came light relief 

in the form of a figure running at full speed towards us. He was quite 

a sight; we stood motionless watching this Fell runner who was so at 

ease with the rugged rocks. He passed us and for a while disappeared 

in the distance, but then reappeared down in the valley, crossing the 

bridge over the beck and up again on Biease Fell, still at full speed. 

From the slopes of Jenkin Hill, we looked at the much-awaited 

sight of the two great lakes, Derwent Water and Bassenthwaite. It 

was breathtaking: 

Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 

How beautiful the world below 

(Wordsworth) 

There is nothing more beautiful to see, there is no better place to 

go, all and everything is here. Here is the grandeur of God’s creation. 

Everything in balance, all in proportion, the hardness of the blue 

water, the flexibility of the swaying trees, the gentle movement of 

I hr breeze. This was a place of total peace and yet we had to keep 

moving and come down from the heights to find Alan Hankinson 

and his house in Skiddaw Street. 

I was anxious about missing Alan but as we descended through 

ihr woods of Ormathwaite we saw him coming towards us, curly 

wild hair, weathered face, deep eyes and fit body. Tm sorry to be 

late but I was leading a group of walkers and, as I am sure you 

well know, you can never determine how long a mountain walk will 

take/ he said. 

Alan was to lead us the next day. 1 was up and about early and my 

feet were itching to be in the lap of Lakeland, bur my excitement did 

not impress him: he was taking it easy. For him, being on the fells of 

Cumbria was a familiar affair so it was after nine when we left the 

house. But once we were on the move, Alan shot like a bullet, up and 

up and up, following Brockte Beck and then to Falcon Crag. From 

here we could see the spread of Derwent Water and Bassenth waite 

and umpteen streams and rivers between the two lakes. 

I loved the lakes but I wanted to move into the mountains. The 

path, a sheep track between the heather, led us up to High Seat, over 

six hundred metres high. From here onwards there was no path, only 

endless boggy marsh. ‘If you walk on the hillocks and mounds of 

tough grass, avoiding the water between, you will be alright/ said 

Alan. June and I looked at him doubtfully. 1 was concerned about 

the bogginess of the terrain: I had once sunk up to my knees in a 

similar bog on Exmoor and did not wish to experience that feeling 

again, but there was no alternative route. We followed the line of 

the sheep fence which kept flocks in one valley from wandering into 

another. How did fartners bring posts and netting to this remote 

place and manage to put the fence up, I wondered? Our pace was 

slow and the path meandered; my excitement and enthusiasm turned 

into anxiety and frustration. We reached the hill top of High Tove 

and sat down there for a drink of water and a look at the map. 

1 felt reluctant to keep zigzagging over the hillocks and bogs, so 

\ suggested taking a right turning and going down into the valley 

of Wacendlath. From there a marked public footpath would bring 

us up again. Alan warned us that we would lose hundreds of feet 

in height, but because of my anxiety he agreed, since this was not 

territory which he knew well. 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

We started to climb down. There was a steep slope of scree and 

stones, loose and risky. One stone dislodged by my foot rocketed 

down. I stood holding my breath, aghast, pressing my fingers to 

my lips, hoping it would not hit anyone down below. Eventually we 

managed to get to Watendlath, where there was a group of houses 

and a lovely lake fed by five small streams. This was surely the time 

to stop, rest and have lunch, which we did, and we then looked at our 

maps again to make sure that we found the public footpath going up 

the fells. When we had determined where the path was going, we put 

our rucksacks on and set off. Although the path was clearly marked 

on the map, within ten minutes it had petered out into the heather, in 

spite of it being National Trust land. Now I regretted losing height, 

as Alan had warned us. We had to walk up and up again on the steep 

hill in the same kind of terrain as High Tove. I should have paid 

more attention to Alan’s experience. Seeing June stagger behind, 

Alan kindly took her rucksack and we kept up a fast pace. After an 

hour’s walk we came to Blea Tarn, a large pool of clear water held in 

the shoulders of the hills. When I saw Blea Tam I felt a sense of relief; 

we had regained our height and met up with the sheep fence. Now if 

we kept to the ridge we would soon be at Greenup Edge from where 

we would descend into the valley of Easedale. This thought spurred 

me on and put me in a more optimistic mood. 

We stood at the high point of Ullscarf, 726 metres high as described 

in the map, and looked around: 

No habitation can be seen; but they 

Who journey hither 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 

(Wordsworth) 

All the bogs and jumping on hillocks was now behind us, and this 

solitude was ample reward. 

People like company and the gods like solitude. We build 

towns, villages and communities, but the gods stay in the mountains. 

From the house of the gods in the Cumbrian heights, Alan, June and I 

descended into the valley of Easedale, which was sleeping peacefully, 

nhcltcred by cliffs and crags and covered with a blanket of green grass 

and mountain ash trees. 

The valley brought us to Grasmere, the home of the poet Words¬ 

worth, who spent his life singing of the grandeur of this landscape. 

I le used to walk to Keswick to lunch with his friends and return 

in the evening without much ado. The distance we had covered, 

walking hard all day, Wordsworth would have done as a matter 

of course: through quiet valleys which now are filled with roads, 

crowds and cars. In the nineteenth century, country people would 

not have thought twice about walking twenty miles in a day, whereas 

wc in modem times seem to behave as if we have lost our legs. 

Arriving in Grasmere and hitting the A59 was quite a shock. After 

the solitude of the hills we were in the midst of souvenir shops, petrol 

stations, cafes and superstores. We spent the night in Ambleside, 

which was bustling and busy with tourism, and next morning I 

experienced a sense of relief in setting off for the towering hill of 

Jenkin Crag. As we climbed up and up, I felt high and superior, glad 

lo leave the world down below. But when I looked back at the old 

atone and slate houses of Ambleside nestling on the shores of Lake 

Windermere, the dear water stretching along the valley as far as 

the eyes could see, my desire to escape into the hills was tempered 

by the attraction of the world I had left behind. How wrong I was 

to see the height of Jenkin Crag without relating it to the great 

hike and the land which rest down below. Jenkin Crag and Lake 

Windermere are aspects of the same reality. There can be no high 

without a low. I remembered the Taoist prindple of polarity, which 

is not to be confused with opposition or conflict. High and low, 

pleasure and pain, life and death, positive and negative ‘are more 

like lovers wrestling than enemies fighting... The art of life is more 

like navigation than warfare.’ (Alan Watts, Tao). These thoughts 

(lashed through my mind like lightning and therefore I was as happy 

descending from Jenkin Crag as I had been to climb it. 

We followed a footpath which went alongside the River Kent, and 

met the River Sprint near Bumeside. There used to be a working mill 

here, which was shut down and left to fall derelict—the same fate 

i\h thousands of other mills. A few years ago, Edward Acland saw 

the potential of this beautiful mill, and borrowed the money from 

friends and family to buy it at a low price. 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

We arrived there in the heat of a late summer’s afternoon. Our 

hosts were enjoying a swim and play in a deep pool of water beside 

the mill house, where the River Sprint emerged out of dense woods 

on to large slabs of rock and rushed its way past* We put our 

rucksacks down, threw our clothes off and plunged in to join them 

in the river. The experience of our hot bodies meeting the coo) waters 

created shudders of delight! This place was like paradise; the rocks, 

the river, the woods, the people, the house all in perfect harmony. 

A good half-hour of submersion had more than cooled our bodies, 

and with perfect timing a tray full of tea and cake appeared on the 

wooden table outside the house* We went from hot to cool and then 

to hot again. ‘Once upon a time, this was a great mill, serving many 

communities,’ Edward said* ‘Now the milling is no more but 1 have 

used the huge space of several storeys for my collection of antique 

tools and artefacts.’ Edward is a lover of things old and well-made. 

He is a collector of items which other people have found useless 

and superfluous, but he sees as objects of beauty and craftsmanship* 

‘These objects have an immense value and long life because people 

put their skill, ingenuity and love into making them with their own 

hands. Modem gadgets, made quickly by machines and lacking 

the human touch are used today and thrown away tomorrow,’ 

said Edward as he showed me around. ‘Where do you find these 

wonderful things?’ I asked, i go to old farms and mills, to auctions 

and sales—there is no one source. Quite often these tools are rusting 

away unused or discarded uncaringly. When I see that, my heart 

bleeds, so I bring them here and make use of them in my work.’ 

Edward is a woodworker and carpenter. He particularly likes 

to repair old doors, windows, and broken furniture. Conservation 

and recycling are his great passions. ‘Waste not want not* is his 

dearest motto. 

He has many skills and many interests. Not long ago he gathered 

together a group of friends to make a large Indian tipi. This involved 

men, women and children working together over many months— 

finding the right material, designing, cutting the canvas correctly, 

sewing it together, searching for poles of the right size in the woods 

and working out many other fine details—needed a tremendous 

amount of imagination, co-operation and hard work. ‘You have 

a choice: either you can sleep in the house or in our tipi which we 

rt riled this afternoon with you in mind,* said Edward. For June 

and I it was not a choice but a matter of pleasure and honour to 

•Ircp in the tipi. 

Wc walked several hundred yards on a frcshly-mownpath through 

lung lush undergrowth of grass, nettles and pink campion. As we 

i dine to a meadow by the river 1 was struck by the magnificent 

•tight of the beautiful white tipi surrounded by friendly green trees. 

I wanted to stand still and gaze at the purity of its shape, which 

pointed towards heaven and yet was firmly grounded on earth. I 

hail never seen anything like it before. How could our architects 

take no notice of this rounded dwelling, and make square boxes 

lor our homes? 

I slowly walked to the tipi, went around it, looking upwards, 

downwards, sideways. It was so simple yet so mysterious; beautiful 

m every detail. It offered shelter for most human needs and protec- 

lion from the elements and yet it had the magnificence of a noble 

sculpture which fitted so naturally into the spirit of the landscape. 

' I he culture of America’s native Indians, which gave birth to the 

tipi, is a culture close to the earth. We call those people primitive, 

savage and uncivilized, but they understood intuitively the workings 

of nature, and respected the laws and principles of the cosmos more 

deeply than our clever civilization of modern times. If we were able 

to seek the wisdom of the Indians we would find joy, contentment 

md comfort in simple things and consider ourselves as an dement 

of nature, not separate from it, not superior to it, but part of it. 

American Indians believed all beings were relatives, members of 

ihe same family, sharing the planet in a spirit of mutual support 

and receiving sustenance from each other, held together by the 

Great Spirit/ said Edward. ‘But progress has come to mean the 

separation of the human and natural worlds,’ 1 interjected. ‘Yes, 

the ever-expanding modem culture sees everything existing for the 

benefit of human beings. The bonds between all creatures have 

been broken and nature has become merely a resource . . . Even 

environmentalists advocate Nature conservation on the grounds of 

self-interest and human benefit, whereas the Indians considered the 

living elements of earth, air, water and fire as the sacred limbs of the 

Great Spirit, existing in their own right, irrespective of human need/ 

Edward replied. 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

We went into the tipi; the interior was unexpectedly spacious. 

Edward had lit a fire in the centre to keep insects out. The smoke 

ascended and found its way out through a hole in the roof. Edward 

explained, ‘The design of a tipi is such that the hole will let the 

smoke out without letting the rain and wind in. The two ends of 

the canvas at the top are attached to separate poles which can be 

moved according to the direction the wind is blowing. In any case, 

when the tipi is erected it is set with the main entrance away from the 

prevailing wind.’ 

He left us in the tipi to settle down but returned soon after 

and said, ‘Do you mind if we also sleep here?’ ‘Of course not, 

your company is welcome.’ As Edward spread his sleeping bag, 

his children arrived and then a few more friends who had joined 

us for dinner. They were followed by Hans, the potter, and Mary, 

the oak swill maker, who live in a cottage by the mill. Although 

the number of people grew in the tipi, 1 was only very dimly aware 

of their presence. 1 was amazed at how comfortable, relaxed and 

informal the atmosphere was; the space seemed infinite. Lying by 

the flickering fire, Edward and.I continued talking late into the night 

while our wives slept blissfully. 

1 CAN be accused of being a pastoral romantic, but it is in the 

woods and hills, meadows and river valleys that my soul finds 

nourishment. Therefore parting from Sprint Mill was like parting 

from a lifelong friend, even though my love affair with this piece of 

earth was only one night long. The River Sprint kept us company 

until we met the River Kent near Kendal. We followed the footpath 

alongside the Kent as long as we could and from there we crossed 

fields and farms to follow the Lancaster canal. 

It was a sorry sight to see this magical waterway abandoned in 

favour of tarmac roads. Now, only a few pleasure boats move 

between the locks. A section of the canal has been blocked and filled 

to give way to even more'roads. Fortunately stretches of footpath 

are still used by ramblers and naturalists, for in other respects the 

canal has become a rural backwater, evoking nostalgia but leading 

nowhere; history stands still. 

We left the canal after a few miles to go to Gressingham. Early the 

next morning, June left to return to the children in Hartland, and 1 

248 

billowed a path along the River Lune. Being no lover of big cities 

I tlurtrt) around the built-up area of Lancaster, and came back to 

the Lancaster Canal which took me comfortably to Billsborough 

nil 1 hence to Preston. Now I was in the gnp of the conurbation of 

| ivcipool; it was no longer possible to avoid that concrete jungle. 

I he smell of burning petrol from the exhausts of speeding cars and 

tfie Mght of the derelict, dusty docklands was the treat of the day! 

I would not say that everyone should live in a rural idyll but when 

towns and cities become industrial wastelands they lose their human 

* ale. The majority of people in Britain live in cities. Why do they 

liAivr to he subjected to such unconvivial atmospheres? 

When I had endured the long and lonely road to the centre of 

1 ivrrpool, 1 found some sense of relief. I was among people enjoying 

1 fie sun on the promenade of the Crosby Channel. The expressions 

on the faces of people were friendly and gentle; the harshness of 

1 he road along the dockland had disappeared. Joining people in 

prayer at the Anglican and Catholic cathedrals gave me a sense of 

peace and rest. 

Continuing to walk through the poorer part of Liverpool 8 was 

intriguing. Although the houses were run down, the streets were 

hill of litter and an atmosphere of poverty prevailed, 1 saw many 

smiling faces. People were standing engaged in relaxed conversation, 

children were playing in the middle of the streets scarcely aware 

of the traffic, and the cars were going at a slower pace, minding 

the children. 

Next morning 1 took the ferry over the River Mersey to Birk¬ 

enhead. Rosemary Fitzpatrick had gathered members of the Soil 

Association, local peace groups and a number of environmentalists 

to give me an unexpected welcome and lead me through the Wirral 

and then to the walled city of Chester from where next day l headed 

west into Wales, following the River Dee. 

My first night in wales was spent at Llandyrnog near 

Denbigh, in the valley of the River Clwyd. My hosts, Guy and 

Molly Clutton-Brock, were living high in the hills in an old stone 

cottage without electricity or running water. Guy and Molly are 

living examples of voluntary simplicity. They run an old car to 

help them move about in their old age and keep them in touch 

149 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

with friends, but that is one of the very few concessions they have 

made to the twentieth century’s technological age. The living room 

was warmed by a woodbuming stove for which they had collected 

wood from the surrounding hills and sawn and splitthemselves. 

It was the fifth of July and yet still cold in the Welsh hills, so I 

sat near the fire, eating my supper of bread, beans and beer, which 

Guy and Molly had kept for me as I had arrived long past dinner 

time. Nothing is sweeter than hunger satisfied and even a very basic 

and simple meal prepared with care and imagination can be most 

delicious, especially when it is home-baked bread, beans cooked 

with herbs and spices, and home-brewed beer. 

The living room we sat in was also their study and work room. 

Next to the living room was their kitchen, and above the kitchen was 

the guest room where I was to sleep. "It is much easier to look after a 

small cottage, especially at our age. A large house, a lot of furniture 

and many gadgets do not necessarily add to comfort. They give an 

illusion of comfort. We have been living in this cottage for nearly ten 

years and we are quite happy/ 

Guy and Molly had learnt the lessons of simple living during their 

time at Cold Comfort Farm in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. They 

never joined the colonial dub. They lived close to the earth, working 

with their hands, labouring in the fields, identifying themselves with 

the native African people. Their white skin was no barrier and their 

farm became a refuge for freedom fighters. But because of thek 

support for Robert Mugabe and the movement for independence, 

the farm was confiscated and they were exiled by the Smith regime 

under the charge of supporting terrorism. Since Zimbabwe became 

independent, the Cl Litton-Brock cottage in Wales has become a place 

of pilgrimage for Zimbabwean politicians, diplomats and intellec¬ 

tuals. When they visit Britain they invariably come to Llandymog to 

pay their respects to the Clurton-Brocks. ‘They are always surprised 

and shocked to see us living in such a small cottage, in what they call 

primitive conditions. They ask us to return to Zimbabwe. They offer 

us a big house, a car, a pension, but we say to them that we are fine 

as we are, thank you. But why have they forgotten the poor peasants 

and become, so soon after independence, slaves to the creature 

comforts of high living? It is not us who should be offered cars and 

comforts, it is they who should live a life which is more akin to the 

Mhlluary people in Zimbabwe. When 1 say this to them they laugh at 

Mt, J'liry think we have grown old, idealist and impractical/ 

I here was sorrow in the voice of Guy when he spoke these words. 

Ill* l' >vc for Zimbabwe, as shown by his support for its independence 

ami Ins admiration for the freedom fighters, had turned to sadness. 

1 When there is the taste of power and position, it is very easy to forget 

♦hr promises made to the people/ 

When I was ready to go to bed, Molly showed me how to light the 

paraffin lamp. In the room she showed me a flask of hot water, a 

|ng of cold water and a beautiful large Victorian china bowl to wash 

In. There was a chamber pot under the bed since there was no flush 

♦oilrt. ‘Everything comes from the earth and must be returned to the 

earth/ said Molly, explaining how all the organic waste from their 

lumsrhold was put on the compost or buried in the earth, including 

our excreta. ‘Nature creates no waste. Even the dead old leaves fallen 

on the ground are the source of new life/ 

Early in the morning, Thomas Brown from a Quaker commu¬ 

nity in Llandderfel came on his motorbike to the cottage of the 

i Ititton-Brocks to guide me to his home. He left his bike, and we 

Martcd to trek through the hills of Berwyn. The austerity of the 

i Jutton-Brocks* life was echoed by the austerity of these Welsh 

mountains; bereft of trees, they were bare, magnificent and some¬ 

what daunting. Thomas and I kept stopping to gaze at the vastness 

ol these mighty mountains. 

From Llanderfel we crossed over the River Dee and followed a 

dismantled and overgrown railway line. We had to dimb and jump 

over many fences that farmers had erected over the line, thinking 

that no one was going to use the railway any more. There must 

be hundreds of miles of such disused railways, the legacy of Dr 

Beeching, who massacred them in the interest of apparent economy 

and encouraged the building of new roads through the beautiful 

landscape of rural Wales. We followed the little-used line beside the 

River Dee, which brought us into a wide open Valley. 

Suddenly we arrived at the beautiful Lake of Bala—Llyn Tegid, 

long and slim, lying like a sleeping beauty between the handsome 

hills, fed and nourished by rivers from all sides and ornamented by 

tall trees. My feet stopped, my eyes widened with amazement as they 

drank in the wonder of the water. It was a real surprise to encounter 

NO DESTINATION 

pilgrimage: RETURN 

it. After having seen great lakes and mountains on my journey, I was 

under the illusion that I had seen the best of nature’s glory, but being 

confronted with this quiet, dean and unspoilt stretch of water, I 

was taken aback. People had talked about the wonderful Welsh 

mountains but nobody had even mentioned the name, Lake Bala, 

Perhaps the Welsh have in their wisdom wanted to keep this lake a 

secret, unexposed to tourism. 

This was the court of nature at its most festive and exuberant. 

I dangled my feet in the water, experiencing the ecstasy of the 

moment. As I sat there, I had a strong sense that I was an intruder, 

interfering with the lives of the lovers and disturbing the stillness of 

an eternal embrace. Bala belongs to Bryn Bedwog and I should tread 

gently in their house. 

And so I left the lake behind and headed on towards Cadair Idris, 

nearly 3,000 feet at its peak, overlooking the entire breadth of North 

Wales. Roaming up and down in the mountains of Meirionydd, once 

more 1 was one with nature; I was dancing the dance of Shiva. 

Past Dolgellau, 1 followed a stream through woods, walking on a 

din track barely wide enough for a small tractor or a Morris Minor. 

Sure enough, a thousand feet up on this remote edge of Idris I saw a 

young woman holding a baby in her arms beside a lonely Morris. I 

could not resist speaking to her, ‘So the good old Morris has made 

it to this height on the bumpy track!’'Hie young woman stared at me 

fixedly, wide-eyed for a few seconds, and did not answer. Perhaps I 

was being discourteous to approach a woman alone in such a wild 

place. Feeling apologetic, I was passing by her when she put her 

finger to her lips and enquired, ‘By any chance, are you Satish on 

pilgrimage?’ It was my turn to be amazed. I could not believe my 

ears, hearing my name being pronounced by this unknown woman 

standing in long grass in a clearing overlooked by Penygadair. I 

stopped and wondered, looking at this woman of silky hair and 

sweet smile. ‘How is it that you know my name?’ ‘I read Resurgence. 

Seeing you here it occurred to me that I might be meeting the pilgrim, 

by some act of providence?’ ‘I am pleased to meet you too.’ ‘When 1 

first heard about your journey, I wondered whether you would pass 

through my village, as I wanted ro offer you a bed for the night. I 

live on the border of Wales and England, but to my disappointment 1 

learned that your route did not bring you to my place. But ever since. 

I hoped that 1 would meet you somewhere on your way, and today 

my wish is fulfilled/ Her voice was filled with emotion. 1 stepped 

towards her and offered a handshake. She gave me a kiss on the 

* lirrk. ‘What brings you here?’ 1 asked. ‘We are here on a day out. 

My husband is interested in orchids—he is over there, in the woods/ 

I wanted to see the orchids too, so we set off to find her husband. 

I- vi'HY age creates new places of pilgrimage. There was a time 

when people built stone circles and erected standing stones as a 

npiritual focus. In the Middle Ages, the relics of saints and martyrs 

drew people for inspiration and healing. In India, the presence of 

rrllitmus teachers and ascetics by river banks and in the mountains 

ha* for centuries drawn people to those holy places. In our own 

agr the birthplaces of Shakespeare and Tolstoy attract people who 

look for renewal and inspiration; the grave of Gandhi has acquired 

similar significance. 

For me, the Centre for Alternative Technology at Machynlleth 

Imk a similar attraction. Intermediate technology has a spiritual and 

1 rligious dimension because it is a gentle technology, compassionate 

to the environment and frugal in its use of the earth’s resources. 

I Ins spiritual dimension makes Machynlleth a place of pilgrimage. 

Spirituality is not about beliefs—it is about the way we live and 

i omhict our day-to-day activities. When Lord Krishna pleaded with 

the warrior Arjuna to practise steadfast wisdom, Arjuna protested 

saying, ‘I do not understand these big words and difficult concepts. 

IVII me in simple language. How does a steadfast person walk, 

cit, eat, talk and live?’ This immediately made Krishna relate his 

1 cachings to the mundane practicalities of life; by performing simple 

actions such as walking, sitting and talking in a compassionate 

manner, one is able to lift ordinary activity into a form of yoga. If 

wc were able to grow our food, produce energy and obtain water 

m the spirit of yoga, we would never attempt to create a technology 

which is harmful to humans or to our habitat. 

People such as Mahatma Gandhi, who advocated the use of 

I lie spinning wheel, and E.F. Schumacher, who invented the terms 

‘intermediate’ and ‘appropriate* technology, were intensely religious 

people; the reason they promoted the ideas of simple technology was 

I hat it was conducive to spiritual as well as material well-being of all 

NO.DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

—rich and poor alike. Without this dimension, alternative techno¬ 

logy has no philosophical basis. 

As I descended from the heights of Cadair Idris and entered 

into the valley of slate quarries, my feet speeded up with antici¬ 

pation. Many years ago, a number of enthusiastic ecologists came 

to this area. They found an abandoned slate quarry, overgrown with 

bracken and brambles. Surrounded by tall trees, this wild and remote 

corner of Wales was exactly the kind of site they were looking for. 

The mountains, deserts and wilderness have always attracted pio¬ 

neering spirits because in such undisturbed settings they are able to 

give form to their eccentric experiments without being interrupted or 

interfered with by the established order. They negotiated easy terms 

with the owner and camped in harsh conditions to lay the founda¬ 

tions for a community which would demonstrate by example how 

life can be lived when based on the use of renewable energy, organic 

methods of producing food, and non-hierarchical relationships. I 

was received by Peter Harper, who took me around the Centre on 

a guided tour. All sons of windmills, solar panels, water wheels and 

composting systems were on display. Peter himself lives in a house 

which uses no electricity from the mains. This was a convincing 

example of how it is possible to fulfil all one's basic requirements 

with locally-available and renewable sources of energy. He then 

took me to see the greenhouse and vegetable garden. Gardening 

is his passion. The principles of rotation, companion planting and 

organic husbandry are practised here. 

When the Centre was established it was a step in the dark, but 

now 100,000 people visit it every year, and it has become a thriving 

community whose members are driven by idealism and dedication. 

Running the Centre as a successful business as well as a commu- 

nity requires a difficult and delicate balance. Somehow I got the 

impression that they have managed to achieve it: On the one hand 

an efficiently-run office gives you the impression of being busy in the 

world, and on the other hand, goats, chickens, community kitchens 

and children playing in the yard created a relaxed atmosphere. Peter 

took me to the Hightech workshop with some trepidation, which I 

could quite understand. Here a number of computer programmers 

and silicon chip experts were working with sophisticated technology 

to be used in the Third World. 1 doubted that this kind of progress 

*54 

would liberate the Third World. It would only make the recipients 

mnrr dependent on Western science. For me there could be no 

M'lonciliation between alternative technology and high technology. 

I low ever, the force of the computer age seems to be so strong that 

II lias engulfed even the ecologists and low-impact technologists. So 

lurhaps 1 should not be too critical; after all, in every other way, 

ilus Centre is a beacon of new thinking. When people realize that oil 

reserves are finite and nuclear power is dangerous they will return 

to live by the sun, the wind and the natural potential of the earth. 

At that time the Centre for Alternative Technology will become the 

centre of life and society. 

Andy and Catherine Evans-Rowland, and their few-months-old 

Ini by Gwen, are members of the Centre, and 1 stayed in their home 

lor the night. The next morning Catherine said that she would like 

to walk with me and bring Gwen. Gwen had already stolen my heart, 

Watching her play, smile and gaze was so engaging that I could enjoy 

n for hours. Catherine packed the picnic and the baby nappies and 

we were on the road. 

We walked through Machynlleth, which once upon a time was the 

capital of Wales. Catherine told me that Wales was the first country 

io have the parliamentary system of government, and Machynlleth 

had the first parliament. So it was not England that had brought 

lorth the mother of parliaments, but Wales! We stopped for a few 

minutes at the original building, which stood as a charming monu¬ 

ment. ‘Now the English dominate our thinking, our language and 

cmr w ay of life , 1 said Catherine with a voice of anguish. ‘The English 

come to enjoy the mountains but they don’t like our language, they 

come to have their holidays in these beautiful valleys but they don't 

want to know about our culture. They like the splendour of this 

landscape but they wish they could have it without the people who 

inhabit it. 1 have nothing against the English, I only wish that they 

would come respecting our people, our history, our culture and our 

language.’ 1 totally sympathized with her. When will the dominant 

cultures of the world stop dominating peoples who are economically 

and politically weaker? 

We sat in a field under a tree, a cool breeze blowing. Gwen was 

hungry. Catherine put the baby in her lap, supported her head on 

her right arm, the red nipple between Gwen's lips. Here was a 

*55 

NO DESTINATION 

harmonious union of mother and baby, each being nourished by 

the other. Catherine’s sense of fulfilment and joy in feeding her baby 

was clear on her face. The giving and receiving were mutual. After a 

few minutes she moved Gwen from her right breast to her left. Milk 

was bursting from her breast. When one is prepared to give there is 

always plenty. When one is hesitant, worried, under pressure, then 

even the milk in the breast dries up. As we started walking again I 

asked Catherine if I could carry Gwen on my shoulders. She was 

happy to agree. Gwen was the youngest pilgrim to be with me and 

it was a joy to carry her. 

After spending a comfortable night in an old Welsh farmhouse in 

Stay Little, 1 carried on my walk to the south. Wandering through the 

Hafren Forest 1 found myself in Cerrig yr Wyn mountain range, the 

source of two great rivers, the Severn and the Wye. I followed a forest 

path towards the River Wye, flowing southwards. In the Wye Valley 

there are many unspoilt small Welsh farms, and farming families 

where generations have carried on their lives for hundreds of years. 

Here modern farm machinery is defeated, as it cannot climb up the 

steep slopes and narrow dirt tracks. 

Past Ltanngurig on the east bank of the Wye is the A470 trunk road 

—an old and forgotten minor road, which naturally I followed. The 

gentle flow of the river Wye on my left and the hard, rugged and 

rocky hills on my right presented me with a perfect setting for my 

ruminations. I was alone and at ease. For centuries this valley has 

served humans, animals, birds, trees, plants, and numerous forms 

of life; it has been a mother, the Wye makes the way and the Wye 

is the way; the way to all destinations and no destination. It takes 

you everywhere and nowhere. You can swim in it, float in it, dive in 

it and drown in it. The Wye is the giver of life and death. It moves 

mysteriously; it embodies power and yet it follows the lower path. 

I stopped for the night at Rhayader. In the morning, Lawrence 

Golding, hill walker par excellence , came to lead me away from the 

valley and into the hills. ‘When you are in the valley you appreciate 

the hills and when you are in the hills you appreciate the valley, but I 

love the hills most. When you are up here you are in the company of 

the sky and you reach the source of the valleys. Without knowing the 

beginning you cannot know the end,’ said Lawrence. The mountain 

tops have a punty about them: here no paths reach. It is a virgin 

156 

pilgrimage: return 

landscape and so my heart longs for it.* He led me from hilltop to 

hilltop; into remote regions, away from built-up civilization. 

Alter our twelve-hour-long journey we descended from the hills 

about dusk. We came to a farm gate. A herd of sheep were passing 

through it so we stood aside by the hedge. Then there was a pause. 

Another group of sheep, with a shepherd, was still some way off. 

Wr thought that perhaps we could pass through before the next 

lot of sheep reached the gate. But the shepherd saw us coming. He 

advanced, brandishing his stick and shouting, ‘Stop there, will you.’ 

I awrence was not to be deterred. ‘It will take us only a second to pass 

through and your sheep are still yards away.* 

f hat threw the farmer into a fit. i have seen many vagabonds like 

you who do no work, idle away your lives and interrupt others when 

they are working. What do you do for a living?* ‘I do not need to 

tHJ you what I do for a living! Mind your own business. I am on a 

public path and I have a right to be here.* Walker and farmer, both 

insisting on their rights, were near blows. I pulled Lawrence away 

spying, Never mind, let him bring his sheep through first.’ And the 

i armer drove his sheep through, still abusing us. 

I awrence spoke of his dislike of farmers who plough up footpaths, 

rrm barbed wire across paths and show no courtesy to walkers. 

I and is not merely a source of food, it is also a source of spiritual 

.uul emotional nourishment. Tf people are deprived of contact with 

1 he countryside, their spirit will die.’ Lawrence pleaded passionately 

lor a new relationship between people and land. 

Ai IKR a night’s REST at the home of Richard Booth in Hay- 

on-Wye, I set off alone'again, walking through the landscape and 

villages of the gorgeous Golden Valley of the River Dore. Glenn 

Siorhaug with his wife Liz, his children and five other friends met me 

at Arthur’s Stone where we all walked together through woodland. 

(ilenn and Liz were my hosts for the night. A poet and printer, Glenn 

t* a magnetic person, attracting people interested in the good things 

of life; the arts, crafts, education and a healthy environment. 

Wc sat in the front garden, cooled by a breeze coming from the 

f orest of Dean, enveloped by apples, fuschias, roses, beans and 

many other kinds of fruits, flowers and vegetables. Glenn and Liz 

had prepared a large meal for an unspecified number of people 

2-57 

NO DESTINATION 

pilgrimage: return 

who might turn up to meet the pilgrim that evening. We enjoyed 

a hot vegetable stew made with produce from the garden, which 

was served with coarse brown bread. Overlooking an open view of 

Herefordshire and marvelling at the magnificence of the meadows 

and fields, I realized that it was only through our ancestors’ deep 

reverence for nature that we could inherit this abundant wealth, 

Glenn and his friends celebrated the simple beauty of life and 

lived in harmony with their surroundings. They made relatively few 

demands on the resources of the earth, and found joy in their creative 

work. Glenn himself was involved in the hand-printing, typography, 

and designing of books which embody the beauty of simplicity. Art 

for him was not an end product but an absorbed involvement in 

the process of doing things well and making things which are good 

in themselves. 

Modem civilization induces us to do things for material gain; for 

money, power, fame or comfort. Because of this we have been taking 

and taking from each other, from the environment and from our 

own souls, without any thought of giving back or of replenishment. 

Glenn believes the teaching of Coomaraswamy; that the artist is 

not a special kind of person, but that every person is a special 

kind of artist. 

That evening, I was invited to give a public talk in Hereford, city 

of Mappa Mundi fame. I talked about the way of replenishment. 

‘In India we are required to practice three principles: yagna, dana 

and tapas. These are the three replenishing relationships. Through 

yagna we replenish the earth and nature. Through dana we replen¬ 

ish culture and society, and through tapas we replenish our soul 

and our spirit. 

'Our food and water come from the earth, our homes and clothes 

come from the earth; in fact we are made of the earth. If we keep on 

taking from the earth without giving anything back, the earth will be 

denuded. Therefore the Indian saying is, ‘If you cut down one tree 

you must plant five.’ We must always be alert and thoughtful so that 

we repair any damage we do to the earth. That is yagna. 

‘From the very moment of our birth we take sustenance from 

society: from our parents, from our neighbours, from our teachers, 

from our friends and colleagues. We enjoy the fruits of the work of 

our ancestors in literature, architecture, painting and music, roads 

ill id railways, schools and churches. This reservoir of culture will 

dr y up if we do not give something ourselves for future generations. 

II wr see our work as a gift to society, the quality of our work and its 

meaning will be enhanced many, many fold. That is dana. 

*As we replenish the earth and our society we also need to renew 

ourselves. We spend a great deal of energy giving expression to our 

liiN'IIcctual, emotional and spiritual being, sometimes negatively, 

in Ikt times positively, sometimes in anger, sometimes in love. Unless 

we pay attention to the healing of our souls we cannot be whole. By 

meditation, by fasting, by watching the river flow, by gazing at a 

flower in bloom, by walking in nature, by going on a pilgrimage, we 

replenish our souls. That is tapas' 

As I spoke 1 realized that I was interpreting the three ancient Indian 

principles in a modern context. Rather, these ancient principles were 

as relevant to our modem times as they were in the days when 

nobody had heard of ecology and sustainability. My pilgrimage was 

a form of tapas. 

Next morning 1 went to see the Hereford Waldorf School which 

Glenn and his friends have helped to establish. This school takes 

us inspiration from Rudolf Steiner’s educational ideas, according 

10 which children up to the age of seven are not required to pursue 

midlectual activities such as reading, writing and arithmetic. This 

pre-seven period is a time to develop emotionally and intuitively, 

and children are helped to learn through stories, colours, games 

and plays. Only after the age of seven do children engage in intel¬ 

lectual activities. 

I was delighted to visit this school of sixty children which had a 

friendly, enthusiastic and dedicated group of teachers and a warm 

atmosphere. One of the biggest problems in running this kind of 

school is finance. The British system of education is so monolithic 

that either you have to be part of the state-maintained compre¬ 

hensive schooling, which is organized on a large scale with little 

regard for the particular needs of any group of parents and their 

children, or you have to send your children far away to private 

schools, confusingly called public schools, which are expensive and 

elitist. There is no alternative. In Germany, Steiner schools are 

financed by the government. There they recognize the importance 

of plurality, parental choice and new approaches in education. If a 

158 

*59 

NO DESTINATION 

similar principle could be addpted in Britain, then education would 

be liberated from the shackles of monoculture. The problems faced 

by the Hereford Waldorf School sounded only too familiar to me 

after my work at the Small School. 

From Hereford I continued my march through Gloucester 

and on to Taelna Community* near the Benedictine monastery 

of Prinknash Abbey. Here 1 stayed with George Ineson. This stage 

of my journey had become a pilgrimage to people from whom I 

had drawn inspiration; George is one of them. During the Second 

World War he and his friends pioneered a pacifist community, which 

still continues and has grown to become almost a small hamlet. 

Farming, silver smithing, pottery, carpentry, architectural design and 

woodcarving are the principal activities of this community. In the age 

of individualism and materialism, where self-interest is pursued to 

the exclusion of everything else, Taelna has been a shining example 

of how to overcome narrow personal ambitions in favour of the 

common good. The community has drawn people from all over the 

world to experience its spiritual and shared way of life. 

George has been one of the leading spirits of this community. 

He has kept a hospitable and welcoming house, open to all visi¬ 

tors. After showing me around the various workshops and the 

farm, and outlining the impressive history of the community, he 

explained, ‘When we began living together, we held almost every¬ 

thing in common. But as the community developed, we learned 

certain lessons. There are certain activities better pursued in solitude 

and in an atmosphere of individual freedom such as study and 

meditation. Other activities are more appropriate to the family, 

such as bringing up children, but there are other activities which 

are enhanced by sharing in a community and through co-operation 

with the whole group. There is a tremendous waste of energy, talent 

and resources when every individual pursues their own ends and 

competes with each .other. The cult of individualism has been the 

curse of Western society. 

From George Ineson I moved on to Roger Franklin; it was like 

sailing from one lighthouse to the next. Roger met me in Stroud and 

said, ‘You have already walked for four hours under the scorching 

sun—would you like to have a dip in our splendid, newly-opened 

z6o 

pilgrimage: return 

twmiming pool?* I happily agreed to this. After the swim, Roger 

irlievcd me of my rucksack and drove it to his home where he pre- 

piired a dinner to welcome mein the evening. Veronica Ross, an old 

Ir lend of mine from London who also lived in the neighbourhood, 

titled me along a newly formed bicycle path through lush Cotswold 

i ountryside to Roger’s house. 

A small dinner pany had been arranged, attended by a group 

id people who had helped and supported Roger in his untiring 

campaign against nuclear weapons. He has spared no effort in his 

work for peace: his whole life has been one continuous struggle for 

disarmament and the dismantling of the war machine. I know no 

Milicr person who has devoted his or her life so passionately and 

•.mgle-mindedly, day and night, to world peace. 

t )ru- of his most courageous actions to register his intense dislike 

.mhI disapproval of the arms build-up was to refuse to pay the 

percentage of his income tax which went to the defence industry. 

I Ir explained to me, ‘In 1S49 Henry David Thoreau refused to pay 

i.ix in protest against an unjust war and the continuation of slavery. 

Mis essay on Civil Disobedience is a classic statement of conscience. 

Wr are in the same predicament now. Our governments are spending 

incredible amounts of resources on war preparations and arma- 

nirtHs. It is a colossal waste. My conscience will not allow me any 

longer to willingly pay to help the building of genocidal machinery. I 

* .m no longer bringmyself to writea cheque to the Inland Revenue as 

though the expenditure to which I am contributing had my approval. 

I have gone on a tax strike.’ 

I Vople like Roger are the salt of the earth and the conscience of the 

1 ommunity. 1 salute him, his dedication and his commitment. 

I rom Stroud it was two days’ walk to Bristol, where my hosts 

were Jean and Stephen MacFarlane, a Quaker couple, both strong 

supporters of rhe Schumacher Society. They have been involved 

with issues of sustainable development in Africa, and removing 

ilu* yoke of debt and exploitation forced on the Third World by 

Western industrialized nations. Together with John Pontin, Jean 

>m<l Stephen have been generous hosts to the illustrious thinkers 

.huI activists who have come to give the Schumacher Lectures. I 

have always been able to depend on thetn for their help in getting 

die event known and publicized. 

NO DESTINATION 

During more than a decade of Schumacher Lectures, I have come 

to know and love Bristol very much, because of friends like the 

MacFarlanes who have drawn me to Bristol year after year. From 

my bedroom window at their home, I had a wonderful view of 

the Clifton Suspension bridge, built by one of the most brilliant 

engineers of the Victorian age, Isambard Kingdom Brunei. I have 

been around the world and I have crossed many small and great 

bridges but none compares with the shape, size, architectural quality 

and beauty of this bridge. 

Next day I was delighted to discover that my path went over 

Brunei's bridge. In the cool and misty morning, i stood in the middle 

of the gorge, looking down at the gushing waters of the River Avon. 

It was a magic moment. 

Nourished by nature's bounty, I continued on my path: 

sometimes on big roads, sometimes on country lanes, ascending 

the hills and descending into valleys, refreshing myself in brooks 

and streams, over winding and wide rivers and along many ditches 

and dykes. Walking by day, resting by night, I crossed the Somerset 

levels, within sight of Glastonbury Tor; mostly alone, sometimes 

accompanied, I climbed the Quantock and Brendon Hills. 

Arriving at Exmoor was like entering a beautiful new world. A 

herd of deer grazed on Dunkery Hill, a troop of horses and riders 

trekked across Porlock Common, and I made my way to Watersmeet 

near Lynmouth, owned and protected by the National Trust. Now I 

was within sight of Hartland Point. 

My last night on the road was spent in Barnstaple on 31st July 

1985. I headed home. June came to welcome me at the bridge over 

the River Yeo, near Bideford. On the one hand, I felt a sense of 

completion and satisfaction that my four-month pilgrimage was 

coming to a conclusion, but on the other hand, I also felt the loss 

of the freedom of the road. At one level, 1 kept wishing to remain 

a walking pilgrim for the rest of my life, but at another level 1 was 

drawn to be with Maya, Mukti and June. 

1 was filled with feelings of gratitude to June, who had enabled 

me to make this pilgrimage by staying at home, looking after the 

children and guests, and managing the magazine and the house. In 

truth June had made a greater gesture than me. I was indebted to 

PILGRIMAGE: RETURN 

her. What had 1 done to deserve this? I could only imagine that in my 

previous life 1 must have sown the seeds of good karma—perhaps by 

enabling someone to go on a pilgrimage? 

A i-f;w days after 1 had completed my pilgrimage, our friend 

(llara Erede came from Florence to visit us in Hartland. i have 

been thinking of you while you were on your pilgrimage, 1 she said. 

'Although I missed my chance at fifty, 1 would like to make a brief 

pilgrimage to mark my sixtieth birthday, and would like you and 

June to come with me.’ This request came out of the blue and I 

was flattered to be invited. ‘Of course,* I said. ‘Where do you want 

to walk?’ To Assisi —1 live so close by, but have never been there, 

although people come on pilgrimage from all over the world,’ Clara 

said. ‘1 have never been to Assisi either. St Francis, who considered 

a II creatures of the earth as members of one family, and called the 

sun and the moon his brother and Sister, has been one of the greatest 

inspirations for me. What a good idea!’ 

June’s instant agreement sealed the matter and upon hearing of 

this plan, John Lane, Veronica Ross and Barbara Girardet also 

decided to follow Clara to Assisi. 

The English party flew to Pisa and took the train to within about 

100 km from Assisi, from where we met Clara and started walking. 

Step by step for seven days we meditated, chanted, and read stories 

of St Francis and Santa Clara. James Hillman’s essay. Walking 

in Paradise and a Paradise in Walking added to our inspiration. 

We arrived in Assisi on a stormy and thundery afternoon, with a 

heightened sense of the spiritual mystery of the place. 

In the Basilica, the life of St Francis is vividly and compellingly 

depicted by Giotto in his arresting frescoes. As an ecologist, I 

responded to the paintings; Francis feeding and talking to the birds. 

Soon after we returned from Assisi, a Spanish friend, Amparo 

Aracama, came to spend a few days with us in Hartland. ‘No one 

could be more authoritative than you, Amparo, to guide and lead 

us on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela,’ I said. Amparo was 

not expecting such a request, but knowing well my enthusiasm for 

pilgrimages, she readily and generously offered to come with me. 

Having already tasted the magic of Assisi, June, John and Veronica 

again decided to form the party. 

2.63 

NO DESTINATION 

By plane and boat, we arrived at Lugo, about 130 kilometres east 

of our destination, and walked on the Camino de Santiago. In Assisi 

we had hit rainstorms, and here on the way to Santiago we were 

enveloped in a heat wave. We walked through unspoilt medieval 

villages and natural woodland, eating traditional Spanish soups, 

bread, cheese and fruit, drinking red and white Rioja and taking 

our siestas on a heap of freshly cut hay. As we walked, we engaged 

in discussions on the seven deadly sins, even if we did not manage to 

avoid them. 

On arrival at Sr James of Santiago we were given certificates by 

the priest as a proof that we were indeed walking pilgrims. In the 

presence of St James, the saviour of Spain, we felt a sense of spiritual 

mystery, as we had in Assisi. 

These pilgrimages have taken me to places of antiquity and land¬ 

scapes of splendour, which are great attractions to large numbers 

of tourists. Pilgrimage is, among other things, a spiritual form of 

tourism, whereas tourism has become a secular form of pilgrimage. 

When we journey as pilgrims, we go with a sense of the sacred, with¬ 

out making demands—and indeed, we expect a certain amount of 

inconvenience and hardship on the journey, whereas secular tourism 

expects the world to be arranged for it. In the age of ecology, perhaps 

pilgrimage and tourism need to come closer together. 

264 

Chapter Fourteen   Japan 

W7ALKING around Britain, experiencing the freedom of the 

Wroad, being out under the open sky and in touch with the vast 

earth beneath, gave me a new lease of life and new burst of energy. 

This led to the establishment of Green Books, a new venture to 

publish books on ecological and spiritual matters which would 

help to create the consciousness needed to replenish soil, soul and 

society, ( yagtta , tapas,a nd dana). 

Jonathon Porritt was the first to support this venture, giving us 

£1,000 on behalf of Friends of the Earth, with The Council for 

the Protection of Rural England following soon afterwards. As 

momentum gathered, many readers of Resurgence, Maurice Ash 

among them, came forward with money, manuscripts and ideas. 

In order to accommodate the office of Green Books, we renovated 

some outbuildings to Chris Day’s design, which had an organic 

warmth to it. 

I felt as if I had gone over a hump. Before going on my pilgrimage, 

I w as feeling physically and emotionally at a low ebb, Roger Hills’ 

acupuncture treatment, Misha Norland’s homoeopathic doses and 

Mrs Robinson’s Special Mixture all helped to a certain extent, but 

not enough to give me any zest for life. Walking to the holy sites did 

it. I decided that life begins not at forty but at fifty! 

While l was in this invigorated mood, I received a flood of invi¬ 

rions from abroad. Accompanied by my son, now fourteen, I 

went to America at the invitation of the Chinook Community in 

Washington State. That was a four-week lecture tour of a coun¬ 

try which on the one hand is leading the world to an abyss, in 

the form of unchecked industrial and military expansion, and at 

the same time, trying to save it by means of vigorous alterna¬ 

tive ideas represented by writers and thinkers such as Wendell 

Berry, Hazel Henderson, Lester Brown, Joanna Macy, Nancy and 

265 

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John Todd, the New York Open Centre, the Esalen Institute and 

many others. 

Mukti and I found America immensely engaging, hospitable and 

yet bewildering. If there was any human habitat which considered 

itself unchallenged master of everything, human or non-human, it 

was America. The arrogance and stupidity of establishment America 

in handling and wasting natural resources was beyond our compre¬ 

hension, but we could not help but bow our heads to the courage 

and determination of ecologists, bio-regionalists and decentralist 

minorities, including the native American Indians who were, against 

all odds, attempting to stem the tide. 

Another invitation came from Spain, from Cortijo Romero, where 

Nigel Shamash had established a centre for rest and renewal. Situ¬ 

ated in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, not far from the city 

of Granada, this centre offered a great attraction to many English 

people who wished to combine their holiday with learning to live in 

a new way. 1 gave a two-week course, combining the ideal with the 

practical, showing that pleasure need not be the enemy of simplicity 

and spirituality. 

A further invitation came from the government of India itself. 

Kathleen Raine had persuaded Mrs Indira Gandhi to hold a confer¬ 

ence around the theme of Temenos , the review of the arts and imagi¬ 

nation edited by Kathleen. This time I travelled with my daughter 

Maya, who was nine at the time. Kathleen fell in love with Maya and 

kept her on her lap most of the way in the plane. Kathleen said, ‘She 

is like my granddaughter/ John Lane and Keith Critchlow travelled 

with us. We received a splendid welcome and sumptuous hospitality 

as guests of the government in New Delhi. The conference was 

attended by many outstanding writers, artists and intellectuals from 

India and abroad- The bone of contention for the Indian intellectuals 

was that by speaking against modernity, progress, economic growth 

and urban industrial development, the West was trying to keep India 

backward, and the likes of Kathleen Raine were falling in that trap; 

whereas Kathleen and I were reminding them of Mahatma Gandhi 

and saying that the world has much to learn from the traditional 

wisdom of India. The successful materialism of the West is hollow, 

and unsustainable in the long term. There must be a middle way 

by which India can retain its ancient culture and yet overcome its 

poverty and degradation. That middle way may go through large- 

scale revival of handicraft, cottage industry, small-scale farming, 

small-scale irrigation and intermediate technology; but to many 

Indian participants this seemed like an impractical dream. Alas, it 

seemed to me that India will have to go through the dark tunnel of 

industrial squalor and ecological destruction, without finding a way 

out of grinding poverty. The only outcome of this conference for me 

was a sense of frustration, but for Maya it was wonderful: she was 

given dresses of silk and satin, she watched parrots and peacocks in 

the garden, admired the lotus flowers in the pond, enjoyed the visit 

to the Taj Mahal and was deeply impressed with the classic Indian 

dances. So all in all, the journey was well worth it. 

The last invitation of 1987 was from Japan. Alex Stuart was 

a student of Tea in Kyoto. As an avid reader or Resurgence and a 

staunch supporter of The Small School, Alex wanted to share his 

enthusiasm for Japanese culture with us. ‘You can stay with me in 

Kyoto. You might find enough material to produce a special issue 

of Resurgence on Japan and you might earn enough fees from 

your lectures to cover your travel costs/ We did not need much 

persuasion. June and 1 decided to go. 

The travel agent warned us, ‘Although Aeroflot is cheaper by 

almost half, it is not a comfortable or reliable airline. You get 

what you pay for/ But I said, ‘Since we are two, we will be 

saving almost £800 and we are prepared to rough it. Let’s go 

with Aeroflot/ 

To our surprise, the check-in and entry into the aircraft was 

smoother and quicker than with many more prestigious airlines. 

Here we were not among four hundred passengers on a jumbo jet; 

the Aleutian is a small aircraft and we much preferred it. 

It is true that Aeroflot service is not as flashy and slick as that of 

British Airways, but in a sense the standard is higher. The food they 

served was in durable, heavy duty dishes, and the Armenian wine, 

which came free, was served in glasses. It was obvious that things 

were going to he washed rather than wasted. I could not complain 

at the quality of the food: they served us caviar (unfortunately, being 

vegetarian, we could not eat it), half-inch-thick real sourdough 

bread, rice cooked in butter with salad, and tea served with real 

NO DESTINATION 

JAPAN 

milk from a china jug; none of your sachets of powdered Coffee 

Mate! This ‘backwardness’ is kinder to the environment. 

The air hostesses were less sophisticated and more friendly. When 

they sold the few duty-free goods that they had, especially the large 

flower-printed, all wool, Russian shawls, they draped them over 

their shoulders and repeatedly proclaimed their quality and good 

value as if we were in a bazaar rather than beside the duty-free 

trolley. 

During the flight I read in The Independent that a British firm 

is going to help bring improvements in the supply of consumer 

goods. A factory will be established in Russia where they will turn 

wheat into breakfast cereal, inject fruit juice into it and package it 

attractively. If I was Gorbachev I would say, ‘Hands off—keep your 

progress to yourself! We are quite happy making wheat into bread 

and drinking the juice separately/ 

After a fourteen hour flight we arrived at Narita Airport. 

Our friends, Nobuo and Kuniko Hiratsuka had driven the forty 

miles from Tokyo to meet us. We were whisked away over highways 

busy with countless cars and views obstructed by sound-proofing 

fences on either side. 

The Hiratsukas* home is in a small street in central Tokyo, just 

wide enough for one car and no pavement. Nobuo was a master of 

driving, and could park the car with only a hairsbreadth between 

the car and the wall. It is said that for the same amount of money 

you can buy a house in London, a flat in New York or a bathroom 

in Tokyo The Hiratsukas, like all Japanese, turn every inch of the 

available space to use. In their minute garden they had a plum tree, 

a flowering cherry, herbs and two chickens. 

They are among the growing number of conservation-conscious 

Japanese who are questioning the unchecked pursuit of material 

prosperity, and living lives that are less damaging to the envir¬ 

onment. Solar panels on the roof, and neatly-tied bundles of old 

newspapers and magazines waiting to be collected for recycling, 

were the signs of their care and concern. They told us, ‘Seventy per 

cent of paper in Japan is recycled, but nevertheless, we use too much 

paper. We should try to use less.’ By the time we settled in our room, 

with its traditional tatami-mat floor, we were ready to rest. 

i68 

In the West we know quite a lot about the Japan of Sony, Sanyo 

and Suzuki, but very little about the Japan of tradition and spirit. 

Therefore we went to meet Sori Yanagi, the son of Soetsu Yanagi, 

the great philosopher and friend of the famous potters Hamada and 

Bernard Leach. Soetsu YanagPs book The Unknown Craftsman has 

inspired people of imagination throughout the world. His house is 

now devoted to exhibitions of traditional crafts, but there is a sad 

look on the face of his son, who feels that the machine age has 

overtaken craftspeople* ‘It is becoming more and more difficult to 

continue the tradition of crafts. The Japan of my father was very 

different to modern Japan. Of course we are exhibiting the work 

of various craftspeople in the museum and selling hand-made and 

traditional goods in our shop, but I also work with industry and 

design goods which are made by machines. This is my way to attempt 

to bring some of the spirit of the crafts into the work of machines. By 

integrating craftsmanship and machines we might save the crafts and 

put some quality into machine-made goods/ He showed us round 

the museum. One of the rooms which captured my attention was 

devoted to a display of urns. Mr Yanagi explained, ‘These stone urns 

were made to house the bones of the dead. That craft has now almost 

disappeared, which is a shame. The living kept contact with the dead 

by washing their bones and preserving them in an urn. On the face 

of the urn there is a small opening, not much bigger than a keyhole, 

through which the living and the dead could communicate. People in 

those days believed that the living do not live in isolation, alienated 

from their ancestors, they live in continuity. The art of making such 

urns was highly developed: they were beautifully decorated so that 

the spirit of their ancestors lived in an attractive abode/ 

Apart from these mysterious and impressive ancient urns, there 

were many beautiful objects from daily life made by unknown 

craftsmen, as well as some pots by Hamada and Leach. We were 

inspired by the realization that this traditional samurai home had 

come to such good use. It is like an oasis in a desen of mod¬ 

ern buildings. 

We spent the rest of the day in Tokyo meeting members of the 

organic movement and sharing with them the experience of earing 

izumo soba> traditional cold noodles served in lacquer bowls stacked 

on top of each other, accompanying soups, sauces and dips. 

169 

NO DESTINATION 

JAPAN 

In the evening we went to see Mr Tokoro, an organic farmer 

engaged in defending the last undammed river in Japan. The res¬ 

taurant, Tern Ichi, where we met for a tempura dinner, specializes 

in this popular dish. We were asked to take off our jackets, and the 

waitress tied round us large, white starched cotton aprons so that we 

could enjoy our meal without worrying about our clothes. 

While June, Kuniko and 1 relished the delicious dinner, Mr Tokoro 

did the talking. ‘After the war, we Japanese put all our effort and 

energy into pulling ourselves out of the ruins of bombing and 

destruction; work and more w6rk has been the motto of every 

industry. I am sorry to say that we have gone too far and have 

forgotten many of our more deeply-held values. As a consequence, 

we have created ecological problems. Only now are we waking up 

to the excesses of industrial progress’, and gradually people are join¬ 

ing the organic, ecological and anthnudear movements. Recently 

the state television company conducted an opinion poll and found 

the great majority of people in favour of phasing out nuclear power 

stations. This is a good beginning, but we have to go a long way to 

reverse our so-called progress. Degradation of the environment is 

causing a great stir in every stratum of society, but the leaders of the 

government and industry are so entrenched in their ways that they 

are slow to respond. It is most disheartening that we have to fight 

so hard to stop the damming of the last undammed river in japan. It 

is not the people who want the dam—it is the stalwarts of industry 

who have such a blinkered view and who think that we need more 

power, when we already have an excess of electricity.’ 

After a hectic day we left, with the Hiratsukas, for Kuniko’s 

parents’ home in the peninsular of Izu, famous for its views of 

Mount Fuji. Kuniko’s parents had arranged that as soon as we 

arrived we should enjoy a bath in the hot spring pool, and that 

is what we did. Communal bathing in the water from hot springs 

is a unique feature of life in Japan. Because of the volcanic nature 

of the islands, there is a large number of hot springs up and down 

the country. Bathing in these mineral-rich waters is considered 

extremely good for the health. 

Kuniko and June went to the ladies’ pool, while Nobuo and I went 

to the men’s. As we sat soaking in the hot pool, watching the fishing 

170 

boats floating in the sea, Nobuo explained, ‘These baths are not only 

to clean our bodies but also to clean our minds. Bathing pools like 

this have always been profitable places for relaxed conversation. We 

call it “naked communication n . Here there is no hiding behind smart 

clothes. When people are exhausted, after a long day of difficult 

discussions, they go together to the pool. The scene is changed, the 

tone is transformed, bodies and minds are relaxed; without any fixed 

agenda and with the ego submerged in water, a meeting of minds can 

rake place.’ ‘Perhaps Mr Gorbachev and Mr Bush should have their 

summit meetings in a Japanese bath!’ 1 exclaimed. 

Kyoto is fortunate to be one of the few cities that were not 

destroyed in the war. It was the ancient capital of Japan and people 

now consider it the cultural capital. Most arts, crafts and traditions, 

such as Noh theatre, Tea ceremony and Zen, have their roots in this 

ancient city. 

We enjoyed wandering through grand temples and shrines, small 

streets lined with timber houses of old-world charm, rode gardens 

and carefully cultivated moss-lined paths under delicate maple trees. 

Alex showed us the other Japan, hidden in the back streets, behind 

steel and concrete facades. When we arrived, he packed his bags and 

moved in with a friend so that we could enjoy the privacy of his flat. 

But in oriental fashion, every morning he would come and take us to 

intriguing places he had discovered during his year in the city while 

studying Tea. it is no longer a dying art: thousands of students from 

all over Japan and from abroad are coming to learn the Way of Tea. 

This revival is not confined to Tea only—there is also an upsurge 

of interest, particularly among the young, to learn archery, Kendo, 

lkebana and other traditional disciplines,’ he said. 

One evening, after visiting a Buddhist temple, we were returning 

to Kyoto by train. Most Japanese rail tickets are bought from auto¬ 

matic machines. As we stood looking confused, trying to work out 

how much money to put in the machine, a smartly-dressed young 

woman carrying a bouquet of flowers stopped to ask us if we needed 

any help. She readily pressed the right buttons to produce our tickets. 

It so happened that we were travelling part of the way together. Her 

name was Natsumi Inoue, and when she learned that we were on our 

way to a Tea ceremony, she was delighted. She said, ‘1 also studied 

the Way of Tea for many years, because I believe that through the 

t.71 

NO DESTINATION 

JAPAN 

Way of Tea one can come close to understanding the true spirit 

of Japan. After the war we were too much under the influence 

of American thinking. During those years people felt ashamed of 

our own rituals and ceremonies but now we are coming out of our 

inferiority complex. I feel that now our country is going through a 

golden age, not only in terms of material prosperity but also in terms 

of the rediscovery of our identity. If you look at Japan as an outsider, 

without getting into the spirit of our culture, you will nor understand 

us. Our arts, crafts, ceremonies and rituals teach us to pay attention 

to every minute detail so that we can make every movement as 

beautiful as possible. It is not only what we do but how we do it 

that is important for us. For this reason, learning the art of Tea is a 

great discipline.* 

Natsumi came with us to the taxi stand to act as our interpreter, 

but the address to which we were going was so obscure that the 

first taxi driver was unwilling to take us. A setond taxi man also 

refused and even a third. Natsumi was shocked at this behaviour. 

She decided to accompany us to make sure that we didn’t get lost, so 

we all go into the fourth taxi. This young woman was a wonderful 

example of Japanese courtesy and helpfulness. 

Alex, our friend, philosopher and guide, had arranged for us to go 

to the mountains of Koya. We took an underground train to Umeda, 

where Keith Snyder, who was training to be a monk in the tradition 

of the Seizan School of Pure Land Buddhism, joined us. From Umeda 

we took a train to Osaka station. Thousands of people were moving 

in orderly fashion through the underground complex which was 

brightly lit, spacious, gleaming and modern. Not a single cigarette 

stub on the floor; no one seemed to drop any litter. Uniformed staff 

in their dozens were reciting a mantra of thanks to the passengers for 

travelling on this railway. 

We were hardly aware of the transition from the station com¬ 

plex to the basement floors of the prestigious department store, 

Takashimaya. Alluring and enticing stalls of food and drink of 

every variety, packaged to the maximum degree, stunned us. For 

our journey into the mountains, we purchased obento; lunch boxes 

filled with rice wrapped in fine seaweed and stuffed with pickles and 

vegetables. At every stall we heard young men and women repeating 

warm words of welcome and bowing politely to the customers. 

171 

Wc stopped at a bar where two young women wearing white caps, 

white aprons and sweet smiles, drew us towards them. They were 

veiling bitter, black coffee with a touch of sweetener if we wanted it. 

A hot, stimulating drink in their company was a delight to us. This 

was the world of Takashimaya, the world of eat, drink and be merry, 

{he world of pleasures and abundance. 

We left behind the brightly-lit underworld of Takashimaya and 

n«>k the train heading south. We went up and up and eventually 

across Paradise Bridge and into the Valley of the Gods. Here the 

mountains were so steep that the railway line came to an end. We 

look the funicular to the Land of Ultimate Bliss at 3,000 feet above 

sea level. Mount Koyasan. 

This sacred site was found in the ninth century by the famous Bud- 

Jhist monk, pilgrim, scholar and traveller, the founder of Japanese 

Buddhism, Kobo-daishi. Following in his footsteps, other monks 

and pilgrims came to this holy place and established more than 

two thousand temples, shrines, stupas and monasteries. In the days 

when these monasteries were established, there was no means of easy 

travel and therefore once you were here, in the mountains, you were 

in a world of tranquillity. No worldly distractions could interfere 

with the meditative mood of this place, far from the madding crowd. 

I he monks lived simply, accumulating no possessions; and women 

were barred from the mountain for one thousand years. The seekers 

of enlightenment devoted their time to exploring the inner world, 

which they believed is as vast as the mountain range. 

When they engaged in the world of matter, they used the natural 

materials of wood, stone and bamboo and transformed them into 

objects of exquisite beauty. The temples and monasteries they built, 

rhe gardens and courtyards they created, the statues, lanterns and 

tombstones they carved, were all embodiments of the divine spirit 

of supreme quality. 

Most of the guest-houses in Koya are managed by the Buddhist 

temples; we stayed in one of them. A fleet of young monks greeted 

us and led us into a suite of two rooms with tatami mats and gold- 

painted doors. Apart from a scroll on which words were written in 

calligraphy to inspire the occupants, the walls were completely free 

of decoration. In the middle of the room was the kotatsu , a low 

square table with an electric heating element just under its surface, 

2-73 

NO DESTINATION 

JAPAN 

covered with a large eiderdown. The four of us sat on cushions, with 

our legs snugly warm under the kotatsu , sipping green tea brought 

to our room by the bowing young monks. This was an experience of 

divine simplicity; a world apart from Takashimaya. 

While we drank tea in these tranquil surroundings, the rain pat¬ 

tered down on the copper roof. As we had only one afternoon at 

our disposal, we borrowed umbrellas from the monks and walked 

through the one-and-a-half-mile-long cemetery under the thick 

branches of pines and cedars. Here people came to pay homage 

to their ancestors, to the emperors, shoguns, samurai warriors, 

poets, sages and ordinary men and women. Even the modem 

industrial companies have built memorials for the departed spirits 

of their workers. 

Masanobu Fukuoka’s book on natural farming, One Straw 

Revolution , has been an inspiration to many of us, so we could not 

contemplate coming to Japan and not seeing the author. He lives 

near Matsuyama on Kyushu Island, which is now connected with 

the main island of Honshu by the biggest bridge in Japan. 

It was nearly one o’clock when we arrived at the entrance to the 

Natural Farm, where we were greeted by a shaven-headed Zen 

monk who asked us severely whether we were expected! While we 

waited, he went through the orange grove to ask Mr Fukuoka if we 

could be admitted. On discovering that we were indeed expected, 

he led the way through wildly-flowering mustard, and tall white 

Japanese radish, interspersed with cabbages, aubergines, azaleas 

and umpteen other kinds of vegetation. Around us the birds were 

singing, bees humming, and tranquillity reigned. 

After walking along a narrow footpath we arrived at a one- 

roomed house, thatched and covered with wisteria that was just 

coming into flower. Mr Fukuoka, the seventy-six-year-old sage, 

with his goatee beard, balding, short, slim and somewhat fierce, 

was sitting on his own on one side of the room. Facing him were 

a group of young disciples from many countries. 

Wc were asked to join the lunch of brown rire, salted plums, miso 

soup, noodles and tofu. The place reminded me of an old Indian 

ashram in the woods. Here the students spend their time collecting 

firewood, cooking, building and doing anything the teacher, Mr 

Fukuoka, requires. Fukuoka himself works manually and gives talks 

twice a day. Although he does not put any label on himself, I could 

not help comparing him with the traditional Zen masters. 

On this farm everyone lives in simplicity; no electricity, no tap 

water, and earth closets. This is in stark contrast to the rest of Japan 

where high technology and life in the fast lane is the order of the day. 

Fukuoka has had much more influence abroad and very little impact 

at home. As the saying goes, a prophet is not without honour, save in 

his own country. 

Fukuoka is following an extreme path of *non-doing farming’. If 

he is to have any success in changing the hearts and habits of people 

he might have to follow a middle way. But then, Fukuoka is not a 

reformer: he is a seer, a visionary, a purist, a wise man, but calls 

himself a fool. 

As we sat in the room, which had been darkened over many years 

by smoke from the fire, there was an atmosphere of intensity. I was 

taken aback when Fukuoka asked me, ‘What is your profession?’ 

I said, ‘I have no profession.* ‘Then what is the purpose of your 

life?’ It was rather a tense moment—I wasn’t expecting such an 

interrogation. ‘The purpose of my life is to live,’ I. replied. ‘What 

brought you here?’ he asked. ‘I wanted to see your Natural Farm.’ 

Fukuoka said, ‘I feel like a lonely traveller. I am going in one direc¬ 

tion while the whole world is going in the opposite direction. 1 have 

been speaking about the return to nature for the last fifty years but 

the world has been inarching towards artificial ways of farming.’ 

It must be particularly painful for Fukuoka to look down from 

his farm on the hill and see how his village below and the whole 

valley have been steadily, day by day, buried in concrete, dams, 

roads, railways and flyovers, amid the constant noise of bulldozers, 

tractors and traffic. ‘The world is hurtling downhill and I alone am 

making the effort to go up,’ were the last words we heard from 

this sad sage. 

Simon Piggot, like Alex, is a long-standing reader of Resurgence . 

He is married to a Japanese lady, fluent in the language, and has 

been living in Japan for many years. He was able to be a perfect 

bridge between us and the people we met; he accompanied us on 

our travels, and acted as our interpreter for many days during which 

time he introduced us to a number of outstanding individuals. 

*74 

*75 

NO DESTINATION 

JAPAN 

We had heard of the Suzuki method when our children were 

learning to play the violin, but until Simon told us in Matsumoto 

about Mr Suzuki’s master classes, we had never dreamt of meeting 

him. Simon phoned his institute; it was confirmed that Mr Suzuki 

was in town and that we would be more than welcome to attend his 

class at 9.00 am. 

Simon lived a few miles out of the town. The three of us got on 

bikes and pedalled to The Talent Education Institute, an interna¬ 

tional <?entre of music. Mr Suzuki was already in the hall, before 

time, so we had a chance to introduce ourselves. One by one the stu¬ 

dents gathered; some Americans, some English, some Australians, 

some from Singapore, quite a few Germans and Scandinavians. On 

the dot, the class began. ‘I would like to hear the Diamond Tone,’ 

declared Mr Suzuki. *lf you produce a glass tone you won’t get high 

value for it, only the Diamond Tone please. It is in all of you. You 

have to find it and bring it out.’ We watched him walk from student 

to student listening, and praising, ‘Good, good, good.’ We never saw 

him criticize or put anyone down. In spite of his age of ninety-one he 

was full of vigour and moved with flair. 

For one hour he coaxed the ‘Diamond Tone’ out of the students 

with a great sense of humour. It was engaging to watch his perfor¬ 

mance, like an actor on stage. After his dass he took us to his room, 

as it was ‘cookies time’. ‘I believe that each and every child is capable 

of learning music to a high standard, in the same way as all children 

are capable of learning their mother tongue. There is no such thing 

as inborn ability: we can achieve the universal playing of music in the 

same way as the universal use of language. Practice makes perfect. 

As children learn to speak first, read and write later, I encourage 

children to play music by ear and by heart. Reading of the notes can 

come later. The purpose of learning music is to develop as a good 

human being: this is my message in a nutshell.’ 

Mr Suzuki gets up at three in the morning and listens to tapes of 

students playing, sent to him from all over Japan. To each one he 

adds brief comments. Then at nine he starts to teach and to give 

interviews, and does not go to bed until nine in the evening. The idea 

of retirement has never occurred to him. ‘I am not ninety-one years 

old, but ninety-one years young!’ he joked. Being in the presence of 

Mr Suzuki was a singular experience. 

176 

Tsuyishi, an organic vegetable merchant from Matsumoto, drove 

iis in his van to the Japanese Alps. The narrow, single lane road 

climbed up the edge of the mountain, with hairpin bends at every 

fifty or sixty yards. Here the drop is absolutely sheer. When we 

looked down into the valley of Oishika-mura we shivered, as if we 

were on the edge of a well three thousand feet deep. 

The Japanese mountains often undergo earthquakes which cause 

frequent landslides, blocking the roads with earth and rock. In the 

past people built beautiful retaining walls in stone which fitted well 

into the landscape, but the valley of Oishika-mura has been defaced 

by plastering the mountainsides with concrete; the modem passion 

for building knows no limit. This valley forms a confluence of five 

rivers, including the great river, Heavenly Dragon. Engineers were 

engaged in constructing a mammoth hydro-elcctric plant which will 

prevent the Heavenly Dragon flowing free and will force all five 

rivers into one large pipe to generate electricity. Industry is not 

prepared to leave the mountains alone. 

Our hosts, Etsuko, Jirka and their daughter Akebi, live in a tra¬ 

ditional farmhouse with a large plot of land. It had stood empty 

for many years and now they rent it for a mere Y5,ooo (£25) a 

month. Jirka told us, ‘There are many villages in the mountains 

with perfectly good houses and good land which are lying empty. 

In some cases the original inhabitants come during the summer for 

short periods to maintain the ancestral shrines. They believe that the 

spirits of their ancestors continue to be present in their family homes. 

But even that tradition is now weakening. On the other hand, there 

are families who have come to live here from the city to enjoy the 

fruits of the good life.’ 

This was no exaggeration. When we sat down to eat with Jirka and 

his neighbours we enjoyed a simple feast of mushrooms grown on 

oak logs, tempura made with tender dandelion flowers, butter bur, 

horse-tail, curled bracken shoots, soup made with home-made wtso, 

home-brewed sake (rice wine), home-made tofu and locally grown 

brown rice. Everything we ate had the real taste of good food. 

Jirka led us up into the mountains. The path went through a natu¬ 

ral forest of pine, oak, beech and maple where deer, monkeys, wild 

boar, bears and foxes roam freely. A lonely but happy bumblebee 

singing the praise of purple mountain azalea flowers caught our 

2-77 

NO DESTINATION 

attention. Who needs to be in the crowd when solitude can be so 

glorious? Catching the spirit of this passing, yet eternal moment, 

jirka sang an old song; 

And today again we are crossing 

The mountains of living 

Carrying a false dream seriously. 

In the valley was the beautiful village of Okawara. Once upon a 

time a claimant to the Imperial title had escaped to the valley with 

some of his samurai warriors, and thereafter lived in obscurity. 

Wooden-framed houses, darkened by time, were scattered asym¬ 

metrically on irregular terraces among paddy fields, fruit orchards 

and vegetable gardens. 

Toshio Kobayashi, a friend of Jirka’s, was bom into a farm¬ 

ing family of this village and now lives on the outskirts. As we 

approached his house we stopped at a stone basin which held spring 

water. We rinsed our mouths and hands, a familiar ritual at the 

approach to a temple. Tea house, or family home. 

The Kobayashis* ideas about organic farming were not popular 

with their conventional neighbours, but they made a good living 

by selling cheese to customers who came to the house. This way of 

setting cheese brings them in touch with the world beyond the valley. 

Friendship with their customers has become as important to them as 

the business of selling cheese. 

Within minutes of our arrival, green tea was poured, followed by 

soba (buckwheat noodles) placed in square bamboo frames contain¬ 

ing a bamboo mat on which the soba sat in six small circles. Finely 

chopped onion, grated white radish and green wasabi mustard were 

served in a small dish. We added this garnish to a sauce of soya, 

sake and sugar and dipped our noodles into it. This simple food was 

presented with grace and refinement. Works of art were not hung on 

the walls but appeared on the table. 

Everything we ate was grown, picked, prepared and cooked by the 

family. Even though such a life of self-sufficiency is hard work, the 

Kobayashis do it with style and without sign of strain. 

Our four weeks in Japan passed quickly, without a dull moment. 

Motoe and Yoshinari Komatsu, with whom we spent our last day in 

Tsukuba city, drove us to the airport. As a parting gesture they gave 

278 

JAPAN 

ii» a huge bottle of Gold Sake, boxed in a wooden case. We were 

able 10 share this delirious liquor with many friends on our return 

In I larilatid. 

Kn/o Nakamura, who rightly considers himself and his associates 

hi In* 'Schumacher people’, came all the way from Tokyo to bid us 

I hi * 1 well, bringing a box of Japanese sweets which proved to be a 

iMu 1 ivy for some weeks to come. Kazu Okui, an old friend of June’s, 

iliiiiMgetl to catch us and spend the last hour with us at the airport. 

I lei present was a furoski , an ingenious Japanese invention of a 

nmying cloth which serves as a bag, a suitcase, or a basket. This 

pai Uvular square cloth was printed with the face of a geisha from an 

old painting. The giving of gifts comes to the Japanese as naturally 

a* id If ring a cup of tea. 

l aden with these presents, and many more that we had been 

given throughout the journey, we left Japan not saying goodbye. 

Inn feeling that we would return. 

Z79 

Chapter Fifteen The College 

O Ni* spring morning in 1988 1 was visiting my friend John 

I .uric at his home in Beaford. He looked a bit gloomy, which 

*4* r*uhcr unusual for him. ‘The reason is that we have decided 

In 1 lime the school at Foxhole. It has been a painful decision. The 

tilionj has been the very soul of Dartington, but the experience 

nl ihr past year has proved that it cannot carry on/ ‘Every crisis 

U an opportunity/ I said. ‘When old doors close, new ones open. 

II you arc unable to run the school, why not start a university? 

Ihuniigton would be an ideal site for the study and practice of 

n illogical and spiritual values. Why not see the closure of the school 

41 411 opportunity to start something new?’ 

Sim r iny coming to live in North Devon, John and I have taken 

4 *1*1 ions interest in each other's projects. John had been acting as 

die Art Editor of Resurgence and a Board member of Green Books. 

I htiil Ixrn down to Dartington on numerous occasions to help with 

iimfmiiccs and courses. This way we had built up a good working 

♦drtwuuihip with each other, and when I made the suggestion to turn 

I t*i iliignm into a university, he did not take it lightly. 

|ohn was of the opinion that, to some extent, Dartington had 

lilli'ii into a rut and needed some new input to reinvigorate the place. 

I Ir mkL 'Say something more/ ‘The medieval times arc described as 

til* age of religion; everyone studied theology. Then came the age 

i*l 1 canon, when studies were approached in a rational, scientific 

mill analytical way. Now we are going through another transition 

411*1 1 lie new age will be the age of ecology and spirituality. New 

lu«l inn ions are needed to give expression to this transformation 

4 tul I would like to see Dartington giving a lead/ I replied. T am not 

1 onvlined yet. What other arguments have you got up your sleeve?' 

Mid |ohn laughingly. ‘Take for example, the Gaia hypothesis of 

I41111* I .ovclock. No university will touch it, whereas this is perhaps 

181 

NO DESTINATION 

THE COLLEGE 

the most significant idea of our time. Similarly, Rupert Sheldrake’s 

idea of morphogenetic fields is viewed by the establishment with 

great suspicion, as you know. Nature said that if there was ever a 

case for burning a book, Rupert Sheldrake’s A New Science of Life 

would be a prime candidate. None of the universities is interested in 

the spiritual underpinning of intellectual inquiry. Therefore, where 

can one go to study these ideas in depth ? The closing of Foxhole— 

and all those empty buildings—gives you the opportunity and the 

space to begin something big!’ ‘This is all very well, and sounds 

interesting, but how can we take the idea forward?’ John wondered. 

After a moment’s thought he said, i will get the key people from 

Dartington together—you try to convince them.’ This was quite a 

challenge, but I agreed to do it. 

A few weeks later, in the comfortable Morning Room of the 

Elmhirst Centre, all the departmental managers of the Dartington 

Estate and some of the Trustees assembled. In his brief introduction 

John Lane said, ‘Every age has been shaped by a few radical and 

powerful thinkers like Descartes, Marx, Freud, Jung and Einstein. 

Sadsh has a big idea. He wants Dartington to provide a base for 

the powerful thinkers of our time whose ideas are going to shape 

the future. I have invited him here to explain his vision to us.’ 

I said ’Dartington has been in the avant garde of change, but 

change cannot come overnight. We have to lay firm intellectual, 

philosophical and practical foundations for a new kind of society. 

At present there is no place in Britain where this kind of work is being 

done. I would like to see a university established at Dartington which 

would be fully devoted to an ecological worldview of sustainable 

economics, agriculture and industry.’ ‘How will you do it?’ I was 

asked. ‘We will invite eminent thinkers, scientists, philosophers and 

activists such as James Lovelock, Wendell Berry, Hazel Henderson, 

David Bohm, Rupert Sheldrake, Fritjof Capra, and others who arc 

doing pioneering work in their fields, to come and teach here. Stu¬ 

dents will come from around the world and live here for two or three 

years. Work, meditation, scholarship and a sense of community will 

be the four essential aspects of this university.’ 

Much discussion followed. How could such a project be financed? 

What kind of students would come? Would they be given degrees and 

z8z 

certificates? Everyone appeared to be excited by the idea. Beneath all 

the questions and comments there was a sense of ambivalence, and 

also astonishment. No one was prepared to say yes, and no one was 

prepared to say no. 

John Pontin, Chairman of the Trust, commented, ‘The idea of a 

university and students coming for two ojr three years may be too 

ambitious to begin with. It may be better to think in terms of shorter 

courses. However, I would like you to prepare a more detailed paper 

and a proposal which we can consider seriously.’ 

For me this was a very encouraging reaction. John Pontin offered 

me a fee of £1,000 to write the proposal. I took this as a proof of 

his firm commitment to the idea. I was given six weeks to write 

the proposal and a weekend conference was organized to discuss 

it. 

Two days of deliberations concluded that offering degrees and 

getting accreditation would involve too many problems. We also 

conceded that instead of attempting to establish a university, we 

should begin with a college which would offer courses of four to 

five weeks’ duration. These courses would be led by a Scholar-in- 

Residence who would be chosen for his or her outstanding contri¬ 

bution in the areas of ecology and spirituality and for the ability to 

teach and communicate. A small steering group comprising John 

Lane, Anne Phillips, Brian Nicholson and myself was appointed to 

prepare a formal application, including a budget, to present to the 

Dartington Trustees at their next meeting, which was to take place 

in October 1989. 

The steering group met throughout the summer. I travelled down 

from Hartland to Dartington almost every fortnight for our meet¬ 

ings. We wrote and rewrote, rejected and revised draft after draft 

of the prospectus. Every word and line was worked over with a 

fine tooth-comb. The final draft of the budget and the prospectus 

was ready by the end of September and it was agreed that this 

would go to the Trustees for their decision at their next meeting, 

which would take place while 1 was running a course at Cortijo 

Romero. The steering committee agreed that we must get together 

immediately after the Trustees meeting to prepare the launch of the 

college. This involved me flying back from Spain a day early and in a 

state of great excitement. 

283 

NO DESTINATION 

THE COLLEGE 

As arranged, Brian met me at the station. I got into his car 

anxiously waiting to know what the outcome of the Trustees’ meet¬ 

ing was, and whether they had approved the proposal and the 

budget. Brian said not a word. He kept driving for half an hour 

whilst we talked about my time in Spain and other casual matters. 

Eventually 1 could wait no longer and asked ‘What was the decision 

of the Trustees?’ ‘I was waiting and wondering when you would ask 

me this question.* replied Brian, *1 am sorry to say that the decision 

has been deferred and the proposal will go to the Trustees at their 

next meeting in six months’ time.’ 

It was a moment of grave disappointment for me, but we went 

ahead with our meeting at John Lane’s house in Beaford, as planned. 

In my heart I was grumbling, saying to myself, ‘Things take so long 

at Partington!’ 

We were working feverishly, but this deferral injected some 

doubts in me. We were working on the assumption that the 

Trustees would eventually say yes, but in my heart of hearts I 

knew this was by no means certain. Of course, John Lane was 

totally committed to the idea, and behind the scenes he was 

working on every Trustee, but how they would vote at the meeting 

was anybody’s guess. 

At last the day of decision came. On z^th March 1990 Brian, 

Anne and I were invited to the pre-meeting lunch with the Trustees 

and I was asked to make my final case for the college. Evoking the 

name of Tagore and the Elmhirsts 1 said, ’The idea of this college 

is entirely in the spirit of the founders of Partington Hall, and 

by approving this proposal you, the Trustees, will be making a 

courageous response to the crisis of our rime. If you do not take 

such in iriative, who will ? ’ 

I spoke for about ten minutes and 1 could sense the atmosphere 

was such that my plea had been well received. The Trustees with¬ 

drew to their meeting room and we waited anxiously for their 

decision. 

At about 5.00 p.m. John Lane came out and announced, ‘We 

have the college, and Maurice Ash has come up with a name. He 

said “Why not call it Schumacher College, since we take so much 

inspiration from the work of E.F. Schumacher?” And you, Satish, are 

284 

invited to be the Director of this new college.’ This was a moment of 

great delight! 

Between April and December we appointed the Core Faculty, 

arranged the Scholars-in-Residence, and advertised the programme. 

We opened the college on 1 $eh January 1991, with James Lovelock 

as the first Schoiar-in-Residence. 

By a strange coincidence, on the very opening day of the college 

the Gulf War broke out, which deterred some would-be participants 

from abroad. Considering this situation we all felt relieved to find 

that there were twenty-five participants for the first course. And 

after that, the college went from strength to strength. Within the 

first year of its operation, people from thirty different nations came 

to participate. 

Editing Resurgence and directing Schumacher College feels like 

doing two jobs simultaneously. But I also feel that this challenge 

has given me a new sense of service. Being involved in the creation 

of an educational centre, which is responding to the crisis of western 

culture, is a great challenge. Working for the College and Resurgence 

replenishes my soul. 

Schumacher College is the culmination of my life’s work. Here it is 

possible to bring together the spiritual foundation of the monk’s life, 

the social concerns of the Bhoodan movement, the ideals of peace 

which I pursued during my walk around the world, and the ecologi¬ 

cal concerns of Resurgence. This is a convergence of the values and 

aspirations by which I have been guided throughout my life. 

1S 5 

Chapter Sixteen 

Mount Kailas 

Three miles above sea level, 

Tibet is the roof of the world, 

and the Sacred Mount Kailas 

is the ladder to heaven. 

Old Indian saying 

T hat was a cool evening in Beaulieu, in southern France, 

when June and 1 were guests of our friend Rosalie Hasten. We 

were enjoying a delicious feast under a canopy in Ro$alie*s garden. 

My eyes were set on the horizon of the calm Mediterranean Sea. 

Hii'tiirnly, and out of the blue, Rosalie asked, Tor your fiftieth 

hill Inlay you went on a pilgrimage around Britain; how do you 

wuh u> celebrate your sixtieth?* I had not thought of this, so my 

answer surprised me. I said, ‘I don't think I can afford it, but I have 

always dreamed of making a pilgrimage to Mount Kailas in Tibet. It 

h father inaccessible, but many of my ancestors have gone on foot 

am! I wish to do the same/ 

Without any hesitation Rosalie said, ‘You should do it! And take 

|imr with you. May I come with you, too?’ Imagination was flying, 

hi seconds the future'was being spoken. ‘It will be my pleasure to 

iover all the costs of this journey as a birthday present!* I could not 

Mlrve my ears, and now there was no excuse not to do it. 

This was the summer of 1995. In the summer of 199 6 Rosalie 

i amr to England and we three went on a practice walk over the 

lull* and valleys of Dartmoor. There Rosalie realized that for her, 

walking across the Himalayas would be physically impossible. So 

will) regret in her voice she said, i cannot come, but you two 

inn#! go’. And we accepted her wish and her gift. It took us a 

yrar’s mental and physical preparation before we could set off in 

September 1997. 

187 

NO DESTINATION 

MOUNT KAILAS 

Our journey began in Kathmandu, which literally means ‘a 

great wooden temple’. In the centre of the city there stands the 

ancient temple from which the capital takes its name. There is an 

age-old tradition: a young girl from a noble family is chosen to 

live in this temple until she reaches puberty. She is revered as the 

soul of the city and worshipped as the virgin goddess. This was a 

good place to start our pilgrimage. A glimpse of this young divinity 

as she leaned out from an intricately carved wooden balcony was 

mysterious and inspiring. 

We stayed at a newly-built Jain guesthouse. The white marble 

temple in the courtyard demonstrates how all the sects of the Jain 

religion work together in harmony. On the first floor is the shrine 

of the sbwetambaras , the white-robed monks. Downstairs is the 

shrine of the sect of digumbaras , the sky-clad, whose monks wear 

no clothes. The third order, the terapanthis> who worship no idols 

and build no temples, use the great hall of the guesthouse for their 

gatherings. All three sects worked together to build this centre, 

overcoming their historic disagreements and divisions. Every morn¬ 

ing we were woken by beautiful bells, sweet songs and the chant¬ 

ing of mantras. 

For Jains, as for Hindus and Buddhists, Mount Kailas is most 

sacred. Their first prophet, Adinath, died there in meditation. Leg¬ 

end has it that the Hindu god Shiva and the Jain prophet Adinath are 

one and the same. For Hindus, Shiva never dies but lives eternally at 

Kailas. In fact, Kailas is Shiva. 

Shiva is also called Pashupatinath, the god of animals. His temple 

accommodates pilgrims in the thousands from Nepal and from 

India. Some come to die and be cremated here on the banks of the 

sacred river, which eventually merges into the most sacred river, 

the Ganges in India. We saw a corpse on a funeral pyre in full 

flame ‘releasing the soul from the body and uniting it with the 

spirit of Shiva’. 

For Buddhists there are two great temples, Bodhnath and Sway am- 

bhunath, but there is no exclusivity here. Buddhists visit Pashu¬ 

patinath, Hindus visit Bodhnath, Jains visit Swayambhunath and 

find no contradiction. The Nepalese we met claim to be Hindu as 

well as Buddhist. 

When it comes to birth, death, marriage, and other rites of passage, 

they observe Hindu rituals, but for the practice of meditation and 

compassion they take Buddha’s teachings as their guide. 

Buddhists, Jains, and Hindus find a common source of spirituality 

in Mount Kailas. For thousands of years pilgrims have made arduous 

journeys to that sacred site. Although the Chinese occupation made 

it hard to enter Tibet, since *993 the rules have been relaxed. A quota 

of 450 Indian pilgrims are allowed each year to cross the border. 

Other nationals are allowed either from Lhasa, which takes five days 

of driving in a Land Cruiser on a dirt road, or on foot through the 

protected district of Humla in north-western Nepal. 

We chose the humla route, which starts from Simikot, a 

mountain town with an airstrip where small planes fly in and out, 

weather permitting. We took a helicopter of Gurkha Airlines, flying 

along the river valleys with steeply forested mountains on both 

sides. 

From Simikot it was seven days of walking to cross the Himalayas. 

Five sherpas accompanied our party of nine. The tents, food, kero¬ 

sene, sleeping bags, and the rest of the gear were carried on yaks, 

mules, and horses driven by a group of herdsmen. We started climb¬ 

ing on a steep path immediately out of town. It was up and up and 

up, a good taste of the climbs to come. We followed the Humla 

Karnali River, which was flowing fast. At night we found either 

terraces or tiny meadows by the river to camp. This part of Nepal is 

one of the most remote and requires a special trekking permit. People 

live here in small settlements. The houses were beautifully built with 

earth and wood. Terraced villages dung to the mountain slopes. 

Hardworking mountain men, women and children were bringing 

down brushwood and grass for the winter. Wild herbs, apricots, 

walnuts and gooseberries lined the slopes in between the maize, 

millet and hemp. 

People wore beautifully knitted and woven clothes and heavy 

necklaces of silver with huge turquoise and coral beads. Their faces 

were weathered by sun, wind and hard work, yet they radiated 

laughter in abundance. 

We followed the traditional trade route, along which sheep and 

goats carry loads of ten kilograms each in handmade wool and 

NO DESTINATION 

MOUNT KAILAS 

leather pannier bags. They also carry grains to Tibet and bring 

back much desired and precious Tibetan salt. This was the middle 

of September, nearly the end of the trading season. The shepherds 

and goatherds were returning from Tibet with salt. 

The paths were so steep that even the goats were panting and 

flopping down to rest. So you can imagine us, the unaccustomed 

travellers. The steepest of them all was Nara Lagna Pass, a continu¬ 

ous ascent reaching a huge rock Cairn festooned with prayer flags at 

an altitude of 15,000 feet. Even though we had been walking for days 

and were somewhat acclimatized, every few minutes we had to stop 

to catch our breath. The pace of walking had to be extremely slow, 

but then neither speed nor time was any object. 

Thus we reached tibet. It is a great country, covering an area 

as large as Western Europe. At the border post, the Chinese flag was 

flapping furiously in the wind. The presence of Chinese soldiers and 

their power were evident everywhere. Chinese control over Tibet 

may not be legal, but it is complete. As we progressed over the vast 

expanse of the Tibetan plateau, we encountered checkpoint after 

checkpoint manned by Chinese soldiers numbering half a million. 

We spent our first night in the small town of Purang. Here the 

hideous un-Tibetan architecture of Chinese modernism imposes 

itself. Traditional Tibetan dwellings painted with pleasing earth 

colours are . dwarfed. Not only the Tibetan houses but also the 

Tibetan people are overshadowed. They appear to feel second-class 

citizens in their own land. Tibetans have been reduced to a minority; 

large numbers of Chinese immigrants—seven million—have been 

settled here. They control most of the trade and other economic 

activity. After the serenity and tranquillity of Humla, we were 

shocked at the signs of political tension and the creeping squalor of 

‘development’. Any idea of the Dalai Lama returning to Tibet seemed 

fanciful. In fact, thank goodness the Dalai Lama escaped when he 

did; otherwise he would almost certainly have been killed. His escape 

brought Tibetan Buddhism and culture out into the world, and that 

could be seen as a blessing, but those who are left behind are in a 

perilous predicament. 

However, the Chinese cannot take away the sacred lakes and the 

holy mountains. Curiously and amazingly, at three miles above sea 

190 

level, in the desolate and desert-like landscape, on the roof of the 

world, there are two great lakes side by side. One is called the Demon 

Lake (Rakshastal), 140 square miles in area; the other, the Divine 

Lake (Manasarovar), is zoo square miles. The Demon Lake has salty 

water, and the Divine Lake fresh water. 

Demon and Divine are like yin and yang. Both are essential and 

complementary, bur pilgrims have preferred Manasarovar. Itismore 

sheltered, has easier terrain, and its form is round. Eight monasteries 

are built on the shores of this lake, and there are numerous caves 

where ascetics have practised penance. 

As we approached Lake Manasarovar, a great peak rose on the 

horizon. ‘Here it is, here it is, here it is,’ everyone shrieked. It was 

Mount Kailas, mysterious, majestic, and monumental. We stood 

still, looking at it in stunned silence. No words can describe the 

experience of seeing this towering temple of nature. 

Mount Kailas is the Mount Meru of myth and story, the axis 

mundiy the backbone of the Earth, the upholder of the universe, the 

ladder to heaven. It is the jewel in the crown of the Himalayas. 

Camping at Manasarovar was magical. Clear sky at night with 

billions of stars; the waning moon and the wild water wrapped us in 

the realms of pure nature. Everything was undisturbed, uncluttered, 

uninterrupted, and uncorrupted. No wonder that for thousands of 

years seekers of the spirit and pilgrims of the soul have found refuge 

on the shores of this lake. We broke the thin ice of the lake to take 

a dip, remembering the words of the Hindu poet Kalidasa; ‘When 

Manasarovar touches your body, you shall go to paradise and shall 

be released from the sins of one hundred births.’ 

From the lake we travelled to Darchan to arrange for yaks and 

prepare for our long-awaited circumambulation of Mount Kailas. 

The name Darchan is derived from the Sanskrit word darshaft, 

which means sacred view. We left half of our gear here and fitted 

the possessions of both of us into one bag. Even so, our party 

needed nine yaks, herded by two women and two men, to carry 

our equipment! So much stuff! 

At 16,000 feet we began what the Tibetans call kora , the Greeks 

call temenos, and the Hindus call parikrama ; the circumambulation 

of the sacred space. A river valley made a perfect path for us to 

encircle Mount Kailas. We went clockwise from south to west and 

191 

NO DESTINATION 

MOUNT KAILAS 

came to the first of four prostration stations, where Tibetans kneel 

and then lie on the earth, chest, forehead and arms touching the 

ground. This is the act of humility to the mountain and to the 

countless great teachers, yogis, mahatmas, rinpoches and ascetics, 

including the sage Milarepa, who disseminated their teachings and 

sang their poetry here. 

Kailas is unusual in that it can be circumambulated on foot within 

twenty-four hours. And even if you are not an accomplished trekker, 

you can do it in two or three days. We saw scores of Tibetan 

men, women and children, including babes in the arms of their 

mothers, circumambulating the mount. Old and young, peasants 

and city dwellers, farmers and nomads, with their rosaries and 

prayer wheels in their hands, proclaiming the mantra Om mam 

padme bum , were moving along the path at a great pace, passing 

us by. 

On our first day of the kora> the weather changed. Ferocious cold 

winds accompanied by sleet drove into our faces. If this was the 

condition in a valley, what was to come on the high pass of Drolma 

La;, we started to wonder. Thermal underwear, woollen jumpers, 

down jackets, four seasons sleeping bags, and hot water bottles were 

not enough to keep us warm that night. We were provided with a 

half tablet of Diamox each to keep the altitude sickness away. But 

even that did not stop several of us from developing a high-altitude 

cough, which stayed with us for the rest of the journey. That night 

hardly anybody was able to sleep. 

Next day the cold weather continued until about midday, but then 

the sun came out and we were able to have a clear view of the north 

face of Kailas. We ascended to Shiva-Sthal, where Tibetans place an 

article of clothing or a drop of blood, or hair or a stone, as pan of 

leaving their prejudices behind them. We followed their example 

and left some hair and a stone which we had carried from our 

home in Hartland. ‘Leave your fear, your ego, your anxiety and 

your meanness here,’ said our Tibetan guide. The evening turned 

severely cold again. 

We camped at the foot of the high pass. A passing pilgrim said, 

‘This is not a good place to camp. You will freeze at night.’ But we 

were too tired to contemplate climbing the highest and most arduous 

pass at that time of the evening. The pilgrim was right. We shivered 

* 9 * 

all that night. Little rest, no sleep. Next morning, when we looked at 

our yaks, they were covered in frost. 

As we warmed ourselves up with hot tea and porridge, we saw 

Tibetan pilgrims, clad in long sheepskin coats, heading fast toward 

Drolma La. That sight inspired us to set off on the steep, rocky 

path. The ascent was daunting. Every few steps, we were so short 

of breath that we needed to sit down, and we could only proceed 

by pulling each other along. Would we ever make it to the top? We 

kept doubting, but there was some force which drew us inexorably 

onward; perhaps it was Mount Kailas itself calling us. 

At 18,600 feet, we reached the highest point, the Drolma La itself. 

We came to the great boulder of the goddess Tara. The stone was 

covered with long strings of prayer flags left by pilgrims. ‘When you 

leave a prayer flag here, you also leave behind your anger, your desire 

and attachments. This is your second chance to unburden yourself. 

You will be reborn into a new life if you can allow your old self to 

die,’ the Tibetan guide reminded us. 

We felt a great sense of relief, of accomplishment. We were blessed 

with a cloudless blue sky. The sun shone upon us even though 

a strong wind was trying to sweep us away. Sometimes pilgrims 

complete the kora while Mount Kailas is completely obscured by 

dense white clouds. They get not a single glimpse of the mountain 

during the entire journey. But we were able to see the peak from all 

four sides and complete thirty-two miles of circumambulation. 

Along the route there are fttani walls built with stones which 

are carved with sacred mantras. Pilgrims place these stones on the 

walls as offerings, symbols of their commitment to the way of the 

Buddha. On these walls are also placed the horns of yaks as signs 

of the impermanence of life. Yaks, once strong and sturdy, are now 

dead and gone. Similarly, we will all pass away, however rich and 

powerful we may be. So we should live humble lives and not become 

proud of our achievements, even the achievement of a pilgrimage. 

When we arrived back in Darchan, we met an Indian swami who 

has been going around Mount Kailas every year since the border was 

opened in 1993. He carries no special equipment, walks barefoot, 

■md stays in the monasteries along the route. He took us to a Tibetan 

tea shop, saying, ‘Your cough is partly due to the mountain water, 

*9 3 

NO DESTINATION 

which lacks mineral salts. Water in Tibet is melted ice since there is 

very little rain in this country. That is why Tibetans add salt and yak 

butter to their tea, to make up for the mineral deficit.’ Initially, we 

found the taste of such tea unpleasant, but we drank it as medicine. 

The Hindu swami said, 'It is an acquired taste, but after a few days 

you will like it,’ and so we did. As time passed we became ‘addicted’ 

to Tibetan tea. 

From Darchan we went to Tirthapuri, one of the resting places on 

the pilgrimage route from India. Pilgrims stop here because of the 

delightful hot springs. They bathe and clean themselves after the long 

journey across the Himalayas and the dusty Tibetan plateau. This is 

a sacred site, and pilgrims lead their horses around the monastery, 

the hot springs, and the hillside. But then every hill, every river, every 

being is sacred for the Hindus, the Buddhists, and the Jains. 

During the Cultural Revolution, the monastery at Tirthapuri was 

destroyed, in common with thousands of other monasteries through¬ 

out Tibet. Some of them arc now being restored and openeo for 

religious activities. Others are kept under lock and key, to be opened 

only for visitors or tourists. Wonderful frescoes of Tibetan icono¬ 

graphy, as we saw in the town of Tsaparang, are left to decay. 

These sacred paintings and sculptures, which were sources of great 

religious inspiration, are treasures of Tibetan culture, but for the 

Chinese they seem to carry little value. By neglecting this evidence 

of a great tradition, the Chinese are effectively destroying Tibetan 

culture. 

As the Native American Indian culture has more or less dis¬ 

appeared from America, and as the Aboriginal tradition has been 

reduced to a minority interest in Australia, we fear that very lit¬ 

tle of Tibetan tradition will be left if the present trend continues. 

The Chinese are imposing their ideas of modernization, progress, 

secularization, development, civilization and education on the land 

of Tibet. But Tibetan artists and religious teachers are flourishing 

in Nepal, Bhutan, and India. Those who wish to support Tibetan 

culture should support the efforts of the Dalai Lama and other 

Ti betan leaders i n exile. 

Chapter Seventeen Influences 

M y body, my mind, my soul and my self are made up of 

many influences, as a river is made up of many tributaries. 

I am not a separate, isolated, individual being. 1 am indivisible, 

interbeing. The thoughts, ideals, visions, and attitudes I embody 

have come from a multitude of sources. 

A Vedic prayer says: 

Let the noble thoughts come to me 

from all corners of the universe . 

The reverse is also true. Let us send our noble thoughts to all comers 

of the universe. Thoughts are not in our heads, thoughts arc all 

around us, we live in thoughts. 

There is nothing new under the sun; I am not looking for an 

original thought. Nothing can emerge out of nothing, and something 

cannot disappear into nothing. Matter and spirit are in continuous 

motion of change, transformation, and recycling. I am part of that 

wheel of life, which is continuously turning and returning. 

However, there are certain influences on my life which I can 

acknowledge. In previous chapters I have talked about my mother, 

my guru Vinoba Bhave and others, but there is one prominent figure 

who stands out like a beacon, and that is Mahatma Gandhi. 1 was 

bom in a Jain family surrounded by Hindus; Gandhi was bom in a 

Hindu family surrounded by Jains. That Jain influence made him an 

adherent of non-violence. In turn, he influenced many Jains, includ¬ 

ing myself, reminding us of the strength and depth of our own roots. 

Thus a circle was complete. Gandhi was a living example of the kind 

of life to which I have aspired. He dissolved the division between 

action and thought, practice and theory, and silence and speech. 

1 never met Gandhi: I was eleven when he was assassinated. So I 

learned from Gandhi’s writings as well as from his associates that 

195 

NO DESTINATION 

NFLUENCES 

politics and principles are tw.o sides of the same coin. It is no good 

to leave the world and live in caves or monasteries, thinking that the 

world is a trap and the only way to be liberated is to escape from it. 

On the other hand, the majority of people believe that spirituality 

is only for saints and that it cannot be practised in everyday life. 

Gandhi took it upon himself to show that people can engage in 

politics truthfully and non-violently. Economics and ethics ate indi¬ 

visible. Religion must permeate everyday activity. When agriculture, 

business, industry, education, arts, crafts, homemaking, family life, 

human relationships and our interaction with the natural world are 

built on a spiritual foundation, then human beings are able to find 

the true meaning of life. 

Some of Gandhi’s contemporaries were absorbed with the single¬ 

issue campaign for the independence of India. But Gandhi himself 

presented the big picture. He knew that independence would come 

sooner or later, but the real point was not just to replace the white 

sahib with the brown sahib and continue on the same path of 

modernity, industrialization, materialism and rule from the centre. 

He wanted to develop a new vision of statecraft, so that independent 

India would be very different from British India. 

In order to create such a holistic and integrated nation, Gandhi 

proposed eleven principles on which the social order should be 

built. He established hundreds of ashrams which functioned as 

small experimental communities in which volunteers came together 

to explore, modify and refine these principles before the whole 

of India, and for that matter the rest of the world, could adopt 

them. Gandhi’s interest in experimentation was legendary. He even 

subtitled his autobiography The Story of My Experiments with 

Truth. 

These communities were and are models of a sustainable, con¬ 

vivial, frugal, ecological, self-reliant and spiritual society. Gandhi 

composed a chant which celebrated these principles and was sung 

collectively morning and evening by the members of the ashrams. 

1 chanted this enchanting chant twice a day while I lived in the 

ashram. Composed of deeply meaningful Sanskrit words, it is like 

a rosary of moving mantras. I still chant it and End myself entranced 

whenever I do. 

Ahimsa, satya, asteya, 

B rac h macharya, asangraha, 

Sharirashram, as wad a, Sarvatra , bhaya varjana, 

Sarva dharma samanatva, 

Swadeshi, sparsha bhavana, 

Vinamra vtata mshtha se. 

Ye ekadash sevyahain. 

It translates as follows: 

Non-violence, truth , non-stealing. 

Sacred sex, non-consumerism, 

Physical work, avoidance of bad taste , 

Fearlessness, respect for all religions, 

Local economy, and respect for all beings, 

These eleven principles 

Should be followed with humility, care, and commitment . 

These principles are not dos and don’ts. They are not vows; they 

are aspirations and inspirations. They are like resolutions which are 

made on the eve of the new year. In this case the resolutions are made 

daily. They are guidelines for conduct, a framework to be interpreted 

by each individual and society according to its own context. 

Let me explain these eleven points of reference one by one, with 

my own interpretation. 

i * non-violence [Ahimsa) is a universal first principle of non¬ 

offensive living. Hindus, Buddhists, Jains, Jews, Muslims, Chris¬ 

tians, and followers, of all other religions, one way or another, 

have to a greater or lesser extent proclaimed this to be fundamental. 

Non-violence should underlie all relationships among humans and 

between humans and the non-human world. Non-violence is part of 

the perennial philosophy. But Gandhi made it more relevant to our 

time by using it as a weapon of resistance to social injustice, to British 

colonialism, to economic exploitation of the weak by the strong, and 

to caste discrimination in India. 

Non-violence goes much further than not killing. On a personal 

level it begins with non-violence of mind. At the ashram I was taught 

to cultivate the skill of restraint from any aggressive, offensive or 

NO DESTINATION 

damaging thought. If by any chance I had entertained violence in 

the mind, I was to cultivate the skill of not expressing it in speech. 

Words which wound or insult or debase another can precipitate a 

cycle of violence. I learned to express my opinions about politics, 

politicians, or people with whom 1 disagreed in a respectful manner. 

If I lost control of my speech then, of course, I was to avoid physical 

violence at all costs. If I was attacked verbally or physically, then I 

was to respond through the techniques of non-violent defence. 

At the social and political level, non-violence means opposition to 

institutional and structural violence. 1 learned from Gandhi not to be 

shy of engaging in constructive criticism but to approach opponents 

in person or in writing with a kind heart, because the aim is always 

to bring about a change of heart and mind in the person or society. 

This technique continues to impress me deeply, especially when I sec 

much of the media engaged in inciting violence between politicians, 

nations, and ethnic or religious groups. We have to learn to live with 

people and nature non-violently, which means giving up the desire 

to impose our will, to subjugate, to dominate and to control other 

people, animals and the natural world for the fulfilment of our own 

ambitions and our own egos. The more l have seen and thought, 

the more I have realized that non-violence is the essential ground 

on which a sustainable future for humanity as well as for the Earth 

can be envisioned and built. 

It seems to me that the strife and conflict which are so prevalent in 

the world today are the results of our belief in the power of violence. 

In spite of all the wars, conquests, colonialism and imperialism, 

humanity has learned nothing. We still believe in violence as the 

ultimate sanction. From newspaper articles to nuclear weapons, 

we follow the path of violence. Hindus and Muslims in India, Jews 

and Palestinians in the Middle East, Catholics and Protestants in 

Northern Ireland are too ready to believe that ultimately they will 

find a solution through violence. For me this is not an option. 

At the ecological level, humanity has been at war with nature. 

Our desire to conquer nature has led to destruction of wilder* 

ness, reduction of biodiversity, production of poisonous chemicals, 

construction of megadties, megadams, megaindustries and mega¬ 

corporations. This has resulted in polluted seas and rivers, polluted 

air, depleted foods and eroded land. Our cruelty to animals, out 

INFLUENCES 

disregard for traditional tribal cultures and their rights, our relent¬ 

less drive to extract oil and other minerals without limit are all part 

of the same story. 

The story of violence is too old and boring. Humanity and the 

Earth have suffered enough. Let the new age begin with a new 

story, the story of non-violence. In this story all relationships are 

embedded in the spirit of mutuality and reciprocity, the spirit of 

reverence for all life—human life, animal life, plant life, the life of 

rock, soil, and water. 

In our arrogance we humans have assumed that we are the masters 

of nature and that we can cause havoc and devastation all around 

us yet somehow escape harm ourselves. When we do not impose 

violence on others, others will not impose violence on us, but if 

we live by the sword, we will die by the sword. The result of 

non-violence is peace at all levels. Personal peace, world peace, and 

peace with nature. 

Without inner peace, no other peace can be realized. If I have 

achieved a degree of peace of mind within myself, then I wilj not 

fear others. But if I have not been able to overcome my personal 

fears, then it is easy for political and military leaders to create in 

me fear of an external enemy. So unless I start with myself and 

make peace with myself, I cannot achieve peace in the world. This 

inner peace should be translated into world peace. I cannot retire 

into the serene space of ray inner peace and leave the world as 

it is. I cannot sit calmly meditating while nuclear weapons pile 

up. So non-violent action to bring peace in the world is a natural 

consequence of inner peace. 

World peace is a building block to making peace with nature. 

When nations fight, when bombs are dropped, if is not only human 

beings who are killed; natural habitats are also destroyed. But no 

one counts the cost of nature's demise. Making peace with nature 

is important even if there is no war, because war with nature leads 

to war between nations. Most wars are fought over resources and 

to protect markets. Wars are less and less political and more and 

more economic. All wars are wars against nature since they involve 

a tremendous amount of air pollution, sea pollution and land pollu¬ 

tion; land mines are a case in point. So the nations of the world have 

to agree unanimously that, whatever their dispute, diplomatic and 

NO DESTINATION 

INFLUENCES 

non-violent methods will be the only course they will follow; under 

no circumstances will violence be used. 

Of course, this will not happen overnight, but if this could be a 

new resolution and if, step by step, the world could work toward 

this goal, then one day we might establish a non-violent social order. 

In the wake of nuclear, biological and chemical warfare, and in the 

wake of global warming, ozone depletion and world hunger, the 

stark choice is between non-violence and non-existence. 

x * truth (Sdtyi) means seeing reality as it is. Although we can 

never be sure of the nature of ultimate reality, it is right and proper to 

seek it. There is no one truth which can be described, explained and 

defined in language. Buddha, Jesus Christ, Mahavir, Mohammed 

and Socrates have all been seekers of truth. Poets, saints, and mystics 

like Kabir, Tulsidas, Rumi, Hildegard of Bingen, Mother Julian of 

Norwich and St Francis experienced the divine and the sacred in 

all things. For them that was the truth. But we cannot live on the 

wealth of our ancestors. We must seek our own treasure and take 

up the quest to find our own truth. 

Truth is multifaceted and pluralistic. Seeing existence in all its 

mysterious diversity yet realizing its wholeness prevents me from 

imposing a monolithic belief system on to it. The quest for truth 

is a liberating journey; it liberates me from dogmas, both religious 

and political. There is no final point at which 1 could say that I have 

found the truth, this is the truth, and this is the truth for everyone. 

The moment truth is imprisoned in a belief system, the truth is lost. 

As long as the experience and the techniques of other seekers are used 

as pointers, as signposts, then those disciplines and methods^:an be 

of some help. But the signpost is not the real thing. Truth cannot 

be preached; it can be communicated, if at all, only in dialogue 

and conversation and, more important, ‘through living example. 

Truth is not a commodity which can be‘dished out from temples 

and churches. Truth is not something which can be conceptualized 

or extracted from holy books. It has to be lived and experienced. 

Seekers of truth are free from all kinds of fundamentalism. It is 

easier to see the fundamentalism of others than to recognize one’s 

own. So Christians may criticize Muslim fundamentalism without 

recognizing their own fundamentalism. Similarly, capitalists may 

criticize socialist fundamentalism and forget that the fundamental¬ 

ism of the free market is no less oppressive. Those who preach the 

superiority of Western democracy are in as much danger of under¬ 

mining the community-based tribal cultures as those who preach the 

politics of the one-party stare. 

To follow the way of truth is to have no preconditions, no preju¬ 

dice. It is a way to face things as they are. Truth is the ‘isness’ of Zen. 

The pursuit of truth is unconditional and open-minded inquiry and 

exploration, up to the last moment of our lives. 

3 ' non-stealing {Asteya) means not taking what does not 

belong to you, but it goes far beyond the conventional concept 

of theft. According to the Upanishads, all and everything, from a 

blade of grass to Mount Everest, and from an earthworm to a human 

being, is imbued with the divine. Earth, fire, air and water are sacred 

elements. All beings take from the Earth for the continuity of life. 

Babies take milk from their mothers’ breasts, deer take water from 

the stream, birds eat fruit from the trees, humans take the produce 

of the Earth. Gandhi said that there is enough for everybody’s need 

bur not enough for anybody’s greed. 

Asteya is more than illegal theft: when family farms are destroyed 

by agribusiness, it is theft of the countryside; when crafts are 

destroyed by industry, that is theft of skills; when big trawlers 

overfish the oceans and thus destroy small fishing villages, that is 

theft of livelihood. Legal or illegal, these are all ways of stealing. To 

follow the way of Asteya is to use and consume only what nature 

can replenish. It is a way to consume only to meet our vital needs, 

knowing that other peoples and creatures also need to meet their 

vital needs, and therefore 1 take only my share of things. Asteya is a 

way of living simply so that others may simply live. Asteya is a way of 

generosity. Asteya tells me that meanness, hoarding, accumulation, 

and overconsumption are thefts of nature and stealing from God. 

4' sacred sex ( Brahmachdrya ) means appropriate sexuality 

within a healthy human relationship. In the wake of the population 

explosion, restraint and care in sexual relationships are required. 

Human sexuality, appropriately practised, is part of love of God. 

Love for God begins with human love. This is the microexperience of 

300 

301 

NO DESTINATION 

INFLUENCES 

macrolove, the intimate realization of ultimate love. Unconditional 

love between two individuals leads to universal love. 

Trivialization of sex, media* and film-induced temptation to seek 

temporary gratification, pornography, rape, sadism, masochism, 

physical violence, and sexual abuse all stetn from our disrespect 

for the sanctity of sex. Sacred sex is based on the foundation of 

commitment, responsibility, sacrifice, celebration, and joy. 

All Hindu gods are married. Rama with Sita, Krishna with Radha, 

Shiva with Shakti, Vishnu with Lakshmi—these mythological icons 

are the models of the man-woman relationship. In them sensuality, 

dance, music, colour, flowers, perfume, food and all other aspects 

of good living and religiosity play their full parts. Everything in 

proportion, in the right place, at the right time, with wisdom and 

common sense. The man-woman relationship is the ultimate ful¬ 

filment of yin-yang balance, the Shiva-Shakci principle: it is the 

union of matter and spirit, the world and God, body and soul, 

nature and culture. In such unions all opposites are transformed into 

complements. 

5** non-consumerism (Asangraha) means the non-acquisition, 

non-consumption and non-accumulation of goods and services 

which are inessential, wasteful, harmful and unnatural. Excessive 

possessions are a trap; they bind us, imprison us and enslave us. If 

I were caught in the trappings of wealth and power, I would be unable 

to live a truly comfortable, creative, and compa sionate life. Much of 

my time would be absorbed in taking care of houses, cars, household 

gadgets, furnishings, paintings, silverware and china, computers, 

yachts and umpteen other things. I would need to work hard to earn 

enough not to meet my needs but to service these possessions. A stage 

would come when my possessions would possess me rather than my 

possessing them. I would be in the knot that is Graha. When that 

knot is pulled tight, it becomes Sangraha> but when I am free from 

the noose 1 am practising Asangraha. 

In our modem times possessions have become signs of status, of 

success, of position and of power. No wonder that modern society 

has been named the consumer society. Unlimited economic growth 

has become the ideal of every nation in the world. In order to achieve 

this individual lives, families, the social fabric and our relationship 

with the natural world have been destroyed. We have passed the 

point of increasing human well-being by increasing material wealth. 

Many surveys have found that in the Western world a reasonable 

living standard was reached in the 1970s, but since that time there 

has been a downward curve: more cars have meant more pollution 

and more congestion in the cities, waste disposal has reached levels 

at which landfills are poisoning the earth and water. In spite of enor¬ 

mous wealth and economic success, poverty has by no means been 

abolished; a small percentage of people control a large percentage 

of wealth, which affects social cohesion and harmony negatively. 

Increasing crime and a large prison population, drug trafficking, 

unemployment, homelessness and social exclusion are acute prob¬ 

lems in most Western nations. 

There is total confusion about the aims of society and the meaning 

of life. Material wealth is only a means to an end—and that end is liv¬ 

ing a good life: spiritually, psychologically, socially, and artistically. 

Living the good life entails good human relationships throughout. 

But in our present culture means have become ends. Human societies 

are pursuing the accumulation of wealth for its own sake. Having 

has become more important than being. We value people not for 

who they are but for what they have, what kinds of status, power, 

position and possessions they have. We have lost the sense of mean¬ 

ing, we are holding on to an empty form. 

However, there is increasing awareness of this state of affairs; 

movements of voluntary simplicity, downshifting, local economy 

and local currency are growing. Ordinary people reacted against 

the stranglehold of state-controlled socialism in the countries of the 

former Soviet bloc; now, in the West, the signs of revolt against 

the dictatorship of the market and the rule of money are evident. 

Such new economics, based on the principle of sustainability, give 

me hope of a transformation from acquisition to Asangraha . 

Non-consumerism is riot asceticism, it is not a principle of denial; 

it is knowing the limits and enjoying the abundant gifts of nature 

without possessing them. Non-consumerism is integral to a life 

which is simple in means and rich in ends. Obsessive attachment 

to acquisition leads to poverty of spirit and of imagination. Non¬ 

consumerism is a way of finding the critical balance between material 

and spiritual wealth. 

NO DESTINATION 

INFLUENCES 

For the last few hundred years we have been working for the 

creation of a consumer society, and its promise of utopia. Ail drudg¬ 

ery and chores were to be done by machines, and people would have 

plenty of time to pursue spiritual, artistic and creative activities. 

Now there are cars and computers, faxes and phones, washing 

machines and central heating, and shops are filled with all conceiv¬ 

able kinds of goods, but where is the time? Where are the creativity 

and spirituality? Where is the utopia? 

6* physical wojtK {Sharifashram) means the practice of daily 

manual labour. Society the world over is divided into two parts: 

those who work with their hands and those who enjoy the fruit 

of other people’s work. Peasants, farmers, craftsmen and women, 

factory workers and other labourers work hard but get little in 

return. Lawyers, professors, accountants, managers, bankers, stock¬ 

brokers, landowners and aristocrats use only their brains and are 

highly paid. 

There is always a deep tension between the managers and the 

managed, the intellectual workers and the manual workers, between 

those who manipulate the market and those who are their victims. 

Such a divided society is unhealthy. The purpose of physical work is 

to-heal that division. It gives an opportunity to all to use their hands 

as well as their heads. We may not be able to achieve complete parity 

in this field, but the goal for intellectuals, managers and members of 

the middle class is to include a certain amount of manual work in 

their everyday lives. 

1 was deeply inspired to know that Gandhi, however busy he was, 

always incorporated some spinning, cleaning the toilets, and nursing 

the sick into his day. He made the spinning wheel a symbol of India’s 

political independence and economic self-reliance. Working with 

one’s hands is much more than making things. Physical work is a 

form of worship, a spiritual practice. It is a healing process and an 

antidote to alienation and exclusion. 

Our hands have a tremendously transformative power. A lump of 

clay is turned into a beautiful pot, a block of stone into a sculpture, a 

pile of bricks into a home, a heap of wool into a tapestry. Sacrificing 

hand skills at the altar of technology can only bring disenchantment 

and mental confusion. A de-ski lied society is a degraded society. 

We need to begin at the beginning. We need to restore the place 

of manual work in our schools. Together with reading, writing, 

mathematics and science, languages and literature, we need to teach 

children gardening, cooking, building, pottery, smithing, carpentry, 

animal husbandry, music, dance, and other crafts of life. Children 

leaving school should know what to do with themselves in very 

practical terms, and the industries which destroy manual jobs must 

be made to pay a heavy tax, which should be spent on encouraging 

handiWrk, However sophisticated the technology, it cannot fulfil 

the deep urge of the body to act and to make. 

Even when we have a good income from our professional work, 

that is no substitute for engagement with our hands. Gandhi wrote, 

‘It is a tragedy of the first magnitude that millions of people have 

ceased to use their hands as hands. Nature has bestowed upon us 

this great gift which is our hands. If the craze for machinery methods 

continues, it is highly likely that a time will come when we shall be 

so incapacitated and weak that we shall begin to curse ourselves for 

having forgotten the use of the living machines given to us by God. 

Millions cannot keep fit by games and athletics; and why should they 

exchange the useful, productive, hardy occupations for the useless, 

unproductive and expensive sports and games?’ 

All of us should be able to bake bread with whole flour. Depen¬ 

dence on denatured, mass-produced bread causes the loss of home 

culture. What value has a home without a proper kitchen, where 

members of the family cook creatively and imaginatively and cel¬ 

ebrate food, work, and life together? 

When I have engaged in manual labour, I am satisfied with less. 

The work itself is a source of satisfaction. But when I have not 

engaged in the process of making, I am hungry for something, 

and I do not know what I am hungry for. And so I wanr more— 

I seek satisfaction in shopping, yet 1 remain dissatisfied. I realize 

that true satisfaction cannot be derived from things; it comes only 

when mind and body joih in bringing out the potential of matter by 

interacting with it. 

A purely materialistic and utilitarian mind-set pursues one, and 

only one, aim—continuous and endless production through mech¬ 

anical means. This has resulted in the loss of a sense of beauty. We 

have creared an ugly world, and the tragedy is that we no longer 

NO DESTINATION 

INFLUENCES 

have the ability to discriminate between what is ugly and what 

is beautiful. Furthermore, with mechanized modes of production, 

things such as paper plates and polystyrene cups arc made to be 

used once only, so that human hands are not required even to wash 

them. And of course built-in obsolescence is the curse of our time; it 

is always easier and cheaper to buy new rather than mend the old. 

When craftsmen or women make things by hand, they unselfcon¬ 

sciously combine heart, head and hands. As a result, whatever they 

make is beautiful, useful and durable (the bud principle). Tribal 

people in many parts of the world, traditional craftspeople, the 

illiterate peasants of the past and present, make artifacts, build 

houses, erect stone walls in their fields, and these are items of 

exquisite beauty. They make these things for practical purposes or 

for aesthetic purposes or for ritual. And these objects are durable; 

they last until their natural end. The older they become, the more 

attractive they look. They are always repairable. Making and mend¬ 

ing are part of the same continuum. The BUD principle is the source j 

of true satisfaction, spiritual, sensual and physical. 

7' avoidance of bad taste (Aswada). In the case of food, 

this means not eating unhealthy food. This includes junk food, fast 

food, convenience food, processed food, imported food, and too 

much food. We are what we eat. With good food, body and mind 

function \yell. Bad food contributes to mental breakdown, cravings, 

and ill health. A good life cannot be built on a bad diet. 

Food should be pleasing to the eyes, pleasing to the nose, pleasing 

to the tongue, but above all, it should nourish body and soul. Food 

is sacred. It is a gift of nature, and we shouW take it in its natural 

form or as close to that as possible. Playing politics with food or 

profiteering from food is an insult to our common sense. Tampering 

with food through genetic engineering and patenting shows a desire 

to dominate natural processes. Food patenting is a kind of theft. It 

has been called biopiracy and rightly so. The dominant nations and 

corporations have devised laws and regulations to suit their purpose 

in the name of nutrition. 

Indian science classifies food into three types: satvik, rajsik , and 

tamsik. Satvik food is associated with true food. It is simple, natural, 

seasonal and local. Fruit, vegetables, grams, pulses, nuts and herbs 

come in this category. Relishing the natural taste, the original fla¬ 

vour of food with the least interference and processing has been 

considered the highest form of cuisine by Indian nutritionists and 

Ayurvedic doctors. Those who eat satvik food need no other medi¬ 

cine. This is the diet of gods and angels, sages and sadhus, mothers 

and babies. Natural spring water; fresh and untreated milk and 

yoghurt; pure boiled rice; potatoes baked in their skins; beans and 

peas; salads of all kinds; thyme, rosemary, sage, cardamom, cumin, 

turmeric, basil, coriander, chives and other herbs; and mangoes, 

apples, bananas and every local fruit are satvik foods. 

It is not just what you eat but how you eat it. Preparing with care, 

sharing and celebrating, being unhurried and relaxed in a convivial 

ambience contribute to making food satvik. Preparing and eating 

satvik food is a spiritual practice. 

Rajsik food is associated with Raja the king. It is spicy, stimu¬ 

lating, exciting, lavish, and elaborate. It is complicated, preserved, 

and processed. Onions, garlic, chilli, spices, pickles, mature cheeses, 

salt, sugar, canned food, alcoholic drinks, tea, coffee, chocolate, ice 

cream, foreign food and frozen food out of season come in this 

category. Rajsik food has been promoted by soldiers, merchants and 

people who prefer taste above nutrition, pleasure above satisfaction, 

and design above delight. 

Tamsik food is associated with malevolent forces that cause 

lethargy, depression, anger, cruelty and intoxication. Tamsik food 

is artificial, violent and addictive. Hard spirits, hard drugs, tobacco, 

meat, stale food, overcooked or burned food, and stolen food come 

in this category. Overeating is also tamsik. 

Some readers may object to having meat included in this class, but 

modern methods of raising animals in factory farms and slaughter¬ 

ing them in huge mechanized abattoirs involve an immense amount 

of pain and suffering for the animals. Meat production on this scale 

takes up vast amounts of land, causing extinction of wildlife. Huge 

quantities of grain are grown in countries where local people are 

malnourished and living below the poverty line so that grain can 

be exported to feed animals of the rich, industrialized countries to 

provide cheap meat. Furthermore, virgin forests are being cleared 

to create farms to rear stock so that meat eaters can buy cheap , 

meat burgers. All this for what benefit? Meat eating causes heart 

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disease, cancer, and other illnesses. Then billions of dollars are spent 

on health care. The medicines themselves are the results of cruel 

experiments on animals. 

An ecologically balanced, environmentally sound, and economic¬ 

ally sustainable future has to be largely vegetarian. Such food needs 

to be produced through organic methods. In the future we wit! 

have to return to small-scale farming, in which people in greater 

numbers are working the land, cultivating the soil with simpler 

tools. Farming will be more like gardening than like agribusiness. 

Poisoning the land with massive inputs of chemicals for short-term 

gain is in itself a tamsik act and against the ethos of good food. 

Methods of permaculture, biodynamic agriculture, forest farming, 

and natural farming are in tune with the quality of satuik food. 

The essential point of good food is to practice moderation in all 

circumstances. 

The categories of satvik, rajsik, and tamsik are not watertight. 

They provide a frame of reference so that we can consider moving 

from tamsik to rajsik to satvik as far as possible. They are helpful 

indicators of where our priorities should lie. A satvik state is an 

aspiration rather than a rule. 

These three qualities can also be applied in other spheres of life. 

For example, inspiring, poetic, educative, non-violent films will fall 

in the satvik category; romantic, entertaining, high-budget films are 

rajsik; violent, pornographic, or depressing films are tamsik. Sim¬ 

ilarly, a simple, beautiful, and appropriate-sized home, made with 

natural and local materials, is satvtk . Opulent, expensive, palatial, 

exhibitionist, plush, showy homes are rajsik . High-rise, high-tech 

homes built with plastic, asbestos and other unnatural materials 

are tamsik. Castles built to dominate the landscape and people 

are also tamsik. These qualities can be applied to cities, transport, 

dress, sport and other areas of life. In each case, in meditating on 

the three qualities one attempts to turn oneself toward the practice 

of good taste. 

8' fearlessness [Satvatra Bhaya Varjana) means freedom from 

fear always and everywhere. Our lives are ruled by fear. Fear of 

death, fear of old age, fear of illness, fear of unemployment, fear 

of failure, fear of superiors, fear of inferiors, fear of responsibility, 

fear of commitment and numerous other fears cause us continual 

anxiety. Fear leads to violence and war; fear prevents us from 

seeking and speaking the truth; fear forces us to steal, stops us 

from loving, makes us accumulate things. Fear is at the root of all 

evil. Fear is the cause of inner and outer insecurity. Because of fear 

we want to control, dominate and rule others. Fear erodes personal 

as well as social harmony. 

The cure for the problems created by fear is unconditional trust 

in the workings of the universe. As we trust that the sun will rise, 

water will quench thirst, fire will cook food, boats will sail the 

seas, so we have to trust that each life, including our own, will 

fulfil its destiny. 

Most of our fears are artificially induced. They are induced at 

school, in the family, by our peer groups, by politicians, by the 

media, by religions, and by our own ignorance. The greatest task 

is to be free from all fears. 

In many religious traditions and mythologies, dissolution of ego 

has been spoken of as a hero’s journey or a warrior's path. When 

I am able to leap to help someone without fearing my own death, 

I become a hero, because at that moment I am unaware of my own 

self. If that moment of emptiness, that experience of egolessness, 

that bliss of enlightenment can become a way of being for always 

and everywhere, then I am free from fear. 

A hero is not a special kind of person; every person is a special kind 

of hero when he or she is without fear. Every life is a hero's journey, 

When I trust in the universe, 1 am not afraid to take risks. If I am 

afraid of taking risks, is .life worth living? 

All human beings are pair of the tapestry of the universe, part of ft 

pattern which connects. Nothing exists in isolation, in sepamen«ftl» 

When 1 realize this network of grand relationships, I lose the illuiloft 

of my separate self, I lose the ego, I lose the sense of T and ‘m f\ 

When there is no ego, who is afraid of whom? 

When I am no longer self-concerned or self-seeking, then I am ftfftA 

not so critical and judgmental of others. I am able to get on tyjS 

living life rather than worrying about it. 1 get up in thf 

clean my teeth, T eat a piece of fruit, I dig the garden, I fttliWftf 

1 shop for myself and for my neighbour who l« 111, I «Kl|| luftlfc MV 

share it with my family, I clean the diihei, end TreM, I Nftd* I wfH# , 

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I go for a walk, 1 attend a meeting, i make a few phone calls, and I go 

to bed at night. The next day is another day. Whatever needs to be 

done, I do it. Without always questioning, complaining, criticizing, 

doubting and, above all, fearing. 

In Gerald jampolsky’s words, ‘Love is letting go of fear’, I always 

seek love but am unable to love because 1 am unable to let go of fear. 

Love is all I need. Love is the source of joyful living. Love is my true 

destiny. In love I find the meaning of life. Love is the ground of all 

relationships. I am longing for love, but fear stops me from giving 

and receiving, from being fulfilled. 

When I have been able to cultivate fearlessness in my everyday 

life and have accomplished solid trust from which all activities 

flow, then 1 am able to act socially, politically, and collectively 

without fear and to follow a truthful and right course of action. 

When I am faced with an unjust law, I am prepared to break 

it and stand for justice, freedom, and integrity; I am not afraid 

of the consequences, including imprisonment or death, as Emile 

Zola, Henry David Thoreau, Martin Luther King and Mahatma 

Gandhi showed. 

9' respect for all religions {Sarva Dharma Samanatva) 

means appreciation of all religious traditions and tolerance of beliefs 

with which we may disagree. A religion stems from a particular 

historic condition, or a specific geographic context, or a unique 

social need. A religion gives expression to a spiritual quest through a 

set of formulations and principles and stories. Following the original 

revelation, scholars, philosophers, theologians and writers create 

theories, interpretations, and commentaries. Priests and preachers 

turn the original teachings of a great prophet into dogma, which is 

followed in a literal, inflexible and rigid manner. Asa consequence 

the spirit and the meaning of original teachings are forgotten and the 

empty shell is worshipped. Ritual takes over and becomes an end in 

itself. The challenge for a spiritual seeker is to clear away the clutter 

and search for his or her own experience. Deep down, all religions 

are pointing toward the same wisdom: the wisdom of love and 

compassion, peace and generosity, service and serenity, egolessness 

an d sel ^realization. 

To put it simply, different religious paths are like different cuisines. 

The ingredients are the same: rice, wheat, potatoes, pulses, vegeta¬ 

bles, herbs, etcetera, but in the hands of Chinese, Indian, French, 

Italian and Arab chefs, these ingredients are transformed. They smell, 

taste, and look so different, but they are all able to satisfy hunger. 

Similarly love, truth, compassion and charity put in the religious 

traditions of Christians* Hindus, Muslims, Jains, Buddhists and Jews 

may appear different, but if practised sincerely they all bring about a* 

transformation of consciousness leading to equanimity and peace. 

Of course there are different beliefs emerging from these different 

traditions—belief or no belief in God, in reincarnation, in hell and 

heaven, life after death, the soul, good and evil, sin and virtue. These 

beliefs are like theories of food; some people believe that chamomile 

tea will help you to sleep, garlic is an aphrodisiac, an apple a day 

keeps the doctor away—no one can ever determine for certain 

whether such theories are ultimately wrong or right, or work for 

everybody. Therefore there is no point in fighting, quarrelling, and 

killing each other in the name of one theory or another. Hindus and 

Muslims could happily co-exist, as Chinese and Italian restaurants 

can coexist. If people prefer Chinese to Italian food or vice versa, let 

them enjoy whichever food they like. 

Let us cultivate respect for the diversity and plurality of religions. 

If the whole world had only one religion, it would be no bet¬ 

ter. People would invent religions within the religions, sects within 

seas. Not all Christians have been renowned for living in peace 

and harmony, nor all Buddhists. So the principle i*f Sarva Dharma 

Samanatva is to la the thousand flowers bloom. As we have many 

languages with their own specific excellences and insights, so it is 

wonderful that we have so many religions. The world is richer for 

it. If we do not wish to discard small languages like Hungarian or 

Tibetan in the name of convenience, why should we wish to make 

Christianity or Islam or any other religion the only valid religion for 

the whole world? 

Religion is not in the Koran or the Bible, it is in our hearts, in our 

actions, and in our practice. Religion is not in a church, a mosque, 

or a temple, it is in the way we relate to other humans, to animals, 

to forests, to the poor and oppressed, to the ill and dying. Belief in 

this or that is to some extent speculative, though interesting. Healing 

the wounded, sharing ourselves with others, listening to them, being 

310 

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INFLUENCES 

gentle, open, and humble are immediate and practical expressions of 

true religion. So I should be free to practice whatever religion I like, 

but I must be free of the burden of arrogance and exclusivity, 

lo* local economy { Swadeshi ) means developing a sense of 

your own place and loving it. All of us have a mother and a father 

who have given birth to us. In the same way, we all have a place 

where we live. That place sustains us, and we should sustain it. 

A nation-state can have a centralized government, but the better 

form is a confederation of self-governing, self-reliant communities, 

neighbourhoods, districts, townships and bioregions, where people 

fulfil their lives from the products of their own localities. When 

all people are looking after their own patches of land, then every 

place will be looked after. Where a local economy prevails, people 

derive maximum benefit from the bounty of their own locality and 

refrain from desiring, obtaining and controlling the resources of 

other localities. They do not permit any damage to the people and to 

the local environment. ‘Not in my backyard 7 is a perfect formulation, 

as every yard is somebody's backyard. If every backyard is protected, 

no yard will be damaged. 

This means local apples, local butter, local vegetables, local cheese, 

local crafts, local industry, local shops, local schools, local hospitals, 

and in all other matters turning to local goods knd services before 

others. Maximum economic and political power, including the 

power to decide what is imported into or exported from the local 

community, remains in the hands of the local government. 

For thousands of years before the industrial revolution, mass 

transportation and cheap energy, people all over the world lived 

in relative harmony with their surroundings, weaving homespun 

clothes, eating home-grown food, caring for the countryside, buil- 

ding homes, temples, and churches with local materials. And yet 

ideas, cultures, arts and religions spread far and wide, creating a 

universal consciousness. Thinking globally and acting locally has 

been practised for millennia. 

But in modern times minds have grown narrow while markets 

have expanded. There used to be freedom for people to move and 

freedom for ideas to spread while goods and services were local. 

That was a much healthier state of affairs and less damaging to the 

environment. Now all governments put severe restrictions on immi¬ 

gration of people, but they allow the dumping of goods in countries 

where the same goods are plentifully available. For example. New 

Zealand butter is dumped in England while English butter is turning 

into a butter mountain. Californian wine is pushed into the French 

market while France knows not what to do with its wine lakes. 

Japanese cars arc forced on the American people while American 

cars are lying unsold, occupying vast acres of parking lots. Mean¬ 

while transportation of butter, wine, cars and other goods is causing 

depiction of the ozone layer and global warming. Who, other than 

the giant corporations, benefits from this massive movement of 

goods? Small and local businesses, shops and industries are closed 

down, throwing people on the unemployment heap and making 

them dependent on state benefit. 

Recently the Wuppertal Institute in Germany asked a question. 

How many miles does a container of strawberry yoghurt travel 

before it reaches the kitchen table of a German household? They 

discovered that the yoghurt, including the plastic container, the 

label printed on it, the sugar, milk, and strawberries, had travelled 

eleven hundred miles. If that yoghurt was part of the local economy, 

it would hardly travel at all. 

Once E. F. Schumacher related an incident to me. He observed 

a large truck bringing biscuits made in Manchester to London. A 

few minutes later he observed another truck taking biscuits made 

in London to Manchester. Now Schumacher was an economise, so 

he started to ponder the economic rationale behind a truck full of 

biscuits coming from Manchester to London and vice versa. What 

could it be? If the speciality of a Manchester biscuit was desired in 

London, the biscuit manufacturer could send the recipe to London 

on a postcard. The Manchester manufacturer could even send some¬ 

one to London to teach the art of biscuit-making. Schumacher could 

not understand what benefit was derived from using a fleet of trucks, 

congesting the highways, polluting the air, and making the drivers 

sit alone for several hours day after day for the best part of their 

lives in the service of moving around biscuits. In the end, in some 

desperation, he said to himself, ‘Oh well, I am a mere economist and 

not a nutritionist. Perhaps the nutritional value of these biscuits is 

increased by transportation!' 

NO DESTINATION 

INFLUENCES 

Schumacher was not against trade altogether. If there was some¬ 

thing in Manchester which could only be made there, then it was 

reasonable to exchange it for something which could only be made 

in London. But to ferry identical goods around in the name of free 

trade is economic insanity. The trade between nations and regions 

should be minimal, like icing on a cake. 

This observation was narrated to me in the early 1970s, before 

globalization of the economy, the stranglehold of gatt and napta, 

and obsession with world trade were strong. Now, under the regime 

of liberalization, biscuits are carted around not just from Manchester 

to London but from Manchester to Moscow, from London to Los 

Angeles, and from Tokyo to Toronto. 

If people think that the global economy is based on rationality, 

then they need to have their heads examined! World trade is the most 

irrational system yet devised. Everyone loses except the global cor¬ 

porations, and the environment suffers most of all. The globalization 

of the economy is colonialism pure and simple, wearing the mask of 

free trade, progress, development, science, technology, modernity, 

the promise of utopia tomorrow. Today there is a net flow of 

resources and wealth from the poor countries of the South to the 

rich countries of the North. 

The answer to globalization is swadeshi. Whatever is made or 

produced in a locality must he used first and foremost by the people 

of that locality. Every local community should have its own carpen¬ 

ters, potters, shoemakers, builders, mechanics, farmers, engineers, 

teachers, weavers, doctors, bankers, merchants, musicians, artists 

and priests. In other words, each local community should be a 

microcosm of the macroworld. 

The principle of swadeshi is not against cities, but it is against 

sprawling suburbs and megalopolises. If there were cities of one to 

two million people, flanked by greenbelts and sufficient amounts 

of supporting farmland, then New York would not depend on 

lettuce imported from California and London would not depend 

on potatoes imported from Egypt. 

Swadeshi is concerned not with personal self-sufficiency or family 

self-sufficiency, but with self-sufficiency of the bioregion. In con¬ 

junction with the principle of manual work, the economy should be 

based not on centralized and mechanized modes of production but 

on decentralized, home-grown, hand-crafted modes of production. 

In other words, not mass production but production by the masses. 

Mass production is concerned with the product, whereas produc¬ 

tion by the masses is concerned \frith the product, the producers, and 

the process. The industrial system depends on impersonal, alienating 

and soul-destroying structures, whereas small-scale methods of pro¬ 

duction for, by, and within the local area encourage neighbourliness 

and human relationships. People take care of each other and of 

animals, land and forestry. A healthy economy is a local economy, 

and a local economy is a healthy economy. 

The champions of globalization are mostly from the United States 

and Western Europe. These countries profess to believe in democ¬ 

racy, but democracy and the global economy are a contradiction 

in tefms. Industrial bureaucrats operate anonymously. Their power 

and wealth is so enormous that many small and poor nations, not 

to mention local communities, are unable to stand up to them. 

Multinational corporations can use their money and muscle to bribe 

officials, can hire clever lawyers to interpret laws in their favour, can 

spend large sums of money to entertain and impress politicians, and 

can use their cunning to overpower any opposition. 

If the companies were small and local, they would have to work 

within the bounds of local support, local culture and local account¬ 

ability. They would be obliged to serve die local community since 

they would be making a profit out of it. Ethics and economics would 

be twinned. There would be more chance to implement the triple 

bottom line—financial profitability would be required to match 

with social responsibility and environmental sustainability. Within 

the local economy, profit has a place, but it is kept in its place. In 

the matrix of society, profit, culture, nature and spirituality together 

make the complete picture. 

11' RESPECT FOR all BEINGS (Sparsha Bhavana ) means that 

caste, colour, class, creed, sex, age, race and other similar distinc¬ 

tions are no reason for putting people down or up. In India the 

caste system makes some people outcasts or untouchables. In Britain 

the class system divides society. In Northern Ireland religion keeps 

communities apart. In the United States colour causes segregation. 

Then there is the divisiveness of sexism, ageism, and racism. In subtle 

NO DESTINATION 

or not so subtle ways, discrimination is practised in most societies 

^h turn th ^ tred V WOmcn - second-class citizens. Tfre 

nch turn the.r noses up at the poor; the clever and educated look 

C ~ Qty r P ' C ‘°° k 31 C ° Untry folk w,th disdain, 

and t l C ° n * C,<HlsIy - or subconsciously, consider primitive 

and tnbal societies to be dispensable. Industrialized societies look at 

agrarian societies as backward. 

Of course attitudes are changing, racial harmony is improving 

civil S?f 5r ‘V Ddla ^ be f” OUt,awed ’ and the United Statl’ 

ZbS been restored. However, we are a long way from 

establishing equal and unqualified respect for all human beings. We 

arc even further from looking at spedesism. To some extent the 

anirtT'T S human rights has been brought into public discourse, but 

animal rights and the rights of wildlife, including the whole animate 

and mammate world, have hardly been expressed 

Most people think and act.as if God created animals for the 

to h^t°th ma |“ii bC u IlgS and theref ° re °° nsid " k birthright 

to hunt them, kill them for sport, tide on them, and of course 

SSr-T t0 eat ‘ artitude » animals is comparable to past 

atotudes to slaves and to servants. It has been and still is argued that 

Zfot S5 fo?h° S'* are T ? efCf0re ° f Va ' Ue ° ther than tbeu 

human myopia is at the root of 

exnnTh!T y ^ ^ CnSii ' Mj,lionS ofs ^ are becoming 

exnna because of human encroachment on their habitats. We don’t 

thmk that nature exists in its own right. If there is a piece of land, we 

if aZe^ T™ S ° me indjVidUal or g« ve ™"<« owns it; 

if piece of land is not being used either for farming or for building 

people think that that land is being wasted. If we are to cultivafe 

espect for all beings, then we need a radical change in our attitudes. 

Of course we have to take thing* from nature for our use. We have 

rfrr thC h ° USe ’ ^ f ° r !he bbdy ' woo ‘ and cotton for 

our do hmg, but we must take these things™ as a right but as a gift 

and feel gratitude toward nature. If we have that kmd of attitude 

f wel't do Wid ’ “ re 3X1(1 reStf3int beCaUSC We Wi, l think that’ 

e cut down a tree, we are not only taking the life of that tree but 

environment > home of many b.rds’and 

sects, shade and food for all kinds of creatures. So if we are taking 

one tree away, we should plant five trees ,n its place. 

316 

INFLU ENCES 

Basically it is a question of attitude. The attitude which allows 

people to kill animats and clear forests is the same attitude which 

allows stronger nations to attack weaker nations. I wish to see the 

emergence of the age of ecology. We humans need to rediscover our 

humility and learn to practice Sparsha Bhauana toward all species. 

There is a built-in instinct in all species to live. We need to respect 

their instinct, their right to live and flourish. 

Throughout gandhi’s eleven principles there is a com¬ 

mon thread—there can be no such thing as freedom without limit, 

restraint, and responsibility. Understanding and accepting the limit 

is a guarantee, a protective shield of freedom. My body has a pro¬ 

tective skin; the skin forms the boundary of the body. Within the 

bounds of the skin, my senses, my heart, my veins, my bones and 

numerous organs, cells and bacteria can function freely. Similarly 

my house has a boundary, a limit. Within the four walls of the 

house, I live freely, reading, writing, cooking, cleaning, caring for 

my family and friends, and undertaking numerous other activities. 

My society also has limits. 1 function within laws and regulations. 

My rights and responsibilities are defined by those laws. Freedom of 

speech, freedom of assembly, freedom of movement and all the other 

aspects of civil liberty I exercise within the law of the land. But as 

there are laws of the body, of home, of society and of nations, there 

are laws of nature. 

Some of the eleven principles, such as non-violence, are stated in 

the negative. The aim is not to tell me what to do, but rather to show 

where my limits are and to make clear that by stepping out of those 

limits I will endanger my freedom. But if l stay within my limits I am 

free to act as I choose. In terms of non-violence, I am free to live as 

long as I let others live. In terms of non-consumerism, if 1 tread lightly 

on the Earth, the Earth will continue to sustain life; if l live simply, 

then others can simply live. 

If we accept that the body has a limit, the house has a limit, ihe 

nation has a limit, then why do we have difficulty in accepting 

that there is a limit to economic growth? Since the publication of 

Limits to Growth , I have participated in numerous environmental 

gatherings, particularly in the UN conference on the environment 

in Stockholm in 1971 and the un Earth Summit in Rio dc Janeiro 

3i7 

NO DESTINATION 

in 1991. Lip service is paid to protecting the environment and con¬ 

serving energy , forests, biodiversity and wildlife, but there is a strong 

drive to continue on the path of unhindered economic growth. The 

debate has been continuing for decades, but the penny has not yet 

dropped. The Western way of life, based on i economic expansion, is 

not yet open to negotiation (to paraphrase George Bush's comment 

when President of the United States). 

The idea of limit is very simple. A child is bom, grows for about 

twenty years, very slowly, almost without being noticed, then reaches 

her or his full height of five to six feet. For fifty years or more that 

person remains the same height. This principle of scale is built into 

each and every natural phenomenon. An organization, a business, 

an industry, a national economy, and a world economy should be 

no exception. But this theory of scale has been constantly ignored by 

the powers that be. 

In the context of such a dominant culture of growth, the eleven 

principles may appear pious thinking at best and irrelevant at worst, 

but I am not $0 pessimistic. The Roman Empire did not last forever. 

The British Empire, over which the sun never set, came to an end. 

Communist control of the Soviet bloc, once so powerful, has disap¬ 

peared into history. Slavery ended, apartheid ended, and there is no 

reason to believe that the ecologically unsustainable and personally 

dissatisfying forces of materialism manifested in money-dominated 

economies will last forever. Once human consciousness has changed, 

once we have a new awareness of our place in the scheme of things, 

once we have realized that there is more to life than the unending 

chase for material possessions, and once we focus on the importance 

of being rather than having, we will see a dramatic transforma¬ 

tion all around us. Then we will take to these eleven principles as 

ducks to water. 

Chapter Eighteen Realization 

P ERFORMING penance AS A monk, experiencing ecstasy in 

love, engaging in revolutionary’ land reform, walking for world 

peace, being imprisoned in France, facing a bullet in America—the 

many dimensions of my life have led me to ponder one question 

above all: what is Good and what is Evil? Or, indeed, do Good 

and Evil exist? 

Again and again I have come to the conclusion that there is ignor¬ 

ance, there is ego, there is wisdom, there is humility, but there are no 

static states of Good and Evil. There are negative and positive, winter 

and summer, day and night; but for me neither of these opposites 

is necessarily good or bad. Sometimes, what appeared to be good 

turned out to be not so good, and what seemed bad proved to be 

a blessing in disguise. More often than not, I have been trapped by 

my own language, which I have inherited from others. I have been 

imprisoned by concepts, perceptions and prejudices. 

But whenever I have kept flowing, I have found my natural state 

of being, beyond the chains of mental abstractions. At those times 

I have felt like water: no specific colour, no particular taste, no 

solid structure, but natural and fluid. Sometimes water stagnates, 

but this is overcome'when its natural state of motion is resumed; 

water finds again its own true nature. In the same way, by letting 

go of attachments to ideologies, places and people, I have found my 

own true nature. My life has been a quest for self-realization. 

The Viveka Foundation 

A CENTRE FOR ALTERNATIVE PERSPECTIVES 

There is no denying that the complicated world we live in needs 

alternatives and that the need is urgent and immediate. In a modern 

world of ceaseless consumerism, increased materialism, rampant 

violence, gender struggles, privatisation, impermanence and 

loneliness, alternatives are the only antiodcrtes to social neurosis. For 

a multitude of reasons, alternative communication, by its very nature 

is akin to challenging stifling regimes of theocracy, corflorate 

globalisation, fundamentalismormilitarism. 

The Viveka Foundation's vision is that alternative publishing is an 

important counter-balance in a democratic society, that acts as a 

watchdog on issues of freedom of expression, social justice, equity 

and the state of the environment. 

Titles From Viveka 

.FREE TO BE HUMAN 

»nte«ectiial Self-Defence in an 

Age e# Illusions 

David Edwards 

THIS I BELIEVE 

And Other Essays 

E. F. Schumacher 

THE STORY OF MY HEART 

My Autobiography 

Richard |ef feries 

SLAIN BY THE SYSTEM 

India's Real Crisis 

C. B. Muthamma 

THE COM PASSIONATE REVOLUTION 

Radical Politics and Buddhism 

David Edwards 

ONLY CONNECT 

Soil, Soul, Society 

The Best of Resurgence Maqazine 

1990-1999 3 

BEYOND WORK 

Visionaries From Another India 

Anil Awachat 

Translated by Aasha Deodhar 

TIMELESS* SIMPLICITY 

Creative Living in a Consumer Society 

Johr^Lane 

YOU ARE THEREFORE I AM 

A Declaration of Dependence 

Satish Kumar 

FORTHCOMING TITLES 

NASEEMA 

An Autobioraphy 

Translated by Aasha Deodhar 

WORLD SOCIAL FORUM 

Another World is Possible 

Ed: Jai Sen, Arturo Escobar, 

Peter Waterman, Anita Anand 

VIVEKA BOOKS • 

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