Full text of "NO DESTINATION" Satish Kumar 2

 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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Chapter Six Escape 

I HAD TRAVELLED AROUND THE WORLD, 1 had talked about 

peace, I had received publicity in India and abroad, I had been 

welcomed by the people for my ‘adventurous journey’ and I rel¬ 

ished being in the limelight. I returned with great enthusiasm and 

impatience to act, but the question was—what to do? Going on a 

walk into an unknown world with a known action proved easier 

than finding the right action in the known world. During the month 

in Bangalore with Lata’s family I received many letters, particu¬ 

larly from gramdan workers inviting me to speak about the walk. 

Lata and I set off with our child on a tour of India. As soon as I 

stopped walking and started talking I was caught up in the illusion of 

self-importance. After two months. Lata became unhappy with the 

travelling and talking. It seemed best to sit down and write a book, 

so we went to Benares. 

We rented a flat in a beautiful house owned by the Queen of 

Benares, with a balcony overlooking the Ganges. From here I wrote 

my first Hindi book Journey Around the World Without a Penny. 

The publisher wanted the book as soon as possible, so he gave me 

a typist to whom I dictated the whole book straight on to the 

typewriter. The pages were sent to the press as soon as they were 

typed. The whole book was written in a month and printed in 

another month. The publisher said he had never had an author who 

worked so fast, nor had he published a book so quickly. A hardback 

edition of 5,000 copies sold out in six months, and then a paperback 

edition of xo,ooo copies was pu blished. I received many more letters, 

especially from young people, who were inspired and who wanted to 

undertake a similar trip. 

Martin Luther King had given me his book Stride Towards Free¬ 

dom. Only by translating it into Hindi could I express my deep 

admiration for him and release the emotion I felt towards him. But 

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NO DESTINATION 

ESCAPE 

Lata started to feel anxious about my writing and my view of life. 

She said, ‘Whatever you do, the world is not gong to change. Wars 

and exploitation will continue. There have been hundreds of great 

saints—from Buddha to Ghandi, they have all come and gone. Do 

you think that you, Satish Kumar, can change the world? You will 

not change the world, you will only ruin our lives. Stop trying to 

solve other people’s problems and solve your own/ 

One day we were sitting on the balcony, watching the trains go 

over the bridge across the Ganges. Lata said, ‘Your revolution is 

all very well, but now you are married, we have a child, and I 

am expecting another one. Children need security and a safe life. 

I don’t want to have children with unfulfilled needs/ 1 argued with 

her and she became angry saying, if you are such an idealist, why 

did you marry?’ I said, ‘You are right, 1 should not have married/ 

Lata said, i have written to my mother and brother asking them 

to come, and they will be arriving tomorrow/ That was news to 

me. 1 asked her why they were coming. She said, ‘Life with you is 

not going very well. I would like my mother and brother to talk 

with you/ ‘They can’t solve any problems which we ourselves can’t 

solve/ I told her. ‘I don’t think it is a very good idea to bring your 

mother and brother into our problems. We should sort them out 

ourselves/ She said, ‘You are so stubborn that I don’t think I can 

get anywhere with you/ 

This left me taken aback, wondering what was happening. Being 

away for two and a half years. Lata and I had grown apart from each 

other.* Our ideas and interests had developed in opposite directions, 

and the separation had made us strangers. Lata's mother and brother 

came and we discussed the situation. Lata’s mother said, ‘You will 

never make a good living by writing books. You and Lata’s brother 

should start a drapery shop that will give you a regular income. We 

will loan you the money/ 

Although all the male members of my family were successful 

businessmen, 1 couldn’t see myself sitting in a shop with a yardstick, 

measuring cloth to sell, and I said so. Lata’s mother replied, ‘You’ve 

led the life of a vagabond, travelling around the world, and now it is 

time you settled down. 1 am suggesting this shop because you have 

no degree or qualifications, so it is the best solution for you/ The 

three of them were very serious. Lata said, ‘You must decide by 

tomorrow morning what you are going to do. If you don’t decide 

anything positive, 1 cannot stay any longer and I shall go back with 

my mother to Bangalore/ What an ultimatum! 

The next morning I said, ‘No, 1 cannot sit in a shop all day. I 

would be a failure, I cannot keep accounts/ Lata’s mother said, 

‘Don’t worry, my son will take care of the shop. You just have 

to work with him/ But I said no, and the discussion ended in 

argument. That evening, Lata, her mother, brother and my daughter 

all left abruptly. 

A novelist friend from Delhi, Rajendra, came to see me. He 

understood very precisely the reasons for the breakdown of my 

marriage. He was witty and amusing and a good support for me 

at that moment. One evening, Rajendra and 1 took a boat on the 

Ganges. Rajendra said, ‘What are you doing after all these fantastic 

adventures, sitting around moping over your wife and marriage? Get 

out of this mess. The problem is not how to make your marriage 

work, but to see it as it is and understand it. You have to calm down 

and get into something challenging and creative/ 

We were walking on the other side of the Ganges. The moonlight 

over the city gave it an eerie silvery glow. Rajendra said, ‘Make 

yourself tough and find your own way. People are going to criticize 

you whatever you do/ 

We crossed back over the river and, after walking along the ghats, 

came to the Nepalese temple of Shiva: Shiva the terrible, Shiva the 

peaceful, Shiva the creator and destroyer, Shiva the symbol of unity, 

unity in opposites, unity in multiplicity. Shiva who drank all the 

poison of the world which turned his body blue. Shiva who opened 

a third eye in the centre of his forehead and burnt all the lust and 

greed of the world with the fire from this eye. In Shiva’s presence the 

breaking of the marriage meant the making of a new life. I turned 

to Rajendra and said, ‘I will come to Delhi and we will publish 

a magazine/ We sat on the steps of the ghat looking at the river 

flowing by—the Ganges, which has been a shelter like a mother 

for me, a silent witness of everything, but never interfering. A body 

wrapped in yellow cloth was being burnt by the river. I thought bf it 

as myself, the flames burning my marriage. I wanted to find Babajt, 

but he wasn’t there. 

12.2 

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NO DESTINATION 

I arrived in Delhi. Rajendra met me at the station. I found 3 flat in 

Connaught Circus in the centre of New Delhi, and started working 

on the magazine, Vigraha {Dialectics). 

Lata wrote to me that she had given birth to a son but that she 

was happier without me and would not come back, i don’t think 

we can be happy together.’ I felt rejected and lonely. Everything 

around me seemed bleak and meaningless. Life without Lata was 

empty, and my restlessness grew by the minute. I had found the 

world but lost Lata. I was enveloped in a black blanket of pain and 

frustration. What should I do? India seemed more alien to me now 

than any other country I had been to. Coming to India was in no way 

a homecoming. 

After nine issues of Vigraha it became obvious that the magazine 

wasn't going to be a success. There was too much competition and 

the capital I had started with was nearly used up. 

One hot evening in October, a friend of mine from Benares, Anant, 

whom I had known for many years, came to visit me. We went out 

to eat and talked for a long time. It was midnight, and as Connaught 

Circus was empty, we went for a walk around. I showed Anant a 

letter from Danilo Dolci of Italy, ’You walked around the world 

for peace. We are walking from Naples to Rome for peace. Will 

you come and join our walk? You have been such an inspiration 

to us—please come.’ This letter had come to me like a raft to a 

drowning man. 4 I want to go to Italy/ I said to Anant. ‘You have 

never been out of India. Why don’t you come with me?’ Anant went 

back to Benares, consulted with his family and sent me a telegram to 

say that he had decided to come. 

This was a sudden decision. No one knew I was going. I just 

walked out, leaving everything—magazine, office, papers, flat, fur¬ 

niture— to die without me. 

It was midnight when our plane was due to depart. There were a 

few moments of panic when the officials took away my papers to 

check them. But they were returned when everything was found to 

be in order. It was a cold November night and the journey reminded 

me of my escape from monkhood. I breathed a sigh of relief. 

Chapter Seven  Floating 

D o LCi’s MARCH FROM Naples to Rome had already started. 

We were given a lift to the town where the marchers were 

staying the night. There were students and young workers, militants 

of the new left, pacifists and conscientious objectors. Anant and I 

carried placards and spoke at meetings. We marched to Rome in ten 

days. There we were joined by a large crowd, to demonstrate in front 

of the American Embassy. 

This was 1968. Europe was in turmoil. The Vietnam War had 

sparked a deep sense of protest against the culture of violence. It was 

dear to me that European civilization is built on the foundation of 

violence towards people and violence towards nature. Now, even the 

opposition and protests against violence were violent. Danilo Dold 

was an exception and was fadng great difficulties in containing 

violence in the young people. 

Many people call Dolci ‘the Gandhi of Italy’ because he carries 

a candle of compassion in the dark tunnel of violent Europe. ‘Our 

struggle is more difficult than Gandhi’s. He was standing on the 

foundation laid by men like the Buddha. Heroes of Europe are war 

heroes. We are challenging our deep-rooted notion of domination. It 

is very hard indeed/ he said. 

While in Italy we met people from many parts of Europe; we made 

a plan to travel, to witness the revolutionary fervour of the students’ 

movement, hippy culture and peace actions. On our trail through the 

continent, we came to Brussels. 

One morning in Brussels my host read in the paper about an 

art exhibition. 1 was still in bed upstairs, but he shouted up to 

me because it sounded so exciting. We went to the exhibition. I 

became enthusiastic and intrigued by the bold paintings with such 

strong primary colours, and I didn’t want to leave without seeing 

the artist. The paintings communicated to me something fresh and 

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raw. I asked the woman in charge of the gallery if she would give 

me the artist’s address. Instead she promised to pass on my address 

to the artist, Marie Clay. 

The next day, the artist telephoned and we made an appointment 

to meet in a coffee bar. The bar was crowded, but the moment I 

entered I saw only one person, and that was her. When she talked, 

her eyes went across my whole body and her hands went in the air, 

on the table, under it, all over the place—there was no shyness or 

inhibition in her at all. Instead of talking about her paintings the 

first thing she said was, ‘You are so handsome.’ That made me 

shiver. I had never seen a woman as beautiful as Marie. 1 started 

asking questions, but I didn’t know what 1 was asking nor did 1 hear 

what she was answering. We spent three hours in the coffee bar just 

looking at each other and talking. I said, ‘You are not a painter, you 

are a painting!’ She laughed and said, it is good to meet somebody 

with emotions.’ 

She took me to her house. It was full of paintings and sculptures; 

and everywhere there were colours, brushes, stains of spilt paint. 

Painting for her was not a job but a way of life. The colours were 

part of her being. Her husband was screen-printing in the basement. 

Marie gave me one of her paintings as a present. It was of a penis, the 

top of which was very red. On one side was fire and on the other 

a calm atmosphere of abstract design in blue, which I associated 

with water; the penis seemed like the bridge between the opposites. 

The painting reminded me of the Shiva lingam in the Nepalese 

temple of Benares. 

She kept pouring more wine in my glass. 1 said, i am not used 

to drinking so much wine.’ She said, ‘A man coming from the 

land of the Kama Sutra , tantra and erotic sculptures must drink 

wine!’ Later, she drove me back, and in the car she kissed me 

passionately. 

When she arrived home she immediately telephoned to say that I 

had left the painting in the back of her car, and asked when I was 

leaving. Since we were due to fly to London the next day, she said 

she would come with the painting in the morning and then drive us 

to the air terminal. 

At the terminal we kissed and kissed and she said, ‘I need more 

time with you.’ 

While I was in London, Marie Clay sent me another present of a 

painting, together with a letter saying, ‘My Traveller Friend, You 

are beautiful, you brought a beautiful moment and a beautiful 

experience, but still unexpressed and longing to be expressed. I 

dreamt your hair was in my hands and I was holding it and moving 

my fingers through it. After the dream I got up in the night and 

could not stop myself from taking a brush and colours, red and 

black which you liked most, and I painted a picture. 1 am sending 

it to you with this letter. For a traveller, no destination is far, and 

something tells me you will soon be in Brussels.’ 

This was a letter beyond my wildest expectations. 1 was thirty-two 

years of age and never had I experienced a gesture of such friendship 

from a woman. Marie Clay’s letter created an unfamiliar longing in 

my heart and 1 could not wait to return to Brussels. 

Not long after receiving Marie’s letter, I also received an invitation 

to attend a Conference in Brussels. When I arrived, I telephoned 

Marie and she came to the house where I was staying. It was evening 

and we had dinner with my host. After dinner she whispered in my 

ear, ‘Can I stay here tonight?’ ‘But you are married,’ 1 said. She 

whispered, ‘I want you.’ 

She went to the telephone and rang her husband saying straight 

away, ‘I am going to spend the night with Satish.’ There was an 

exchange of heated dialogue on the telephone. Her husband sounded 

upset and angry. She said, ‘I want to have an Indian experience.’ Her 

husband was shouting so loud we could all hear, ‘Do you think I will 

lie down in our bed, knowing that my wife is in somebody else’s 

arms?’ She said, ‘I don’t want to be dishonest with you. We have 

been married for ten years and I have never gone with anybody else. 

But tonight, I can’t stop myself. Whatever you want to do, you can 

do, but I am not coming home tonight, because I can’t come. My 

body and soul are unable to leave. I can’t explain why, but it is 

so.* She slammed the receiver down. I was amazed at the passion 

of her decision. 

In the bedroom I kissed her eyes and she kissed my ears, gently 

licking them with her tongue. She brought her lips on to my nose 

and gently bit it, then pressed my head to her breasts, kissing my 

hair. I opened her shirt and started sucking her nipples, stroking 

and kissing her warm breasts and belly. She put her hand on my 

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NO DESTINATION 

FLOATING 

forehead and said, ‘Relax, let your body rest and feel the touch of 

me without thinking.' There was complete trust and communication 

between our two bodies. 1 lost contact with the outside world totally. 

I was in a dream-like state. My body completely and joyously let go 

of itself. Marie Clay was like a serpent. 

It was the first time I had really experienced the ecstasy of love in 

a woman and the intensity of sex. Marie gave me full acceptance and 

feeling. I never thought that I would meet someone like this who was 

ready to experience two bodies meeting in complete sexual union. 

I felt that the kind of meditation that my guru had taught me was 

happening in the complete melting of two egos and two bodies. 

Through many different posrures and positions, I felt my whole 

body going to a deeper level of joy where there was total presence 

of body and soul in the act of making love. Marie Clay released in me 

a hidden fire—I was on the peak of Everest, my head in the clouds. 

The night passed like a moment and the morning sun made 

unfriendly intrusions which we ignored. Our bodies were unwilling 

to part, our lips were refusing to separate, our arms had forgotten 

how to release each others' bodies. We were in love; in love with 

each other, in love with the universe, in love with Shiva, in love with 

shakti, in love. Full stop. I knew what happiness meant, I knew what 

my body was capable of, I knew what it means to be searching and 

what it means to be arriving. Just for once, I knew my destination. 

It was Marie Clay. 

The next day she telephoned to ask me to have supper with her and 

her husband. I was shocked and said, ‘Do you want your husband to 

shoot me?' She explained that she had been completely open and 

honest with her husband adding, ‘This is the best part of love. Love 

knows no guilt. There is nothing to hide.’ 

Marie Clay was a generous friend. I could phone up and say, T 

am here,' and she would come. She was an ideal combination of 

everything I was looking for: an artist whose life was part of the 

counter-culture. She was both challenging the taboos and deep- 

rooted conformism of the old system and living and constructing 

an alternative lifestyle. Being with her recharged me. She was like a 

nest to which I could fly back. I felt a deep communion with her. She 

wore no mask, nor had any pseudo-ambitions. Her body became my 

home, a source of bliss, of love and longing. 

I forgot all the problems that had troubled me in India. I was 

floating with the wind, and wherever the wind took me I went. I was 

meeting people, eating and dancing with them, seeing rivers, coming 

across new cities and countries. 

In Belgrade, Anant and I were staying in a youth hostel. We met 

someone who was driving from Belgrade to Stockholm and then 

back to Istanbul. He offered us a lift. I did not want to drive so fast 

through Europe, but Anant decided to take the lift to see Scandinavia 

before returning to India. After travelling together for five months, 

we parted. Then I travelled to Budapest, Prague, Berlin and London. 

The soviet government had given me an award for my book 

Around the World Without a Penny and a certificate for ‘outstand¬ 

ing work for peace and freedom'. 1 went to the Soviet Embassy in 

London and was received by the cultural attache. I asked him what 

the point was in giving awards to foreign writers when Soviet writers 

were still being imprisoned for their own work I wanted to return 

my award, but he refused to take it. .1 came out of the Embassy, tore 

it up in the street, and threw it in a dustbin. 

I went again to Belgium and spent two weeks in the seaside town 

of Knokke. Late one night, I received a phone call from Michael 

Randle of War Resisters International in London. Czechoslovakia 

had been invaded by the members of the Warsaw pact and Michael 

asked me if I would go to Budapest to join a small group to protest 

against the invasion. Similar groups were to be sent to Moscow, 

Warsaw and Berlin. 

1 went to Brussels and applied for a visa but was told that because 

I had ‘journalist’ written in my passport, my application had to 

be approved by the foreign ministry in Budapest. 1 waited for a 

week; nothing happened, and so I left for Vienna, There I got the 

same answer. In the embassy I saw an advertisement for Malev, 

the Hungarian airline, together with a note on an arrangement 

for getting visas at the airport in Budapest. I bought an air ticket 

and arrived at the Budapest airport. When the authorities saw my 

passport, they said, ‘You are a journalist, you can't come in like this. * 

‘I'm here now,’ I answered. 

It was Sunday. They said I had to report to the foreign ministry the 

following day and gave me a visa for twenty-four hours. The next 

1Z9 

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NO DESTINATION 

floating 

day I got a four-day visa from the foreign ministry. I met the other 

members of the protest group in a cafe. One of them was Wolfgang, 

who had been in jail with me in Paris in 1963. They had passed 

through customs with leaflets in German and Hungarian strapped 

to their bodies. We planned the demonstration. 

On 2.4th September 1968, in Liberation Square, we put up a 

large banner—‘End the occupation of Czechoslovakia’. A nearby 

policeman paid no attention until we started handing out leaflets to 

the large crowd which soon gathered. Ten minutes later the banner 

was tom down by plainclothes policemen. The crowd was broken up 

and the five of us were arrested and taken to a barber’s shop until a 

police van arrived. We were told that giving out subversive leaflets in 

a socialist country meant from six months to three years in prison. 

That night we were driven to the political police headquarters, and 

then to a large fortress, which was a prison. They put us in separate 

cells and gave us prisoners’ uniforms. 

In the interrogations which followed, the authorities wanted to 

know why we had chosen Budapest, what was behind our dem¬ 

onstration, who financed it and who was our leader. After three 

days of hard interrogation, we were all expelled and driven to the 

Austrian border. 

It was in BUDAPEST that I met a Hungarian painter, Hinsz Gyula, 

who gave me a painting on the theme of African liberation. It was 

a large painting, and a rucksack wanderer of my kind would have 

been unable to carry it and keep it safely. Nevertheless, it was so 

beautiful and precious that I took it with me to Prague. In the hotel 

where I was staying I met Canon John Collins, a champion of African 

liberation, who was attending a peace conference. What a surprise it 

was to meet him so unexpectedly m a Prague hotel! I had met him in 

London during my walk around the world and we had liked each 

other instantly. 1 realized that John Collins was the supatra {right 

pot) for the gift, so I gave him the painting. 

We spent the next three days talking about the surge of revolu¬ 

tionary violence in Europe. John said, it is good to see the young 

raising their voices against war and injustice, but throwing stones 

at the police is not going to take them very far. They need to learn 

the Gandhian way of civil disobedience.’ ‘Yes, I agree. They need 

training in non-violence.’ ‘1969 will be the centenary of the birth 

of Mahatma Gandhi. It Would be a real tribute to the great man if 

we established a school of non-violence in London.’ He paused for 

a moment and then continued, ‘Will you come and help me do it?’ 

What a question! What a challenge! What an offer! My imagina¬ 

tion took off in leaps and bounds. I flew with John to London. We 

made our plans in the plane. We decided to call it simply ‘The Lon¬ 

don School of Non-Violence’ and my book Non- Violence or Non- 

Existence was published to coincide with the opening of the school. 

John introduced me to Colin Hodgetts, Director of Christian 

Action, at the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar Square, 

where we established the school. Three evenings a week and during 

most weekends we held classes where I and others lectured on the 

theory of Satyagraba (non-violent resistance), and organized practi¬ 

cal training in the methods of confronting the police without anger, 

protesting without hatred, and demonstrating for peace as well as 

being at peace. 

But I was restless again. I missed my friends in India and 1 grew 

tired of London. The pressures of city Hying, travelling in the under¬ 

ground, living in the crowds, shopping centres, fumes and the whole 

consumer world was getting in my head and up my nose. I got 

the feeling that some part of me was dying, some part of me was 

suppressed. My legs were itching to be on the road, and my eyes 

itching to see the blue sky over trees and mountains, rivers and 

deserts. 

Canon Collins had promised to pay my plane fare back to India, 

but I persuaded him to buy me a second-hand car instead. It was 

Gandhi’s centenary year. 1 painted a map of my overland route to 

India on the car together with several quotations from Gandhi, and 

wrote to various people and groups on the way. Canon Collins’ son 

Mark had j ust finished at Eton and was taking a year off before going 

to Oxford. ‘What better way to spend this year than to travel with 

you? And then I can see India. May I come with you?’ asked Mark. 

‘Of course. Travelling is always better with two.’ So we took off in 

our Ford Cortina. On the road again. 

After driving for eighty days, we arrived in Delhi on and Octo¬ 

ber 1969—the centenary of Gandhi’s birth. Posters lined the streets, 

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and near Gandhi’s grave, a gigantic twenty million rupee exhibition 

had been set up, showing his life and message. 

On my return to India 1 heard the news that my old friend Dhani 

was on the run and that the police were searching for him because of 

his involvement in the armed struggle on behalf of the landless. My 

heart went out to my old friend. I was told that he was in Benares, 

so I went there and searched for him. 

Since I had been away, the Naxalite movement had become strong 

in Bihar and Bengal, especially in Calcutta where Naxalite activity 

had created such panic that it was virtually a police state. Every day 

there were bombings and killings of landlords and police. 

After telephoning friends who might know of Dhani’s where- 

abouts, I was given an address. 1 went to the house, only to he told 

that he had left a few days before, but they gave me another address. 

Dhani had also left that place; at every address I went to, it was the 

same story. He was in hiding, changing his address to prevent anyone 

from finding him. 1 left messages at the various addresses, asking him 

to contact me. 

Late one night when everyone else was asleep and it was totally 

quiet, I was woken by a knock at the door. It was Dhani. ‘All those 

who want a real revolution should join die Naxalite movement,’ he 

said. His eyes penetrated into me. The power of his argument was 

less strong than the power of his eyes and his physical presence, 

especially late at night in the small dark room with only a lantern 

burning. Dhani said, ‘The landlords will never give up unless there 

is an armed struggle. The enemy today is subtle and difficult to 

pin down. We cannot use the same tactics and strategy as Gandhi 

used during the independence movement.’ I said, ‘The state is too 

powerful for armed resistance. We have to find another way. Unless 

the oppressed are aware of their oppression, they will never get rid 

of it.’ ‘So our task is to fight on their behalf,’ said Dhani. 

At dawn, when it started to grow light, he said he couldn’t stay 

any longer—it was dangerous for him to be in the streets in daylight. 

He left and I lay down but couldn’t sleep. My mind was spinning 

round and round. I was thinking about the culture of violence in 

Europe. I was thinking about the London School of Non-Violence 

and I was asking myself; is India any better? I was shocked, saddened 

and challenged. 

Vinoba had DESIGNATED one of his closest disciples, Krishna 

Raj Bhai, together with about a hundred gramdan workers, to turn 

the principle of gramdan into reality in Saharsa district. Saharsa 

is one of the poorest parts of Bihar, where seventy per cent of 

the people were landless labourers. Krishna Raj Bhai was a dose 

friend of mine. He wrote to me: if gramdan succeeds in Saharsa, the 

movement succeeds for the whole of India. The Naxalite movement 

is spreading into Saharsa and has made people believe that unless 

there is an armed struggle, nothing is going to change. This is the 

testing point, the last battle for victory. I would like you to come 

here and see what we are doing.’ So I went to Saharsa. 

The town of Saharsa was neither a village nor a city. It was a 

newly created government settlement with badly-built houses and 

shacks, crowded with the landless from the villages and the jobless 

from the dty. There were over 500 villages in Saharsa district, which 

was divided into twenty-two blocks, each having its headquarters 

town under which there were a number of villages. One hundred 

gramdan workers were divided up amongst the twenty-two blocks, 

with Krishna Raj Bhai acting as co-ordinator. I was assigned to a 

group whose task it was to organize land distribution in the village 

of Chatturpur. 

As I was walking to Chatturpur along a track, a man suddenly 

stepped out of a bamboo thicket on to the path. He was dressed in 

labourer’s clothes and carried a long, oiled bamboo stave. ‘Where 

are you going?* he demanded aggressively. ‘What is it to you where 

I am going?’ 1 replied. ‘What are you here for, then?’ ‘I am with the 

gramdan workers,’ I replied, ‘Keep off this area, and don’t interfere 

and delay our revolution. You might distribute some land, which is 

probably barren, since the landlord didn’t want it, and you will make 

a big noise about it. What is a little bit of land? Hardly enough for 

a dozen families. Let the dissatisfaction get deeper into the hearts 

of the people and let the landless, who are in the majority, unite 

together to fight the landlords. Only then will this problem be 

solved.’ I asked him how he thought the revolution would take place. 

'Revolution will come when every peasant rises up and seizes all the 

land, every inch of it.’ His voice was strong and full of conviction. 

‘Vinoba is a saint perhaps, but a state-appointed saint. He never says 

anything against the government.’ ‘Are you a Naxalite?’ 1 asked. 

NO DESTINATION 

‘There is no such thing as Naxalism,’ he replied impatiently. ‘That 

is just a name given by the press. We are Marxist-Leninists.’ After 

that, he remained silent and at the next village, turned to go. 

Chatturpur was a large village. The rich lived in the wide square 

bazaar in large brick houses, replacing their thatched roofs with 

modem corrugated iron. In the front courtyards stood large grana¬ 

ries, the symbol of wealth. The labourers lived in ghettos in the 

surrounding neighbourhood, so overcrowded that the little bamboo 

huts stood back to back, each family sprawling into the next. I was 

invited to stay at the local school. That evening I went to an area 

where the landless labourers lived. Men sat around the glow of a 

straw fire. I greeted them, but their reply was silence and suspicious 

glances. 1 edged my way into the circle and introduced myself. 

‘Chatturpur is a gramdan village, isn't it?’ I asked. They replied, 

The Vinoba people came a long time ago and took signatures— 

they promised us land. Then some communists came and promised, 

to give land. And the government officials have been promising for 

the last year. But is seems as if we won’t get anything until after we 

are dead. At the moment we are not even sure if our huts are safe, and 

our masters have given notice to stop us share-cropping their land.’ 

A young voice spoke out of the darkness, ‘A few days ago a strange 

man came here. He said he was a new kind of communist and that 

the old communists who came before had made a pact with the 

landlords and won’t help us any more. He said that voting is no 

more use now, that we will have to fight the landlords ourselves, and 

that in some districts, the fighting has already begun. We might have 

to kill our masters, he said, because unless we do something and are 

ready to act ourselves, we will never get land, is that true?’ ‘Was he 

from Chatturpur?’ I asked. "He came from outside. He didn’t tell Us 

his name—he just arrived one evening, bringing his f<>od. He stayed 

for two or three hours and left the same night. He belonged to our 

caste, though.’ 

How could l hope to win their support and gain their confidence 

by giving more words, then deserting them again? What right had I 

to try to create suspicion in their minds in regard to a man who came 

from the same caste, brought his food and experienced the exploita¬ 

tion, not merely intellectually but physically? After all, who was I? 

Someone who wore clothes worth enough to feed a whole family for 

FLOATING 

a month. What a vast gulf separated them from met Why should they 

believe me? Dozens of politicians and gramdan workers had come 

before, and what could I tell them that was new? f said, ‘When the 

time comes for revolution, we will see. But at the moment, why don’t 

we try to get the land some other way first? If you are all ready we can 

ask the landlord straight away. If it works, why resort to violence?’ 

Heads nodded slowly in agreement, but not confidently. They 

could only see the landlords in their normal role as oppressors who 

goaded them to work harder and harder. I was seized by a feeling 

of frustration as 1 gazed into the leaping flames, watching the straw 

consumed to make white-hot ashes. 

After seeing the despair and hopelessness of the landless and the 

cynical resistance of the landlords in Chatturpur, I was filled with 

grief and compassion. I was grateful to Krishna Raj for bringing 

me literally down to earth and allowing me to participate in the 

herculean task of land reform in India. 

One day in benares, my friend Anant said to me, l My father 

has a farm in the forest, where very few people live. I would like to 

leave Benares—and 1 could persuade my father to give us some land.’ 

I said, ‘Can we go to see the place tomorrow?’ 

The next morning at dawn we drove out of Benares, then headed 

south in the Vindhaya mountains. We arrived at Jumudi village, 

where Anant’s father had his farm. We got out of the cat and sat 

under a mango tree by a well. People from the village brought 

us pomegranates, papaya and other fruit. The village consisted of 

tribal mud huts, with coloured clay painted on the walls. Around the 

huts were the animals—-goats, cows and buffalos. There was a large 

monsoon pond with buffalos in it. 

We walked into the forest to see the land. The forest itself was 

silent, full of herbs and wild fruit trees, and there was a river. W'e 

felt this was the right place for us. Anant and I built our own little 

hut and started living in the forest among the tribal people. We 

worked on the land, grew vegetables and cooked food. Anant’s 

lather gave him twenty-five acres of land but there was no water 

on it, so we asked a dowser from the village to help us locate 

water. He walked around looking at the colour of the leaves 

and vegetation, then told us to begin digging near some anthills. 

134 

1 35 

NO DESTINATION 

FLOATING 

For three months we dug the well, our bodies covered with earth 

from lifting it and carrying it in buckets on our heads. We went on. 

digging, trying to finish it by the beginning of the monsoon. When 

we had dug down thirty feet, we hit rock. We went on digging, and 

then one day, the earth started bubbling. We had hit water? 

The monsoon was over and everyone was busy harvesting. Every 

day was spent out in the fields with other people, cutting the golden- 

brown rice with a sickle and stacking it in rows. The whole village 

co-operated. It was so different from Saharsa—one day people 

gathered to harvest one farmer’s land, then they moved on to harvest 

another’s. When all the grain was gathered in, the farmers distrib¬ 

uted it to the craftsmen of the villages—the shoemaker, carpenter, 

potter, washerman, cowherd, blacksmith and the brahmin priest, 

to settle accounts until the next harvest came. Then there was a big 

festival to mark the completion of the harvest— diwali , the festival of 

lights. The people ate, drank, dressed up and danced and went from 

village to village, visiting each other. What a delight it was for me to 

see old India surviving intact in this tribal land. 

Every morning I got up yvith the sunrise. After doing yoga and 

working in the fields, I lay down under the sun and was massaged by 

Anant, feeling the slow touch and quiet movement of hands on the 

body, feeling the muscles and nerves and bones and flesh relaxing. 

Then, using mustard oil, 1 massaged each toe of my foot, each part 

of my ankles and heels and instep. Afterwards, I bathed at the well. 

Gardening became a real joy—looking at each plant growing 

every day, seeing the leaves coming, then the flowers, and after a 

few days the fruit, which then became bigger and bigger; and every 

day weeding, putting water and manure down, and tying plants with 

string if they were blown over. 

Often I walked by myself in the river bed, which had many bends. 

There were trees with roots exposed by the river, and flowers and 

leaves and butterflies all around. Other days I went with the village 

people to get wild honey from the forest trees. We made a fire under 

a tree and waited until the bees flew away and the honey dripped into 

a pot under the combs. 

Every night the tribal people lit a bonfire. A lot of people gathered 

round it. Someone started playing the flute and drums and all the 

people joined in, singing and dancing and chanting, going deeper 

13 6 

into the night, deeper into the music, deeper into the flames of the 

fire. In their chanting, dancing and music, they forgot everything and 

became absolutely absorbed in it, in union with themselves and their 

whole existence. 

One morning i got up early and walked into the forest. It 

was dawn. There was dew on the grass and leaves. I came to a tall 

tree with large overhanging branches, sat down cross-legged under 

the tree and closed my eyes. I looked into my body and saw a dark 

tunnel, a deep hollow inside. I went into it, drawn inwards. 

Instead of smelling outside, my nose was smelling the inner hap¬ 

penings and my ears were hearing the sounds inside. I could hear the 

sounds and voices of the ego pushing me in different directions. But 

l sat quietly. Slowly the battle calmed down, it slowly faded away. 

Gradually peace came. 

1 saw the events of my life as one thread, the same thread which 

united the whole universe and which was each person. I saw a strug¬ 

gle without conflict, a pain without misery. I saw a love so great that 

it had to remain hidden. I felt myself part of my mother and father, 

and in all the people through whom 1 had been expressed. 1 was being 

reborn. I felt like a child, like an innocent person, just living and 

growing, engaged in rhe journey from action to non-action, from 

struggle without to struggle within. Life was an eternal journey, a 

journey to the centre, the source, searching for the soul. 

Everything became meditation. I felt a sense of divinity. This 

newness brought a surrender, a surrender where nothing mattered, 

where everything was accepted. It was beyond happiness, beyond 

pleasure. I experienced the zero level of existence, the void, the 

beauty of the void and the beauty of nothingness: sbunyata . 

I opened my eyes. I saw a snake about three yards long curled 

round the trunk of the tree beside me. I sat still. The snake disap¬ 

peared into a hole among the roots. I must have sat there for six 

hours, for when I returned it was after ten o’clock. 

i37 

Chapter Eight 

Mukti 

A fter i had been living in the forest for a year, I 

.walked with Anant one morning to the town of Anuppur, five 

miles away, to buy some food in the market that was held there 

every Wednesday. There was an astrologer in the market place who 

predicted the future by calculating how the stars and planets affected 

a person at a particular moment. He was a coarse-faced sadhu, 

skinny, short and dark, with a shaven head and light brown robe, 

sitting on the floor cross-legged with a young disciple and several 

townspeople around him. When I arrived he asked me why I had 

come so late? The way he spoke, it was as if he had been waiting for 

me. I didn’t answer. 

He said, ‘I speak only between nine and twelve o’clock, and after 

twelve 1 keep silent. Now it is coming close to twelve.’ He went 

on, ‘You have a very good friend. He trusts you, you trust him. 

He supports you in everything. You are happy with his support, 

hut his wife thinks you are an enemy. She wants to change her 

husband’s mind. She quarrels with him and with you.’ That was 

my relationship with Anant and his wife. Then he said, ‘Very soon 

you are going on a long journey over the ocean . . I interrupted 

him, saying that I had just returned from Europe and had no desire 

to go away again. ‘What I see, I tell you,’ he said. ‘Once you are in 

the far land, you are going to meet someone in that land who will 

completely change your life.’ He paused and said, ‘Now it is twelve 

o’clock. It is time for my silence and l cannot speak any more.’ He 

then closed his eyes and withdrew into himself. I gave him a gift of 

five rupees and left. 

It was an astonishing prediction. Within days of this meeting, the 

war began in Bangladesh and millions of refugees started pouring 

into India. Canon Collins wrote asking me to give him a first-hand 

account of what was happening, then suggested 1 come to England 

*39 

NO DESTINATION 

MUKTI 

with information and photographs to put on an exhibition about 

Bangladesh which Christian Action would sponsor. The words of 

the sadhu came true. I collected photographs of the refugees and 

flew to London. 

The exhibition was in the crypt of St. Martin-in-the-Fields in 

London in July 1971. 1 asked Operation Omega (formed to get 

peace workers across the borders into Bangladesh) if they could send 

someone to talk about their work at the exhibition. They sent June. 

1 stood in the crypt watching the guests arrive. It was a Saturday 

afternoon. From the dark crypt of the church I saw the sun shining 

outside. There was a lull for a few minutes when no one came in. 

And then I saw someone coming; a young woman of extraordinary 

radiance. The light was on her back as she came down the steps of the 

crypt. Her silhouetted figure was captivating; my whole attention 

was held like magic. I had never seen anyone like her before. ‘1 am 

June, from Operation Omega,’ she said, i was in Bangladesh just 

before the war broke out. Now 1 am helping the movement for the 

freedom of Bangladesh.’ 

After the meeting I said to her, *1 am planning to take this exhibi¬ 

tion around Europe. Would you like to come with me to speak about 

your experiences of Bangladesh ?’ 

She said ‘No.’ The answer was very firm. The only thought in my 

mind iras if 1 would ever see her again. 

After my tour of Europe, I went back to London where I received 

the news of my mother’s death: ‘At the age of eighty your mother 

felt that she had served the family and fulfilled all her duties and 

that now it was time for her to meet death. She decided to separate 

herself from her worn-out body by fasting. She had no fear of death. 

She believed that only death could bring new life and that she must 

die to live again. She went round the town, to family and friends, 

saying goodbye and asking forgiveness for any wrong she may have 

done. From the next day’s sunrise she took no more food or drink 

except a little boiled water. The news of your mother’s fast unto 

death spread by word of mouth. Monks came to bless her and be 

blessed, since it is considered brave and holy to die in this way— 

to embrace death rather than let it capture you unaware. Hundreds 

of people came to have her last darshan and to ask for forgiveness. 

She didn’t talk much but by her look acknowledged the receiving and 

giving of forgiveness. People sat outside singing songs and praying. 

After thirty-five days of fasting, your mother died.’ 

I received this news with a mixture of sadness and celebration. 

Even though I was a rejected son, I always felt a benevolent pro¬ 

tection coming from her to me. The thought that I no longer had 

a mother sent a shiver down my spine. But what a brave and wise 

mother she was! I have met many people—gurus, teachers, poets, 

philosophers, and celebrities—but none could compare with my 

mother in her simple wisdom. She was illiterate, she could not even 

sign her name, but she was pure and truthful. She brought us up, all 

eight of her children, to be true to ourselves. ‘Human relationships 

are the greatest wealth you have, do not abuse it,’ she would say. 

'When God made time he made plenty of it, so what is the rush?* 

she would say. ‘Friends first, business later,’ she would say. Her 

words always ring in my head. Physically she is no more but her 

wisdom is eternal. 

My only reason for coming to London again was to find June 

and see her once more. I phoned the office of Operation Omega but I 

was told that she was not there. I kept phoning. In the end I was told 

she was ill. I went to see her at her home. 1 knocked on the front door. 

For a few minutes nothing happened, then she opened it. She was in 

her dressing-gown. 

I stepped back and said, ‘How are you? I hear you’re not well.’ She 

smiled and said, ‘Come in.’ 

June was alone in the house, and had not eaten all day. 1 went to 

the kitchen and found half a cabbage. I put the cabbage soup on 

to boil then took some oil from the kitchen and massaged June’s 

stomach, head, legs and feet. Later I gave her the soup to drink. I read 

to her and she fell asleep. As she was sleeping, i looked closely at her 

face, wondering if this was the person the astrologer in India had said 

would change my life. That night 1 slept.downstairs on a couch and 

next morning I got up early to make her some tea. June got well soon, 

and her home became my home. Spring came and we sat in the gar¬ 

den. Memories and contacts with India, family and friends seemed 

like a thousand years ago. My beard and hair grew long with love. 

June told me of a dream she often used to have in her childhood. A 

vast desert stretched out before her and in the distance was a figure. 

140 

NO DESTINATION 

MUKTI 

It was a man walking across the desert towards her. She was terrified. 

She always woke up before the man could reach her, while he was 

still walking, never reaching his destination. 

In the summer we travelled from London to Stockholm to attend 

the first un conference on the environment, and stayed there for 

two weeks, in a peaceful flat. There, in the complete acceptance 

of each other, feeling a sense of warmth, touch and belonging, we 

conceived a child. 

In the autumn we went to live in a commune of European peace 

workers in a small village in Germany. There, June and I worked 

in the garden, cooked together, practised yoga and medication, and 

every afternoon for an hour went walking together—sometimes to 

the forest near the house, sometimes along a river called ‘the inner 

stream’, sometimes to the town three miles away. We enjoyed the 

trees, air and fields and told each other stories. Then every evening 

i massaged June with oil and felt the child move as I was doing so. 

We thought that as we were feeling a sense of freedom at that time, 

this feeling should be part of our child’s name. So we decided on the 

name ‘Mukti’ which means ‘freedom’ in Sanskrit. 

At the beginning of March 1973, just before Mukti was due to be 

born, we returned to London by train. I had a dream. In this dream 

I said to June, ‘I know where my soul is. Hurry, let’s go.’ Wc started 

walking and came to a thick forest. June held on 10 my shirt. Then 

we climbed mountains so high that we passed through the clouds. 

Coming down the other side, we were stopped by soldiers who 

allowed us to cross their country only if we did it in one day and 

didn’t stay the night. They escorted us. 

We came to a river. June and I walked on opposite banks, I became 

a woman in a pink and orange dress. A man rode towards us on an 

elephant, peered closely at us, then rode on. June walked over the 

water to me and we shouted to the man on the elephant. He told 

us he was searching for Satish to tell him not to worry, that his soul 

was safe. I said I was Satish. He was surprised I was a woman. He 

turned his elephant around and rode in front of us. 1 saw mountains 

in the distance. Night fell, and there was a long line of people coming 

down the mountain-side with flaming torches, disappearing and 

appearing again as they came down a winding path. We walked 

on. The procession came towards me; one of the people was carrying 

a golden box on his head. I opened it. Inside was a bundle of silk cloth 

which I unwrapped. Inside the silk was a lotus and wrapped in the 

petals of the lotus I found the word Atman, I had found my soul. 

A few days later Mukti was born. I sat on the bed beside June, 

helping her to push. At the moment of birth I was holding June’s 

body in my arms, June was pushing—and Mukti was revealed. 

1 can’t imagine what life would have been for me without the 

canal leading from Camden to Regents Park. From spring to summer 

1 would rise early, take a walk along the canal, and run barefoot on 

the cool grass of the park. Squeaking squirrels, tall trees, and the 

quacking ducks swimming in the lakes—the park was an oasis of 

peace, surrounded by the traffic-jams and their poisonous fumes. 

Like a tunnel, the canal leads to this oasis, hardly noticing the 

monstrosity of industrial London. 

When I missed my morning yoga of taking this walk, I would 

go with June and Mukti in the afternoon. One such afternoon, 

returning to Kentish Town, I saw a man busy planting out flowers 

in a window-box. He resembled John Papworth, but it couldn’t be, 

since he was in Zambia working as an advisor to President Kaunda; 

and if he were in London, he would surely be in his own comfortable 

house in St John’s Wood. As I was coming to this conclusion, he 

turned and I saw that it truly was John Papworth. We fell into 

each other’s arms, filled with the pleasure of meeting. He invited 

us in. Almost the first thing he said was that Resurgence magazine, 

which he had founded, was about to be closed down for the want of 

an editor, an editor who would work for love rather than money. ‘So 

Satish, God sent me to find you here and I dare say that you will be 

the editor and let us speak no more of it.’ 

1 was taken aback. *1 have never learnt proper English, had no 

schooling and I can’t spell a word. True, 1 can speak it, but with 

this little knowledge of English, how can I edit a magazine with 

the reputation of Resurgence ?’ ‘You can and you will, especially 

with the help of your companion, June. You will have no trouble.’ 

Thus Resurgence fell into my lap. It was summer 1973 .1 decided to 

put my energies into the magazine for a year or so and get it off the 

ground once again. I didn't like to deny the request of an old friend 

or to refuse something which was coming to me by fate. I decided to 

NO DESTINATION 

put off thoughts oi returning to India with June and Mukti until the 

end of 1975. 

I should have known that life does not operate on the basis of 

plans, no matter how rational. My nature is to let things happen 

rather than make them happen, and I felt that I should stick to it. 

So the plan to go to India was interrupted by the onset of dictatorial 

rule there in June 1975. The Prime Minister of India, Mrs Indira 

Gandhi, had declared a State of Emergency and a large number of 

my friends and colleagues were put behind bars. A total censorship 

of the press and curtailment of normal civil liberties was enforced. 

The greatest shock of all was the arrest of J.P. Narayan, with whom 

1 had worked closely. 

I cancelled the scheduled meeting of the London School of Non- 

Violence and instead held an emergency meeting on India. Nearly 

one hundred people gathered ar the school in the crypt of St Martin- 

in-the-Fields. From there we launched the Free J.P. Campaign and 

invited Philip Nod-Baker, who in the British Parliament had moved 

the Bill for the independence of India, to preside over it. I edited and 

produced a fortnightly news sheet Swaraj , a digest of news and com¬ 

ment about India published in the European and American papers. 

This circulated clandestinely in India from hand to hand and was 

even smuggled into prisons. This voice of solidarity, strengthened 

the courage and the struggle of the resistance movement. My own 

return to India was postponed indefinitely since there was no point 

in walking into a jail, which—my friends in India wrote—would be 

my fate. I could perhaps help the resistance movement more from the 

outside. Sarur Hoda and others had their passports impounded and 

my name was certainly on the government's list. 

I organized the first European Sarvodaya conference in the 

Conway Hall, to introduce the true nature of J.P.’s Movement, as 

well as to show the relevance of Gandhi's ideas to Western industrial 

societies. Lanza del Vasto, E.F. Schumacher John Seymour, Leopold 

Kohr, Edward Goldsmith and Thich Nhat Hanh were among the 

speakers. Five hundred people turned up. 

The political situation in India was such that I could not return, so 

I began to look for somewhere to live in a rural area, where I could 

combine the intellectual work of editing Resurgence with the manual 

work of growing food- 

144 

Chapter Nine 

Maya 

E diting and publishing Resurgence y a magazine advocating 

decentralization, from the metropolitan centre of London, was 

not in keeping with our aims; so when the opportunity presented 

nsdf of moving to Wales, I welcomed it. Wales is a small nation; 

it has not lost its cultural identity, and I felt so much at home. The 

hills of the Prescelis and the gentler slopes of Cam Jngli moved me 

deeply. When I went to live in Wales, 1 made a vow that I would not 

travel out of the country for one year, and that I would allow myself 

10 put my roots down there and learn the Welsh language. 

At the Sarvodaya Conference I had met an old friend, Peggy 

1 lemming, an Oxford economist who was deeply interested in the 

ideas of Gandhi and rural regeneration. I said to her, 4 lf we want to 

he part of a sustainable future, people need to return to the land, and 

we ourselves must set an example.' 

Peggy totally agreed with me and said, ‘This is music to my ears. I 

have inherited some money; the best use of my resources would be 

»o invest in the land, and in people who could live in a community 

working that land.’ 

Ever since the Sarvodaya conference, John Seymour had been 

encouraging us to move from the city and return to the land. He 

said to us, ‘Ninety-five per cent of British people are living in cities, 

working in the industrial economy, and the five per cent who are 

left in rural England have turned agriculture into industry and busi¬ 

ness. This type of lifestyle is unsustainable and is bound to bring 

an ecological catastrophe—the only way to save the earth is for 

people to learn the practical skills of self-sufficiency. John's message 

touched our hearts. We went to see him and his wife Sally on their 

farm, Fachongle Isaf, in Wales. It was truly a moving experience. 

Our lunch consisted of home-grown vegetables, home-made cheese 

and butter, with bread baked that morning from the wheat grown 

*45 

NO DESTINATION 

MAYA 

on his farm, together with home-brewed beer. There were young 

people ploughing the land, tending the vegetable garden, churn¬ 

ing the butter, mending fences, taking care of the cows, chickens, 

ducks and bees. Sally was a supreme example of self-sufficiency in 

action. There was almost nothing that she could not do. She was 

a magnificent illustrator and potter, drawing cats, chickens, cows 

and owls on tiles, bowls and plates which she made. She was also 

spinning, knitting and weaving wool from her Jacob sheep which she 

had sheared herself. 

John and Sally’s three daughters and son were also engaged in the 

activities of organic farming and crafts. This example of culture 

and agriculture embodied in their lives made us feel envious and 

we wanted to lose no time in beginning a lifestyle which would 

incorporate some of the features that we had just seen. 

Peggy, June and I were of one mind in our desire to come and live 

near John and Sally. Peggy was ready with her chequebook if there 

was any small farm we could acquire. And we were lucky. Within 

w alking distance from John and Sally was Pentre Ifan, which was for 

sale. We went to see it and instantly fell in love with it. A modest 

old house with a considerable number of outbuildings, woodland, 

running stream, spring water for drinking, fertile soil and a view 

from the kitchen window of the ancient cromlech—a sacred site 

of standing stones some thousands of years old. It seemed an ideal 

place, and we bought it with Peggy’s money. Tony, Vivian and Ian, 

three young people also inspired by the ideals of ecological farming 

and community life, joined us. 

We started with four goats, digging the land fora vegetable 

garden. It was July 1976. By December we had purchased a cow. 

These were a most exhilarating six months, working on the land in 

the mornings and editing Resurgence in the afternoons. However, 

these six months also proved to be months of discussion, debate 

and disagreement among ourselves. Ninety-six acres of farmland 

seemed to be too big for us inexperienced communards to manage. 

My inclination was to work with ten acres and leave the rest fallow 

for a while until we got our plans worked out, but Tony and Peggy 

felt that this way we would be wasting the land. They felt it would 

be better to purchase a tractor, have more animals on the land, and 

146 

uiitki' as much hay as possible, either to feed our own animals or to 

I<> me that seemed rather like conventional farming, not the 

kirn! of ecological, organic and sustainable principles which had 

ilr<iwn me to the land. I would have liked increased wilderness 

>11 ul more people working the land with hand tools, rather than 

miTlunization and meat production. 

The debate became intense, and disagreements disturbed the frag¬ 

ile basis upon which all of us had come together. Tony and Vivian 

Irh; that shook Peggy’s confidence—she felt that my approach 

was impractical. Peggy went to see her family for Christmas and 

never returned. June, Ian, Mukri and I were left on the farm. As a 

inmpromise measure we rented most of the land to a neighbouring 

larmcr and kept a ten-acre field for our cow and goats. 

I had not imagined that things would turn sour so soon and that 

dreams would be shattered so quickly. Early in 1977 I received a 

Inter from Peggy saying that in her view our experiment had no 

lui u re and therefore she would like to offer the farm to Urdd Gobai th 

Cymru, the Welsh youth organization. I could not believe my eyes 

when I read the letter: this was totally and utterly unexpected. 

I wrote back to Peggy saying that ft was still possible to rescue 

our project. We had given up everything to come to Wales and now 

we had nowhere to go; but that did not move her, so I proposed a 

compromise. Let the Urdd have eighty-six acres with the extensive 

outbuildings, and let ten acres and the house be put into a trust 

dedicated to an experimental project for self-sufficiency, organic 

l.irming and the publication of Resurgence. But something had 

happened: factors and events unknown to me had totally changed 

tV^gy's mind. Either she became disillusioned or disappointed—she 

wanted us to leave Pentre Ifan. I talked to John Seymour, Leopold 

Kohr (a friend of Peggy’s and mine), as well as Gwynfor Evans who 

was a Welsh nationalist, a supporter of Urdd and our friend. The 

three of them said that it was unfair of Peggy, and they supported 

the compromise we were proposing. 

For the first time in our lives we had to consult a solicitor and a 

barrister and decided to take the matter to court. During this time 

June became pregnant with Maya and therefore the threat of being 

made homeless caused even greater anguish. Never in my life could 

1 remember a time when I had endured such a failure of friendship, 

i47 

NO DESTINATION 

An astrologer friend looked at my birth chart and concluded that 

Saturn was overshadowing the entire year of 1977. As a result, things 

were bound to be difficult and therefore I should just keep going. 

That gave me some consolation, but nothing could really soften the 

blow of a failed experiment, a failed friendship and the possibility of 

being forced out of our home. 

As we carried on, our solicitor advised that the best course for us 

was to sit tight and let Peggy go to court and get an eviction order. 1 

wrote to Peggy urging her to wait until our child was born as it would 

be too traumatic to find a new home in the present circumstances. 

That slowed down the proceedings and gave us a few months of 

respite. In the meantime, we looked forward to the birth. Mukti had 

been bom in hospital and June was determined to avoid a repetition 

of the experience. She wanted to have a home birth, but very few 

doctors seemed to like the idea. The conventional wisdom was that 

pregnancy should be treated as if it was an illness. If the mother 

was at home rather than in hospital for the birth, it would cause 

too much inconvenience to doctors and midwives if there was any 

complication or emergency. So never mind freedom of choice and the 

wishes of the mother—everyone was insisting on a hospital birth. 

But as it happened, a new doctor arrived in Newport, whose wife 

was a nurse and who believed in giving mothers the choice between 

hospital delivery and home birth. Through a common friend, June 

met Judy and Roger, and to our great delight they agreed to assist 

in the birth of the baby at home. Once Roger committed himself, 

'the district midwife also expressed her enthusiasm and preparedness 

to be on call. 

It was October 29TH. Mary Tasker and Jane Thomas from 

Bath, and Sue Blennerhesset from London were staying with us for 

a few days at that time. Sian Roberts was working for Resurgence 

and living with us, so there was a soft and supportive feminine 

atmosphere in the house. June was relaxed, happy and at ease— 

what a contrast to the pressures which we had gone through at the 

time of Mukri’s birth! This time she was in command of her own 

body and her situation. 

At about six o’clock in the evening, June thought labour had 

started and wondered whether she should go and lie down. I said 

MAYA 

*1 )on’t go and lie down, better to stay, engage in talk with our guests, 

and in this way be distracted from your pains.* At about eight o’clock 

die decided to go and lie upstairs on the bed as the pains were 

wronger and she needed to concentrate on her breathing. At about 

nine o’clock she was convinced that the birth was imminent, yet still 

felt strong enough to come downstairs and phone the midwife and 

the doctor. At 9.45 the midwife arrived and at ten o’clock we saw 

the head of the baby. Mary, Jane, Sue and Sian were all present in 

the room. As I saw the head, 1 rushed to Mukti who was fast asleep, 

’Mukti, Mukti, wake up, the baby is being born.* He rushed out of 

his bed and came to watch the new baby being born. June hung on to 

me as she breathed and pushed. None of our four female friends had 

had the experience of giving birth so for them this was an electrifying 

occasion. There was a sigh of relief when the midwife held the baby 

in her hands and said, Tt’s a girl. ’ 

We called her Maya. Mukti represented our longing for liberation 

and she came to us in the midst of worldly engagement. Maya was 

the mother of the Buddha; Maya was the ancient culture in South 

America; Mair is the Welsh name for the mother of Jesus; Maya is 

the world we see; Maya is the wealth and beauty of life; Maya is 

our daughter. Her birth proved to be a turning point. When Maya 

came, Saturn was becoming weak and his influence was waning. I 

felt a new sense of optimism. Gwynfor Evans communicated with 

Peggy that her help to the Welsh Youth would be of no help if that 

meant making Satish and his young family homeless. She must find a 

solution by which Urdd would be helped and Satish would be happy. 

This was strong advice from an elderly Welsh statesman. Even if 

Peggy was not moved by this advice, Urdd was. They communicated 

with me stating that they would like to maintain the farm as an 

undivided unit, but they would be prepared to make me some 

financial compensation which would enable me to purchase a house 

for my family. This was a gesture of goodwill and I wanted to go with 

the flow rather than fight. Nevertheless, all the negotiations went at 

a snail’s pace and it was not until the end of 1978 that a written 

agreement was reached. 1 accepted the sum of £9,000, and a year in 

which to find a new home. 

Meanwhile, we continued to edit, manage and publish Resurgence 

from our home. This was a big change in my working pattern. In 

NO DESTINATION 

London, the Resurgence office and my work with Christian Action 

had been based in the East End, but we lived in Radlett. 1 used to 

leave home at 8 a.m. by train, changing at Kings Cross for the under¬ 

ground and arriving at my office at 9.30. Again in the evening l had 

to commute back, and arrived home at seven o’clock in the evening. 

Physically and psychologically, I used to become totally drained. 

The only thing 1 did for our son Mukti was to read him bedtime 

stories, and the only satisfactory time 1 spent with June was during 

the weekends. It was a time when 1 felt emotionally and spiritually 

starved. That pattern of life was alien to me, but large numbers of 

people in the modern world consider it normal. No wonder family 

relationships in industrialized societies are at such a low ebb. 

Even though our life in Wales had the constant strain of uncer¬ 

tainty and tension, June and 1 shared our lives much more intimately. 

I milked the cow, June made the butter and cheese, 1 cooked the 

evening meal, June prepared the lunch, and we both worked in 

the vegetable garden. We read together every article which came 

for publication in Re$urgence y and all the letters from our readers 

and contributors. With a group of voluntary helpers, June and 1 

dispatched the magazine. In every sense of the word it was a true 

partnership. We shared the joys and pains of life as companions. 

There was no division between living and earning a livelihood, there 

was no division between intellectual work and practical work, there 

was no division between man’s work and woman’s work and there 

was no division between home and office. 1 felt particularly happy 

that we were bringing up the children together. 

Growing up in this kind of shared experience, Maya was an 

extremely happy baby. Bringing her up was not a burden for us. 

By now Mukti was big enough to come with me to bring the cow 

in from the field and stay with me while I was milking. He was 

also big enough to entertain and amuse Maya. Unaware of any 

shadows over their existence, they grew up among trees, animals 

and fields. I always encouraged them to climb trees, which is the 

best way to stretch children’s bodies; to be adventurous and fearless, 

and to learn to value the significance of trees in nature. Even an 

occasional fall from a tree was a good experience for Mukti and 

Maya. Their bodies seemed to be relaxed and they fell like ripe 

fruit! 

* 5 <> 

MAYA 

Our children helped to bring us in contact with our neighbours. 

Ihr Welsh and English neighbours alike took interest in our chil¬ 

dren, particularly when Mukti started to go to a school where all 

subjects were taught in Welsh. Our Welsh neighbours, as well as the 

school teachers, willingly and eagerly helped him along. 

Since mukti was beginning to learn Welsh, June and 1 also 

decided to learn. Dyfed and Robin a were enthusiastic supporters of 

1 he Welsh language. Robina was from Sussex, and since she married 

Dyfed she had become a fluent Welsh speaker. They kindly and 

generously agreed to come to our home and give us a weekly Welsh 

lesson without charge. This was a wonderful offer; a number of our 

friends cook this chance of getting together, not only to learn Welsh 

but also to celebrate Welsh culture. 

Dyfed and Robina were not only enthusiastic but also extremely 

skilled teachers. They combined words with stories, with songs and 

with practical examples. When they wanted to teach us words about 

gardening we would go to the garden and identify plants and veg¬ 

etables with direct learning methods and without the use of English; 

similarly we would go in the kitchen and learn from everything there 

directly. We made very little use of books. 

Sally and John Seymour with their son Dai came regularly, and so 

did a number of others. Brian and Inger Johns, who had given up a 

comfortable and secure university life to live a simpler one of partial 

self-sufficiency, combining manual labour with intellectual pursuits, 

also came. Through learning Welsh together, we developed a dose 

friendship with them. Although Brian and Inger had given up many 

of the mod cons which they had possessed in Durham, they still had 

their washing machine, so we bartered milk from our cow for the 

washing of clothes. This is only one of many examples of the benefits 

of our Welsh language class. 

Dyfed and Robina were also involved with the adult education 

programme run by the local county council, so they asked me to 

teach a yoga class for which 1 was paid £8.00 an hour. This was 

another circle of friends, who were interested in Indian philosophy, 

religion and culture. There was some overlap between the two clas¬ 

ses and it was exciting to discover some similarities between Celtic 

Wales and Sanskrit India. Many people like us had moved away 

NO DESTINATION 

f 

from the cities, the attraction being not only the idyllic rural life, but 

also to the deeper values which are found in traditional Indian and 

Celtic cultures; for example, a belief that all life, not only human life, 

is sacred. Land and mountains are sacred, therefore our relationship 

with nature should be that of reverence and not of exploitation. One 

of the principal Vpanishads states that every tree, every river, every 

mountain, every blade of grass, what you see and what you don’t 

see, all and everything is the abode of the gods. You are a guest 

in the home of the gods. They have provided you with abundance. 

You are invited to make yourself at.home, and to take what you 

really need but not to waste or squander anything; to consume 

with consideration for the other guests of this great house and also 

remember the generations of guests who will come after you. 

This Indian philosophy and way of thinking compares well with 

the concepts of the Celts. The Celtic saints communicated with the 

fishes of the sea and the creatures of the land and considered them 

as members of the mysterious divine family. 

The group which came together to learn Welsh and yoga also 

shared this world view. This community of kindred spirits gave us 

a tremendous sense of belonging and therefore when we started to 

look for a new home our hearts were torn between staying in this 

area and finding a home elsewhere. 

The £9,000 WE received as compensation money was not 

enough to buy a house to accommodate ourselves and Resurgence. 

June’s mother, who was livingon a very small pension, came forward 

and offered her entire savings of £4,000. Also a touching gesture 

came from Brian and Inger Johns, who promised to invest £5,000 

in our new property. A similar gesture of generosity and support 

came from Jon Wynne-Tyson, an author and reader of Resurgence 

who made £2,000 available as an investment. Still all this amounted 

to only £21,000; not enough to obtain a house which would meet 

all our needs. 

We started to look for a house near the Centre for Alterna¬ 

tive Technology, Machynlleth in North Wales. Gerard Morgan- 

Grenville, the founder and the then Chairman of the Centre was very 

keen for us to join forces with the work of the Centre. He thought 

that Resurgence could act as an informal organ of the alternative 

151 

MAYA 

technology and ecology movement, emanating from the Quarry. So 

we went to meet the people involved and discuss the possibilities of 

our co-operation. 

I was impressed by this visit. Gerard and his team of mostly young 

people were working on an adventurous, idealistic and pioneering 

project. In this age of fossil-fuel dependency, here were a group of 

visionaries who were researching and developing renewable energy 

resources. Their windmills were pumping water, their solar panels 

were hearing water, their house insulation methods made space 

heating almost unnecessary. Thousands of visitors were pouring in 

to see the energy of the future in the making. 

We went around looking for a house which we could acquire, 

but everything was expensive and nothing was suitable. Also, even 

though I was greatly interested in the activities of the Centre, 1 was 

reluctant to make any arrangements by which Resurgence might lose 

its total editorial independence. 

When we returned from our visit to Machynlleth, 1 received an 

invitation from Maurice Ash, Chairman of Dartington Hall Trust, 

to visit him in South Devon. In fact, Maurice had invited me earlier 

but I could not accept his invitation as I had taken a vow that I 

would not leave Wales for a year. Now I was delighted to receive a 

second invitation. I had always been fascinated by what I had heard 

of Dartington and its connection with Rabindranath Tagore. 

Maurice Ash and John Lane, a Dartington Trustee, gave me a 

warm-welcome and spent a large part of their day showing me 

around this eight-hundred-acre estate with magnificent medieval 

buildings and a variety of thriving businesses, which had been estab¬ 

lished by Dorothy and Leonard Elmhirst in the twenties. Leonard, a 

young Yorkshireman, married Dorothy, an American heiress. Both 

were inspired by the ideals of the great poet, artist and education¬ 

alist, Rabindranath Tagore. The Elmhirsts warned to establish a 

centre for rural regeneration, artistic excellence and progressive 

education. So they acquired dilapidated buildings and a run-down 

estate and with great imagination and dedication restored it to its 

present glory. 

However, after the death of the founders it seemed to me that the 

Trust had lost some of its vision. It was difficult to find the soul 

of Dartington beyond the splendid gardens, amazing art collection 

i53 

no destination 

and successful businesses. Maurice himself was fully aware of this 

loss of spirit and was trying to bring about a renewal of its former 

idealism and make the Trust activities responsive to the crisis of 

modern times. 

He said that for him. Resurgence represented that kind of inspi¬ 

ration which he felt Dartington needed. 'Resurgence embodies the 

free spirit, it does not have dogmas, it does not claim to have found 

all the answers; the sense of uncertainty and inquiry is its strength. 

In this age which is bewitched by language, Resurgence represents 

the search for meaning. This is refreshing and I would like to see 

Resurgence go from strength to strength.’ This was music to my 

ears, especially coming from Maurice, who uses words sparingly 

and is perhaps one of the most profound philosophers of the envi¬ 

ronmental movement. 

Soon our discussion moved to practical matters. When I told him 

about our predicament and the need to find a home for Resurgence 

as well as ourselves, Maurice said, Dartington Hall Trust is largely 

limited to activities in Devon. Therefore if you were to find a suitable 

house in Devon, the Trust could help you . 1 This offer was made in the 

spirit of friendship with no strings attached. 

John Lane immediately said, ‘Why don’t you come with me to 

North Devon, stay in my house in Beaford and see whether you 

can find a suitable property there? North Devon is quite similar to 

where you are in Wales . 1 I happily agreed. John*drove me, pass¬ 

ing through Ashburton, over the Dart river, and then we were on 

Dartmoor: wild, rugged and stunning. Looking around the chang¬ 

ing landscape it suddenly seemed ideal to come and live in the 

neighbourhood of this moor. The hills and streams and andcnt 

woodlands of Dartmoor struck me, and released me from my attach¬ 

ment to Wales. 

John and Truda Lane are artists in every sense of the word. John 

paints, Truda sketches, draws and illustrates, but more than this 

formal pursuit of the arts, art is a way of life for them. Every activity, 

every movement, every chore is done with grace and elegance. Their 

kitchen, their dining table, their food, are all a work of art. Moreover 

for them, human relationships themselves are an art. 

I liked Dartington, I liked Dartmoor, I liked Devon and I found in 

Maurice and John a great source of strength and friendship. Now 

MAYA 

the only thing that remained was to find a suitable house. John 

and I went to all the major estate agents and looked at a score of 

properties, but nothing took my fancy. After two or three days of 

searching we gave up momentarily as I had to return to Wales, but 

I asked John to keep looking for me and to let me know if a suitable 

house came on the market. I returned to Wales. 

John Moat also lived in North Devon. He had been writing a 

regular humorous column in Resurgence y so when he heard from 

John Lane that I was contemplating moving to North Devon and 

looking for a house, he joined in the search. Within a few days he 

wrote to me, ‘What good news that you and June might come to live 

in our neighbourhood! There are two unspoilt cosy cottages, with 

outbuildings and nine acres of paddock, in Woolsery. If you*would 

like to come and see them you will be most welcome to stay with 

us in our house.’ John also enclosed the estate agent’s description 

and a photo of the cottages. It was May 1979 .1 said to June, ‘It is 

your birthday month and therefore a time of high energy for you. 

1 have seen North Devon and I like it. This time you go and see 

what you think. 1 

June had not had the experience of meeting Maurice, travelling 

over Dartmoor and staying with the Lanes. She was reluctant to 

leave Wales but at the same time my enthusiasm for Devon was 

sufficient to persuade her to make at least one trip. 

June went with Maya, now eighteen months old. The Woolsery 

cottages did not impress her, John and Antoinette had collected 

information about a number of other houses. Ford House in 

Hartland among them. But John considered this house unsuitable 

as it was very close to the village. Hartland is a conservative, 

traditional Devon village with a strong sense of its own identity 

and an unwillingness to have this diluted by outsiders. It does not 

find it easy to welcome strangers from other parts of England, never 

mind someone from as far away as India. 

However, the next morning John said to June, ‘We will leave a 

little early and on our way to the station I will show you Ford 

House . 1 When June saw the house she said to John, i think this 

house is worth considering. Satish would like it , 1 

June and Maya returned to Wales and described the house to me. 

It sounded good. June had also warmed to North Devon. I phoned 

*54 

15s 

NO DESTINATION 

John Moat and John Lane and they encouraged me to come and see 

the house myself as soon as possible since it was to be auctioned the 

following week. 

I lost no time. 1 was on the train to Barnstaple, where I was met 

by John Lane. John Moat was waiting for us at the Anchor Inn, 

Hard and. The three of us walked down to see the house. Tarmac 

courtyard, an eighteenth century stone-built Devon longhouse, 

slightly run down, no central heating, not modernized, a one and 

a half acre field with a running stream—everything as I wanted itl 

Mrs Willoughby, the owner of the house, was expecting us. She had 

lit the fire, which was in an old inglenook with a traditional doam 

oven. It is becoming rare these days to find such an open fireplace. We 

exchanged information while sitting by the fire. Not only my body 

warmed up but my heart was warmed too. After showing us various 

rooms of the house she took us into the kitchen where there was a 

solid-fuel-fired Aga, exactly like the one we were using in Wales. 

This fully insulated and effident cast-iron stove, designed by a blind 

Swedish engineer, is perfect for cooking, baking, heating water and 

keeping the kitchen warm. June alwayscalls it mother Aga, the living 

fire smouldering continuously in the heart of the house. The open 

fire and the Aga convinced me fully that this was the house where I 

would like to live. As we came out, John Moat greeted the nextdoor 

neighbour, Henry Conibear, a blacksmith-smallholder who shoes 

horses, fashions and repairs farm tools, keeps a cow and a horse 

and makes hay by hand. What a good neighbour to have ! We 

walked back to the Anchor Inn. ‘The house is neither in the village 

nor very far from it/ I reflected, ‘and this would be an advantage 

from Resurgence’s point of view. We need above all quick access 

to a Post Office. There is even a branch of Barclays Bank which 

opens one and a half hours per week.’ ‘The cashier sits behind a 

round table beside an open fire, the small safe sits on the floor with 

its door wide open, and the customers sit comfortably on a row of 

chairs along one wall. There are no counters or security barriers/ said 

John Moat. ‘And Resurgence has an account with Barclays, so it will 

suit us fine/1 said. 

15 6 

Chapter Ten 

Hartland 

T 'he two JOHNS and i ordered a drink at the bar of the 

Anchor Inn, and talked about the house. I could fed a sense 

of trepidation in John Moat’s voice. Although he was happy with 

the house itself, he was slightly concerned about the likely reaction 

of the village. John Lane said, ‘Wherever you go in North Devon 

some people are bound to have reservations about outsiders. This 

is a fact of life for those who decide to live in rural areas. If you like 

the house you should go for it.’ There was no more to be said. 

I stayed With the Moats. The first thing I did was to phone 

Maurice Ash. ‘Maurice, we have found the house. The two Johns 

and l like it. The estate agent’s suggested price is £35,000. We 

will need an investment of £15,000 from Dartington Hall Trust/ 

Maurice was sympathetic and promised to phone me back after 

consulting his fellow Trustees. He talked with John Lane, Chris 

Zealley and others over the telephone. Within half an hour he rang 

me back to say that the Trust would be prepared to invest up to 

£15,000. Everything was going my way. 

It was a Saturday and die auction was to take place the following 

Tuesday. ‘There is no point in you travelling back to Wales—you 

are welcome to stay with us/ said Antoinette. That made sense 

and I phoned June to let her know that I would be staying for 

the auction. 

John and Antoinette live at Crenham Mill, a stone’s throw from 

the Atlantic coast. They b ay c thirty-six acres including an ancient 

oak woodland. Their walled garden was filled with magnolias, 

wisteria, flowering cherries, clematis, roses and all the flowers of 

early summer. The colours were a feast for my eyes. The garden was 

nature’s poem: a piece of paradise, a perfect place for the poet and 

his wife, who tended it lovingly. 

i57 

NO DESTINATION 

Every morning John left the house and went to his writing hut 

in the woods. Now I knew where he wrote his Didymus page for 

Resurgence. His satirical column was always hilariously funny and 

full of wit—it livened the otherwise serious and sombre Resurgence . 

Tuesday, the day of the auction, came. Accompanied by John and 

Antoinette, I arrived at Tantons Hotel in Bideford. This was my first 

ever experience of an auction and 1 was feeling somewhat nervous 

and anxious. Fortunately John and Antoinette sat on either side of 

me. The room was rather empty: there were only two other bidders 

and a few onlookers, the vendor and her friends. On the stroke of 

eleven, the auctioneer from Kivells read the terms and conditions 

of the auction and invited us to bid. Someone started with £30,000. 

John prompted me to join in so I nodded at the auctioneer and he 

announced my bid as £31,000. Bids continued to rise by £1,000 until 

my bid of £35,000. At that figure the bidding stopped and the auc¬ 

tioneer proclaimed ‘Thirty-five thousand, one, thirty-five thousand, 

two, thirty-five thousand, three.’ He looked around the room and 

seeing no further bids he said, ‘Mr Kumar has the house.’ To my 

amazement everything was over within ten minutes. I appointed a 

solicitor from Torrington to complete the deal, gave him the ten per 

cent deposit, and signed the necessary papers there and then. 

The Moats and I came out of the hotel highly excited and happy. 

We went to a restaurant for lunch and celebrated the event with a 

bottle of champagne. As we toasted the success of Resurgence in 

Hartland, John said, *1 know how expensive it is to move house, to 

make the necessary repairs and pay the legal fees so we would like 

to make a gift of £2,000 to Resurgence for this purpose.’ 1 was very 

moved by this kind and generous gift. 

In the afternoon John said, ‘I would like to introduce you to a very 

dear friend of mine, John Jeffery. He is a stalwart of Hartland: he 

runs the village grocery shop, is a professional bird photographer, 

and a man of profound literary and cultural taste. He will be a good 

introduction to Hartland for you.’ 

At the foot of the cliffs, by die ruins of the medieval harbour, is the 

Hartland Quay Hotel. In the bar I met John Jeffrey. For the first time 

I talked with a man who spoke Devon English. I knew the difficulty 

of being an outsider and coming to live in Hartland so 1 said to Mr 

Jeffrey, I need your help. I am coming to live in your care. Today I 

158 

HARTLAND 

have bought a house in your village.’ ‘Yes, I heard from John, in fact, 

the house you have bought used to be in our family. It is a happy 

house and I wish you well. If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask. ’ 

This was a heartening beginning. John Jeffrey bought me a drink and 

introduced me to a number of other Hartlanders present in the pub. 

On THE last day of July we hired a small removal van. Packing 

was painless. We had only a small number of possessions; back 

issues of Resurgence and our family belongings all fitted in, and what 

did not, we gave away. Our friend, philosopher and guide for the last 

three years, John Seymour, offered to drive us to Devon since neither 

June nor I had a driving licence. John had brought us to Pentre If an 

and now with many regrets, was driving us away. 

By the time we reached the outskirts of Swansea, the van came to a 

total standstill. We could not think what the problem was: the gauge 

to the diesel tank appeared to be full. We phoned the Automobile 

Association—the modern-day guardian angels of motorists. As we 

waited for the AA man, storm clouds gathered and soon it began 

to rain cats and dogs. In the midst of the thunder and lightning 

we saw a little AA van with its red light flashing. I got out of our 

van and waved to him. After checking the engine, the clutch, the 

gears and various other parts he looked at the diesel gauge which 

showed the tank totally empty. ‘My goodness, how do you expect 

to drive a van on an empty tank?’ Wc suddenly realized we had 

been looking at the wrong gauge. ‘And you know what’ said the 

man, ‘there is a shortage of diesel at the moment and very little of 

it in this area, so don’t be too surprised if it takes me some time 

to return with diesel for you.’ He disappeared into the pouring 

rain. We waited about half an hour and he came back with two 

gallons of diesel to get us on our way. He said, ‘there’s no point 

in going to the garage where I got this diesel—1 took the last drop. 

I’ll drive ahead of you into the city of Swansea in search of a garage 

which may have diesel.’ He was truly a helpful and kind man. We 

stopped at one garage and had to leave disappointed; we stopped at 

another and again they had no diesel. At last the aa man stopped us 

and said, ‘Here is a garage which has a sufficient supply of diesel. 1 

Third time lucky, I thought. But as we drove in, the roof of our 

van hit the roof of the garage. Fortunately the garage roof was not 

*59 

NO DESTINATION 

damaged, but the roof of our van was badly dented. We filled our 

tank with diesel. 

I had not expected such a rough ride. It was getting late and dark. 

We gave up all hope of reaching Devon that day, so 1 phoned Barbara 

and Herbert Girardet who lived in Tintem, almost on our route. ‘Of 

course you must come. How can you think of passing by without 

seeing us?’ said Barbara. Even though Barbara and Herbert lived 

in a small cottage, they found room for the four of us (Mukti 

was staying with his grandmother), together with four ducks and 

our cat, without a moment’s hesitation. After a day of desperation 

it was a great relief to spend the night in comfort. As soon as Barbara 

received my telephone call she started to cook a special Indian meal. 

By the time we arrived the meal was ready, the table was laid and 

several bottles of wine were waiting for us. 

Our exhaustion and fatigue disappeared without a trace. Barbara 

and Herbert had been our neighbours in London when Herbert was 

a student of anthropology at the London School of Economics 

and Barbara was training to be a weaver. In the first issue of 

Resurgence I edited, I published Herbert’s article on his idea of a 

radial house which would be built from renewable local materials 

and would incorporate a greenhouse and renewable sources of 

energy. Unfortunately, the idea remained on the drawing board, 

but l felt that it was quite a revolutionary design, and that 

Herbert ought to build at least , one such house. But Herbert's 

interests moved on. He had developed a great passion for forests 

in general and rainforests in particular. Also he had become much 

more interested in land use. He edited and published a book on the 

subject, while in the years since they moved from London, Barbara 

had developed her weaving into a fine art. Now she kept her own 

sheep and followed the whole process from shearing, spinning, and 

weaving to tapestry making. We had much to talk about. They 

wanted us to stay on for a day or two, but with the removal van 

standing outside we could not accept their invitation and moved 

on the next morning. 

The rest of the trip to Hartland was uneventful. When we arrived 

at the house we were happily surprised to find a box full of oranges, 

apples, potatoes, onions, carrots and cauliflower—a generous gift 

from John Jeffrey, deposited outside the front door. As we entered 

HARTLAND 

the kitchen there were more gifts, this time a loaf of home-baked 

bread, a bottle of wine, a vase of flowers and a welcome card 

from Antoinette and John Moat. And as we started to unload our 

van, Glen and Paul, grandsons of Henry Conibear came to give 

a hand, and Henry’s daughter Barbara brought a tray of tea and 

Welsh cakes. My fears that an outsider would find Hartland cold 

and unwelcoming vanished. 

I realized that die idea of an outsider makes people close up. There 

is a fear of the unknown, but when they meet an outsider face to 

face, humanity triumphs. 1 could feel a sense of relief and joy .Having 

friends like the Moats and the Lanes living close to Hartland and 

neighbours like the Jefferies and Conibears made me feel a sense of 

homecoming. 

It was AUGUST 1979, my birthday month as well as the month 

of Sanvatsari—the great Jain festival of forgiveness. During this 

month, all Jains celebrate the annual event of total reconciliation 

by forgiving and begging forgiveness of all creatures. This I had 

been taught, as a way of healing wounded relationships. If I had 

harmed any man or woman, any animal or plant, I begged their for¬ 

giveness. If I had, knowingly or unknowingly, shown any disrespect 

or disregard for humans and non-humans, I sought their forgiveness. 

Through this act I retrieve all my offensive and careless thoughts, 

words and deeds. In a similar spirit if I had been hurt by anyone in 

any way, I forgave them totally and utterly. I declared my friendship 

with all beings, I had no enemy. 

Remembering this practice I reflected on my relationship with 

Peggy Hemming. I had been upset and unsettled by her decision 

to disband our community in Wales but as I looked back I real* 

ized that she had been a blessing in disguise. She had been an 

instrument of change in my life and I was grateful. Without herj 

would I have moved out of London? Difficult to imagine. She 

came into my life for such a short spell, but changed it funda* 

mentaUy. She made me stand on my own feet and find my own 

solutions. She acted like a strong mother and forced me not to be 

dependent on her. My bitterness began to dissolve. It was not so 

much a case of forgiveness but of understanding her actions and 

being thankful. 

NO DESTINATION 

Soon after our arrival in Hartland 1 met a retired farmer walking 

by Ford House. He said, ‘Good morning to.you/ After I acknowl¬ 

edged his greetings, he looked at me with a certain surprise. Are 

you the new owner of Ford?’ he enquired. ‘Yes, we moved here only 

a few days ago/ ‘Welcome then/ he said. After a few moments pause 

he asked, ‘Which church do you belong to? Church of England or 

Free Church?’ 1 was taken aback. Certainly I was not Church of 

England. Perhaps I could be considered Free Church. ‘Free Church/ 

1 replied. I hoped this was a polite answer. ‘Which Free Church?’ he 

pursued. Now J was in a bit of a fix. I took courage into my hands 

and answered, ‘Jain.’ After a moment’s thought he said, Tm afraid 

we don’t have one of those in Hartland, but I am Wesley Heard, 1 

play the organ in the Methodist Chapel. If you would like to come 

to our chapel you will be most welcome.’ 

This was an unexpected encounter. I was overwhelmed by the 

simplicity and generosity of Mr Heard. He showed me the open 

heart of Hartland. This brief meeting on the road sowed the seeds 

of a lasting friendship. He kept his chickens and grew his vegetables 

in fields opposite ours so we saw Kim often. Whenever I went away 

he milked our cow and kept an eye on the house. He advised us 

where we could buy hay and straw and generally helped us out from 

time to time. 

One day he said, 4 I went to London once. That was on our 

honeymoon. Ill never go again. 1 am happy in Hartland. I have 

never been tempted in a plane or across the ocean/ ‘That is alright 

for you,’ I replied ‘as you were bom in Hartland, but I had to walk 

all round the world to find Hartland.’ 

Another day he told me how we came to be called Wesley. ‘After 

my birth, my father rode fifteen miles on horseback to Bideford and 

registered my name as John Heard. He rode back the same day. On 

arriving home he told my mother “I registered our son, John, as we 

agreed, but I wish we’d called him Wesley.” My mother ordered him 

to ride back straight away and register me as Wesley. So my father 

did. The registrar said, “1 can’t change what is already written in the 

register, but I can add Wesley to John.” And so he ad. And from that 

moment I have always been known as Wesley/ ‘Your poor father. 

He had to ride sixty miles to give you the right name!’ ‘But then he 

was a strong man, and a man of strong belief/ Wesley was absolutely 

HARTLAND 

i ighi. Unfortunately our modem living has taken away our strength, 

both physical and mental. Also the analytical and rational mind has 

diluted, if not completely destroyed, our faith. Wesley himself is a 

living example of the qualities his father had. Hartland has many 

people still continuing that tradition of using their own resources 

of body and spirit, rather than depending on-external resources; but 

%uch people are now a threatened species. 

People who have been highly educated, who are well-read, well- 

travelled, successful and have a high living standard, often consider 

country folk uncultured and a little stupid. This is the arrogance 

of the urban mind. I felt envious of Wesley’s uncomplicated and 

unstressful existence. 

Colin Tiffany was a graphic designer who came regularly from 

Lampeter to Pentre Ifan to design Resurgence. He enjoyed work¬ 

ing for Resurgence so much that he continued to travel down to 

Devon every two months. On his first trip to Ford House, he bor¬ 

rowed a horse-box and drove our cow, Radha, and her calf, Hazel, 

down co us. 

Mv daily routine was not complete until Radha and Hazel 

arrived. No wonder the Hindus consider cows holy—they are such 

wonderful companions and guardians of the health of human beings, 

and that of the soil. They live simply on grass but provide us with 

milk and manure and above all, for me, Radha was a supreme 

teacher of rhythmic breathing and prolonged meditation. She was 

also a teacher of the art of giving. The daily routine of milking was an 

unpretentious, spiritual practice for me. As I milked, I experienced 

her ability to relax completely. One cow at home as a member of the 

family is utterly different from the modem practice of mechanized 

milk production. In such a situation cows are no longer individual 

animals, partners in life, but are reduced to being walking milk 

machines. Cattle-farming for beef is unquestionably an ecological 

disaster. When Hindus worship the holy cow they have in mind the 

cow’s qualities of patience, calm, the giving of oneself like a mother, 

and nurturing the land. The cow is a symbol of the animal kingdom. 

For Hindus, all animals are holy. In the same way, the Ganges is a 

symbol of all rivers; all rivers are holy. Mount Kailash is a symbol 

of all mountains; all mountains are holy. The entire natural world 

NO DESTINATION 

is holy. The role of religion and religious teachers is to help peopJe 

to look at the world and see the sacred within it. 

The western world has recognized the importance of human rights 

and the sanctity of human life. It accepts that human life has intrinsic 

value, but Hindus and many other Eastern traditions have gone 

much further and recognized the intrinsic value of all life and the 

sanctity of nature. Darwinian theory creates a false notion that 

human beings are at the pinnacle of evolution and are superior 

to other forms of life; as a result, scientists, economists and indus¬ 

trialists are bent on conquering nature, subduing it and making it 

-serve human beings. This linear development contrasts with the 

traditional wisdom of India where the life force is seen as moving 

in circles, where human beings after death can be reborn as animals, 

birds or trees. Similarly, animals, birds and trees can be reborn in 

human form. Life does not end in death. We should be aware that 

we will be coming back to this world and therefore we should not 

poison or pollute it so that when we return to this world in our next 

life, we find it as habitable and beautiful as when we left it. Because 

today's human being may be tomorrow’s cow and today’s cow may 

be tomorrow’s human being, the sanctity of human life and animal 

life is inseparable. Living with Radha and Hazel prevented me from 

forgetting this tradition. 

Also my early morning appointment with Radha was a form of 

meditation. Meditation can take many forms. On the one hand 

you can find a quiet place and sit cross-legged, with closed eyes, 

and chant a holy mantra or you can watch your breathing and 

heighten your awareness of your physical, emotional and mental 

state. On the other hand, you can transform an activity of daily 

life into meditation by being totally mindful, fully present, and 

completely engaged in the activity itself. For me, milking was such 

a meditation. 

When I started to milk my mind would stop. Memories of the past 

and plans for the future would come to a standstill. I was only aware 

of the cow, her breathing, my breathing, and the sound of the milk 

hitting the bucket. My body would totally relax and I would fall into 

a timeless trance. 

Chapter Eleven The Small School 

H art land was, in my view, almost self-sufficient as a 

village. Its 1,410 inhabitants included farmers, builders, a 

Inker, a blacksmith, a chair-maker, a cabinetmaker, two pot- 

Irm, dressmakers, printers, a typesetter, two doctors, a dentist, an 

Ai couiuant and a hairdresser; there were three churches, three pubs, 

l wo garages, two cafes, two part-time banks, a newsagent-cum-sub- 

ftmt Office; and even a newspaper, The Hartland Times. In effect, 

there was everything essential for the community. 

Hartland Primary School is an excellent example of how the 

children of a community should be cared for and educated, but it 

mtvcs only children aged from five to eleven. Until 1961 , the village 

had a school which educated children from five to sixteen years of 

age, with 198 pupils. But people who believed more in the economics 

of scale than in the vitality of the community and the future of its 

children, closed the secondary part of the school in spite of strong 

local opposition. This has been the fate of small secondary schools 

throughout Britain. 

This* closure caused Hartland children to be widely scattered 

among other schools. Some went to Bideford Comprehensive, oth¬ 

ers went out of the county and into the comprehensive at Bude 

in Cornwall; and others went to private schools outside the vil¬ 

lage. So the children of one village community were uprooted and 

divided. 

Some of my friends were deeply concerned about this state of 

affairs. Seeing their children travel one hour in the morning and 

one hour in the evening in unsupervised buses was disturbing. It 

was as if, for their children, a commuter’s life started at the age of 

eleven, and this was particularly irritating for those of us who had 

moved to the village because we ourselves disliked commuting and 

valued the village way of life. 

NO DESTINATION 

Removing children from the village on a daily basis not only 

wasted a considerable amount of their time—thirty-eight school 

weeks a year means they travelled on 190 days of the year, two 

hours a day, which is three hundred and eighty hours spent on a 

bus—but it also gave children the idea that the village was not good 

enough for them as it could not provide the necessary education, and 

when they finished their education it would hot provide them with 

work. So they were being led to believe that being bom in a village 

was some sort of a handicap. 

And was this travelling worth it? Devon Education Authority was 

spending £6,000,000 a year to take village children to town and city 

schools. The Department of Education in London had once stated 

that a 1600-pupil school was an ideal size. No one knows how they 

arrived at this magic number. Did they think that by crowding more 

teachers and pupils together they would achieve higher standards of 

education? All these educational bureaucrats live in cities and have 

little understanding of rural requirements. 

The more 1 heard and the more I thought about these questions, 

the more I became concerned and worried about the education 

of my own children. Am I going to send Mukti and Maya to a 

school of 1,600 children? Such a large school brings inner-city-type 

problems to a country town and subjects the village children to 

problems of drug abuse and drug pushing, violence and vandalism, 

bullying, indiscipline, shoplifting and sometimes even sexual abuse, 

in a situation where it is difficult for teachers to know even the names 

of the children let alone the names of their parents and their family 

backgrounds. 

One teacher of a comprehensive school said to me that because 

of the size of the school and the classes, she had been reduced to 

becoming an administrator and child-minder rather than a teacher 

of creative and inspirational quality. This sent shivers down ray spine 

and ! said to myself that it was no good cursing the darkness, let 

us light a candle. We can criticize the educational system until the 

cows come home and nothing will change. If we set an example of 

a good school and show that it is possible to provide high standards 

of education in a village community, then we will be in a better 

position to campaign and convince the authorities to stop closing 

small schools and help in the creation of new ones. 

THE SMALL SCHOOL 

It- was February 5TH, 1982 when a friend dropped in at our 

house and in passing mentioned that the Methodist Sunday School 

was up for auction. June and I had just returned from India, where 

we had seen dedicated people engaged in village work and especially 

in education. We were inspired by the recent memory of those 

Indian projects. 

The auction was on February 16th. If ever we were to put our 

idea of starting a village secondary school into practice, this was the 

time. We went to see the building: two large halls, a small room, a 

garden, toilets and adjacent to it a two-bedroomed cottage, to be 

auctioned as one lot. 

Ideas started to explode, discussions got going. February r 6th 

arrived. The auction was at 3.00 p.m. The lunchtime conversation 

was entirely taken up by the debate as to how much money could 

be bid. This was a somewhat academic question as in reality we 

had no money. The conclusion was that we should go to the auction 

and at least see what happened. If there was anyone from the village 

wishing to buy the property for a dwelling, then we should not bid 

against them. Secondly, although we had no money at the time, we 

might be able to raise £20,000. Therefore that figure should be 

our final limit. 

With some friends, I arrived at the New Inn Hotel in Bideford. 

The hall was packed with Hartland people, which made us think 

there would be many bidders and we might not have a chance. The 

auctioneer read the terms and conditions and invited bids for a lease 

of 5,000 years. I thought that he must have made a mistake and he 

must mean 500 years, but no, it was 5,000. 

A local builder started the bidding. His plan was to convert the 

property for resale. To my surprise no one challenged him. I waited 

and looked round, the auctioneer was calling, ‘Is there any other bid? 

The property is going at £13,000.’ At that point I raised my head 

for £14,000. No one else joined the race. The builder and I kept 

going. When the builder’s bid reached £19,000 I paused, thinking 

that the opposition was determined. However I was encouraged by 

my accompanying friends to make my final offer and this time I 

offered £20,000—and at £20,000 it stayed. The auctioneer invited 

the other bidder to come up with £500 more, £250 more, £100 more, 

but no, he was nor willing to advance any further and the property 

166 

r67 

NO DESTINATION 

THE SMALL SCHOOL 

was bought for the School. Of course I had no money even for the 

deposit. So Resurgence made a temporary loan of the necessary 

ten per cent. 

In the following issue of Resurgence I included an urgent letter 

inviting readers to buy a share of £2,000 in the property or make a 

donation to Resurgence to enable it to buy a share. The response was 

terrific. We needed ten shareholders and we got eleven. The eleventh 

amount of £2,000 enabled us to carry out basic repairs. 

We went searching for a teacher. The applications came in from all 

over the country but the right man was in Hardand itself. Michael 

Nix, who had been a teacher at our primary school but had given 

up the job in order to start the Museum at HartJand Quay, an^ who 

wrote books on local history, seemed the most suitable candidate. 

He had been in the village for eleven years, knew the parents, had 

taught most of the children and had covered with his feet almost 

every inch of the land of the parish. For a small school which is set 

up to focus on the community and the village, who could be a better 

teacher than him? 

Now we had the building and the teacher but what about the 

children ? Some of the parents who supported the school did not have 

children of the right age. Others wanted to send their children, but 

the children themselves did not want to come because their friends 

were going to other schools. Still others who were dissatisfied with 

the big schools did not like to risk sending their children to a 

school which was still an unknown quantity. ‘Would it ever start, 

and would it start this year?’ was the question. 

Two sets of parents were most eager to see the school begin that 

autumn. Anna and Ian Morrison gave me a contribution of £100 for 

their son Adam, several months in advance, to show their faith and 

commitment Adam was having to leave home at 7.30 a.m., walk to 

- ^ picking-up point, take a bus part of the way and then change to 

another, in order to be at school by nine. Once at school, he had to 

carry his books and football gear all day. By the time he arrived home 

in the evening, repeating the morning journey, he was so exhausted 

he could sleep on the spot. 

For Anna Morrison, the problem of educating children in large 

schools was not new. When one of her nephews was left behind in 

mathematics, she asked the mathematics teacher if he could spare 

168 

tunic extra time to help the bdy to catch up with some mathematics 

hr hud missed through changing schools. The teacher’s answer was 

ttraight and simple: ‘I have forty children in the class and I cannot 

give upccial attention to any particular child.’ When she talked to the 

headmaster about Adam’s long day due to bussing, he replied that 

quite a few children bussed in from the villages are sent to his office in 

tram in their first year. Because of this kind of experience the concept 

nl ihc Small School in the village was most attractive to her. She was 

hum and bred in Hardand and has a younger child Justin who later 

< mnc to the Small School. 

Once Adam enrolled others came forward, and before long nine 

children from Hartland had formed the pioneer class of this new 

tell no). 

On September 7th, when the school term began in Devon, we 

opened the School. A Guardian reporter, Wendy Berliner, came 

Mi witness the first day and wrote under an ejght column banner 

headline ‘Nine village children get a school of their own.’ Other 

newspapers and radio stations also reported the opening. 

Although we had only one full-time teacher we had a strong team 

of part-timers. The subjects taught included French, rural sciences, 

biology, chemistry, physics, history, creative writing, pottery, fine 

arts, drama, folk songs, music, cookery, and gardening. By drawing 

on the community for our teachers, we were like traditional schools; 

these local teachers were not full-time, and only some of them had 

undergone teacher-training, but all of them were very happy to 

pass on some of their skill and experience to the children of their 

community, many of whom they already knew. And for the children, 

these adults were examples of how it was possible to earn one’s living 

in a great variety of ways. 

I believed that the school should be an extension of home and 

the relationships between teachers and pupils should be one of 

friendship and not of fear. One way to achieve this homely atmo¬ 

sphere was to involve children in the preparation of their midday 

meal. This worked extremely wfell and continues to this day. Two 

children, with the help of an adult, cook wholesome, vegetarian 

lunches. Cooking the lunch became a lesson in domestic science 

and nutrition. Children and adults laying the table, saying grace, 

clearing away and washing-up together strengthened the feeling of 

169 

NO DESTINATION 

the school as a community where each individual was served and 

supported by others. 

From the very beginning I was determined that the Small School 

should be non-fee-paying and be open to everybody from the local¬ 

ity. It should not be a privilege for those who can afford to pay, as 

happens in the public school system. Eventually, my aim was to 

convince the local education authority and the central government to 

finance the Small School as happens with such schools in Denmark, 

Holland and some other European countries. In the meantime, 1 

planned to approach charitable trusts, asking them to make a grant 

towards the salaries of the teachers. 

I purchased a Directory of Grant-making Trusts and sat down 

every evening marking those which seemed most likely to be inter¬ 

ested in supporting our educational venture. I made a list of one 

hundred of them. 

Jill Christie, who had come with me to the auction, gave invalu- ' 

able support and encouragement in every aspect of the school. In 

particular she typed one hundred letters to these charities for me— 

a labour of love. Out of these one hundred letters, I received ninety- 

nine polite refusals but the hundredth answer was from the Ernest 

Cook Trust. Their aim was to support education in rural areas, 

which fitted in well with our work. Three trustees came to visit me 

to find out more about our aims and the precise nature of our school. 

Jill Christie and Michael Nix joined the discussion. The trustees were 

of the opinion that the closure of rural schools was a mistaken policy 

of the government. And even if village schools were more expensive 

to run, they should be kept open. 1 argued that ‘expensive 1 was a 

relative term if one took into account the cost of transport, the cost 

of repairs due to vandalism, the cost of bringing in supply teachers to. 

replace staff who were ill due to overwork and stress, and the cost of 

providing special education for those who couldn't cope with large 

schools and end up by being psychologically disturbed. 

Even if the trustees did not agree with every detail of my argument, 

they were sufficiently convinced to consider giving us a grant. ‘How 

much do you need? 1 one of them asked. ‘We need a grant of £5,000 

to pay a modest salary to our full-time teacher,' I answered. ‘We will 

discuss your application at our next meeting,’ the trustees assured 

me and left. 

170 

THE SMALL SCHOOL 

Alter about ten days 1 received a letter from the secretary of the 

iMisi saying that the trustees have agreed to give the School £5,000 

h year for two years. It was more than 1 had asked for and I was over 

die moon with delight. 

(xfelin Hodgetts was an old friend. We had worked together in 

rNiahlishmg the London School of Non-Violence in 1968 and we 

had kept in touch ever since. He knew from Resurgence that 1 

had started the School and at that time he read an article in The 

< Guardian by Dr Rhodes Boy son, a Minister of Education, describing 

and supporting the Danish and Dutch systems whereby a group of 

parents can establish their own school and the government will meet 

up to eighty per cent of the cost. 

Colin came down to Hartland with the article. ‘Why don’t you go 

and meet Rhodes Boyson and ask him to put his money where his 

mouth is?’ ‘What a splendid idea!' I said. Colin and 1 together com¬ 

posed a letter to the minister, although we were rather doubtful that 

he would be able to find time to see us. Something about our letter 

must have intrigued him, for his secretary phoned me immediately to 

make an appointment. Together with Colin and Dr James Clarke, I 

went to see the minister in his office at Queen Elizabeth House, near 

Waterloo Bridge. He talked with us for forty minutes and listened to 

our arguments with sympathy and interest but said, ‘1 would like to 

see parents having a greater say in the running of schools and also to 

have the right to establish their own schools, but as the la<v stands 

at the moment, 1 cannot see how the state can finance your school. 

It requires an Act of Parliament, so your best bet for the moment is 

to seek charitable grants and raise public awareness on this issue.’ 

This was a diplomatic answer to our request. We came away 

deeply disappointed. However I said to Colin, it is too much to 

expea success at this stage, it is going to be a long haul and 1 would 

like you to join the campaign for state support of small schools. 

Michael Nix is thinking to leave the Small School at the end of the 

year. We will be looking for a new head teacher. I would very much 

like you to have the job.' 

Colin was somewhat surprised at my suggestion, but said he 

would consider it. He had a contract with Save the Children Fund in 

connection with Vietnamese Refugees and was a Director of Refugee 

Action, but his work was coming to some kind of completion. The 

171 

NO DESTINATION 

suggestion that he might move out of London and engage in a new 

campaign attracted him. 

It was obvious that it would mean less than one third of his present 

income and masses of hard work, but after a certain amount of 

arm-twisting, he was persuaded to apply for the job; and eventually 

he was appointed to be head teacher of the Small School. 

Finding colin was perhaps the single most important action I did 

for the School. He proved to be a competent campaigner, a dedicated 

teacher, a natural leader and a man of many skills. Once Colin was 

appointed, I was freed from the worry of the day-to-day running of 

the School. I was able to limit myself to giving my advice on matters 

of policy as Chairman of the Small School Trust. 

The second most important action of mine was to persuade Kim 

Taylor of The Gulbenkian Foundation and Hugh de Quetteville of 

Sainsbury’s Family Trust to visit the School and agree to make major 

grants which assured the viability of the school for the initial years. 

Gradually the numbers of children grew, the commitment of the 

parents increased, and national publicity gave the School a high 

profile which boosted everyone’s confidence and made me feel that 

the Small School was here to stay. Colin developed a curriculum 

which allocated fifty per cent of the time to academic subjects and 

fifty per cent of the time to creative and practical skills; learning by 

doing became the ethos. For example, every Friday was devoted to 

practical skills like building; the children themselves built an exten¬ 

sion to the school which involved digging the foundations by hand, 

building the walls which were faced with stone, and then doing the 

plastering, carpentry, roofing, plumbing, electricity installation and 

everything else which made the extension a harmonious part of the 

school. It is now used as a workshop. This kind of education made 

me feel deeply satisfied and happy. 

My son Mukti went to the School and was involved in this buil¬ 

ding project. When he left he was competent enough to help a friend 

renovate and old farmhouse during the weekends and holidays, and 

at the same time study for his ‘A’ Levels in mathematics, physics 

and communications. Thus the ability of the Small School to com¬ 

bine academic, practical and creative subjects and educate children 

physically, intellectually and spiritually was demonstrated. 

172. 

Chapter Twelve Pilgrimage: Iona 

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote 

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote , 

... Thannne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. 

The Canterbury Tales 

I T is an Indian tradition that when you are fifty you should 

go on a pilgrimage, so in the summer of 1985 I began thinking 

and planning for a pilgrimage to the holy places of Britain the 

following year. I put a small advertisement in the personal columns 

of Resurgence to see if there were any Resurgence readers who would 

offer me a bed for the night. There was such a tremendous response 

that when I set out I had an offer of hospitality in most of the places 

I was to visit. 

My plan was to start at nine o'clock in the morning and to arrive 

at my host’s house between 4.00 p.m. and 6.00 p.m. in the evening. 

With a few exceptions, 1 aimed at walking every day, covering 

twenty miles per day on average, but a shorter distance for the 

first few days. 

1 started out with a small rucksack, one change of clothes and 

the pair of Polish shoes I had on. 1 took no book, no diary, no 

camera, and as on my earlier walk from India to America, no 

money. Pilgrimage is best when you are travelling light, especially 

if you are walking. 

On 31 st March, Easter Monday, I set off with my family towards 

St Nectan’s Holy Well at Stoke, two miles from Hartland. Two 

local friends, John Jeffery and Wesley Heard, walked with us out 

of Hartland village. I was in my fiftieth year, John in his sixtieth and 

Wesley in his eightieth. Two old Methodists’ they said, and I added 

'Sending off a non-Christian outsider to the holy places of Britain!’ 

i73 

NO DESTINATION 

PILGRIMAGE; IONA 

For me there was no more auspicious place from which to start 

the journey than the Holy Wellof Saint Nectan, the patron saint of 

Hartland. Many hundreds of years ago, St Nectan had to earn his 

living by working on the land and husbanding the cows. One evening 

when it was just getting dark, he saw from his kitchen window that 

two robbers were stealing his cows.'The saint rushed out to stop the 

theft but the robbers were cruel and chopped off his holy head. Saint 

Nectan picked up his head, put it under his arm, walked to the holy 

well and died there. This is the legend 1 was told by a former vicar. 

To reach the well, we walked down a sloping leafy track leading to 

the site. The well itself [see cover photograph] is housed in a domed 

edifice in stone, with a wooden door. I was moved by the song of 

birds as I opened the door. With a touch of water from the spring, 

and goodbye embraces from gathered family and friends, I. began 

my journey. 

Walking through stony bridlepaths, tarmac roads, wet and muddy 

Brownsham Woods and uphill fields to Clovelly, 1 experienced cold 

April showers and a steady wind against me from Bideford Bay. 

I had hardly begun my walk yet my toes were hurting, my feet were 

sore, my shoes and socks were wet. Finding it painful to continue, 

I stopped at the home of Fran and Sarah Sutton, who live in a 

converted chapel at Bucks Mills, exactly on my route. In a cosy 

seat by the fire I collapsed in amazement at myself, wondering how 

I was ever going to walk 1,000 miles when my feet were protesting 

after only ten miles. Is the weather going to be wet and cold all 

the way? But Sarah’s soothing words lifted my spirits. She found a 

healing balm to massage my feet, and hot tea to warm my body. An 

hour’s rest was enough to get me going. Fortunately, I had planned a 

short journey for the first day, which turned out to be a blessing for 

my unfit body. 

The first night I spent at Sloo Cottages, by the sea at Homs 

Cross. The next day my hosts, Terry and Brian, came with me to 

guide me along the coast path to Bideford. As the crow flies, Bideford 

seems dose to Homs Cross, but it is twice as far when walking up 

and down along the cliffs. As 1 walked on, the sight of the vast, deep 

sea raised my spirits. There is as deep a sea within, and my pilgrimage 

felt like the cliff edge from which I should dive into that inner sea. 

Ahrr a night’s rest in Bideford and a walk, accompanied by a local 

HMiMcian, to Barnstaple the next day, 1 experienced a strong fear chat 

I w.n» standing on the cliff edge and wondering whether l would be 

able In |iimp. 

As I progressed through the ups and downs of Exmoor, my knee 

was swollen, my ankle was hurting and my feet were covered with 

Miners. Would I be able to make it? 

On the fifth day I managed to walk from South Molton to 

lUmpton, a stretch of twenty miles. My host for that night, Michael 

I < »lr, lived four miles off my route. So he met me at Bampton church 

■nnl I agreed to go to his house by car. I thought, ‘At last my legs can 

irMl\ hut Michael lives in a deep and secluded Exmoor valley and 

1 hr re fore had to leave his car on the road at the top; I had to drag 

my fret down the very steep, almost non-existent, zig-zagging path. 

Michael’s plan was that an hour or so later a number of his friends 

would gather at the hilltop and so we should walk up again to join 

1 hrtn there to say the Prayer for Peace together. Although I did not 

want to disappoint him, I could not find the strength to go up and 

down that slope again in the same evening. Michael could see my 

desperation and went by himself to ask everyone gathered to come 

down to his house. I felt relieved and put my feet in a bowl of hot 

jilted water, as Michael’s simple farmhouse had no running water 

in entertain the idea of a hot bath. 

From Bampton, another stretch of twenty miles to Taunton was 

un less exhausting. After every few miles I had to sit down and 

apply balm to my feet and arnica to my knee, take a rest, and 

then walk on. 

My Taunton hosts, Carol and Paul Zeal, live in a sumptuous Vic¬ 

torian house. On my arrival my first indulgence was to He and soak in 

,1 hot bath. Carol is a homoeopath; she gave me some remedies and a 

loot massage which revitalised me for the time being. She said ‘Take 

a day’s rest’, but that I could not contemplate. By the next morning 

I k-lt sufficiently strong to set off on the journey again. Later in Wells 

I was treated by Ian Pringle, an acupuncturist, in Mere by a healer, 

and in Salisbury by an osteopath. Every one of them urged me to 

lake a rest but my promise to myself was that I would walk every 

day and if I stopped to give rest to my body, I wondered if I would 

be able to start again. 

174 

75 

NO DESTINATION 

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 

203 

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 

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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 

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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 

NO DESTINATION 

JAPAN 

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