Probably Assisi. I know what has become known as “the Franciscan spirit” is really a later, softer invention or adaptation, but God is still in it. Simplicity, humility, poetry – devotion with a smile and a sense of humour. And optimism too. Despite a radical rejection of riches (and even clothing) at his conversion, there’s no sense of rejection by Francis of the deep goodness of the material world which you get with many other saints. A pilgrimage there would be an affirmation, an encouragement to wonder, to gratitude.
Am I allowed a double espresso and a locally baked pastry along the way? I suppose it depends from which direction I’d be travelling, and how. There are so many art treasures in that part of the world, so a few stops in churches and museums would be nice.
I think I’d go alone. Does that seem strange? Actually, it’s probably not traditional either, as a pilgrimage has usually been about a community finding inspiration in a place together. Maybe I’d meet a saint or two along the way and we could walk silently on the path.
Definitely somewhere comfortable. I don’t seek luxury but would want somewhere clean and quiet. And fear of Brother Mosquito or Sister Rat would stop me from having a restful night.
Rowan Williams’ new book, A Century of Poetry: 100 Poems for Searching the Heart. Poetry is always prayer, even if a poet doesn’t consciously realise it. Maybe some poets even fight against such a concept. When we slow words down, when we take their meaning apart, and open them up, and reach beyond their sense to their spirit, we are calling out to God: in joy, in despair, in complaint, in wonder. The ring of poetry is words as music. If I’ve still got room in my bag, could I take Roger Lipsey’s biography of Dag Hammarskj<strong>ö</strong>ld, too? No one has inspired me more over the past year than this Swede who was the second secretary-general of the United Nations, before dying in 1961 in a plane crash. His profound integrity, intelligence, Christian spirit, depth of insight and compassion I find very moving. And he’s set me on my own inner pilgrimage of thought: the life of a musician as a form of diplomacy. It’s a rich idea which I’m in the process of exploring.
Psalm 23: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
The Our Father. It’s still the best one.
I think my singing voice might dampen rather than raise spirits. But I’d probably be alone anyway so I suppose I could sing something to myself. Maybe I would compose a setting of Psalm 23 as I walked.
In Franciscan spirit I’d just take the birds. My life since childhood has been so blessedly filled with music – playing, listening, composing. But a pilgrimage would be a time to turn aside from it for a while into silence.
A large bar of chocolate!
Gushing showers and lots of strong coffee. But maybe I can find those along the way.
<em>Sir Stephen Hough’s memoir Enough: Scenes from Childhood (Faber & Faber, £18.99) is out now</em>
Probably Assisi. I know what has become known as “the Franciscan spirit” is really a later, softer invention or adaptation, but God is still in it. Simplicity, humility, poetry – devotion with a smile and a sense of humour. And optimism too. Despite a radical rejection of riches (and even clothing) at his conversion, there’s no sense of rejection by Francis of the deep goodness of the material world which you get with many other saints. A pilgrimage there would be an affirmation, an encouragement to wonder, to gratitude.
Am I allowed a double espresso and a locally baked pastry along the way? I suppose it depends from which direction I’d be travelling, and how. There are so many art treasures in that part of the world, so a few stops in churches and museums would be nice.
I think I’d go alone. Does that seem strange? Actually, it’s probably not traditional either, as a pilgrimage has usually been about a community finding inspiration in a place together. Maybe I’d meet a saint or two along the way and we could walk silently on the path.
Definitely somewhere comfortable. I don’t seek luxury but would want somewhere clean and quiet. And fear of Brother Mosquito or Sister Rat would stop me from having a restful night.
Rowan Williams’ new book, A Century of Poetry: 100 Poems for Searching the Heart. Poetry is always prayer, even if a poet doesn’t consciously realise it. Maybe some poets even fight against such a concept. When we slow words down, when we take their meaning apart, and open them up, and reach beyond their sense to their spirit, we are calling out to God: in joy, in despair, in complaint, in wonder. The ring of poetry is words as music. If I’ve still got room in my bag, could I take Roger Lipsey’s biography of Dag Hammarskj<strong>ö</strong>ld, too? No one has inspired me more over the past year than this Swede who was the second secretary-general of the United Nations, before dying in 1961 in a plane crash. His profound integrity, intelligence, Christian spirit, depth of insight and compassion I find very moving. And he’s set me on my own inner pilgrimage of thought: the life of a musician as a form of diplomacy. It’s a rich idea which I’m in the process of exploring.
Psalm 23: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
The Our Father. It’s still the best one.
I think my singing voice might dampen rather than raise spirits. But I’d probably be alone anyway so I suppose I could sing something to myself. Maybe I would compose a setting of Psalm 23 as I walked.
In Franciscan spirit I’d just take the birds. My life since childhood has been so blessedly filled with music – playing, listening, composing. But a pilgrimage would be a time to turn aside from it for a while into silence.
A large bar of chocolate!
Gushing showers and lots of strong coffee. But maybe I can find those along the way.
<em>Sir Stephen Hough’s memoir Enough: Scenes from Childhood (Faber & Faber, £18.99) is out now</em>
