Standing in the shade of an apricot tree in the garden of a house in Caldas de Reis as Mass ended one hot July evening, the words of Bunyan’s hymn ringing in my ears, I began thinking of what it means to be a pilgrim and wondering if it is truly possible to be one. The tune, Monk’s Gate, probably helped, and the view across the river and high up to the church of the martyred St Thomas of Canterbury certainly focused the mind. Bunyan thought that following Our Lord, the Master of his hymn, was of the essence of pilgrimage. For him it began with a vowed intent; it involved persistent discouragement; and it required constant labour. It was in fact our entire life and apparently little to do with what are now generally journeys to places that once were holy and, perhaps, still are.