Pilgrim's Road

top of it and the stones of the sloping ceiling might not be just wide enough for a body to squeeze through. The only way to find out was to try, and since I was the smaller it made more sense for me to make the attempt. Before doubts could render me nervous I climbed onto a small projection from where I was able to push my feet and legs into the gap. With Peter’s help I was then able to turn over so that I was facing downwards, and with my hands on his shoulders I could begin to push the rest of myself through. There was one horrid moment when my back was tight against the roof, legs dangling in space, and the thin top of the door cutting painfully into my solar plexus, making it difficult to breathe. I had either to retreat at once or commit myself to going forward. Fighting my fear of tight places, I squirmed and pushed until I stuck fast at chest level. Full of panic, but without the breath to call out, my compressed rib cage slowly changed shape, just sufficiently for wood and stone to relinquish their grip. Then all in a rush, like the final moments of birth, the rest of me slithered free, and I was on the other side of the door looking down on the vast interior spaces of the nave. A strange prelude to a journey I thought — though possibly escaping from incarceration, not to mention the symbolic rebirth, were not entirely inappropriate to the start of a pilgrimage.
    A little while later, after Peter had been released by an apologetic workman who had gone off to breakfast with the key in his pocket, and without first checking that there was anyone in the tower, came the moment to say goodbye and depart in our separate directions. As a brisk cycle ride is an excellent way of taking the mind off the pain of parting, I did not go back into La Madeleine for another, more leisurely look as I had intended, but sped off down £ The Way’, and was soon busy map-reading a course through the back lanes of Burgundy.
    The abrupt departure felt somehow wrong. I had the vague sense of something missing, a feeling that there should have been some ceremony to mark my departure, or at the very least a blessing, to send me off properly prepared and in the right frame of mind. Excitement and anxiety are always present in roughly equal proportions when setting out, even on quite short undemanding jaunts, and although I hadn’t as yet given much thought to the spiritual dimensions of this particular adventure, I was aware of embarking on no ordinary journey and felt inadequately launched. Since there was nothing I could do about it at that stage, however, I occupied my mind by going over my equipment, mentally checking the luggage, pannier by pannier as I rode, to make sure that I had left nothing behind. I was carrying rather a heavy load because in the interests of economy, and because I enjoy sleeping out, I planned to camp most nights. My small tent, sleeping bag, mattress, stove and pans, little pots of coffee and tea, candle, string, and all the odds and ends that go with simple camping weighed down the two large back panniers. Spare clothing, waterproofs, guide books, notebook and pens, something to read for pleasure, a very small radio and medicines filled the two smaller front panniers. Documents, money, penknife, an ultra-sonic sound device for seeing off ferocious dogs, and all other valuables went in the bag on the handlebars, and could easily be removed each time I left the bicycle. My tools, another weighty item, were kept separate to avoid getting dirt and oil on the other luggage, and I had just been given a very smart little bag for them which fitted neatly under the saddle. As soon as I thought about this toolbag I realised that something more mundane than prayer had been missing at the start of this journey. I stopped to check, and sure enough, the toolbag was not there. There was no possibility of the bag having fallen off; it must have been stolen.
    There had been another bicycle alongside mine in the convent hall the previous evening, a tall, thin machine which belonged to a tall, thin Frenchwoman. She had arrived at the same time as us and had a scallop shell on her handlebar bag and a little plaque on her rear carrier which read Chemin de St Jacques — the Road of St James. But although she seemed clearly bound for the same destination as me, or else was returning from it, she had given only the curtest of nods in response to our greetings. Early as we had risen the following morning, she and her bike