To make a Pilgrimage is to embark on a journey of meaning, which for Christians may give our lives a renewed and much needed sense of God’s closeness. The possibility of a tangible, more intimate connection with God – as an individual journey of the soul – can be difficult for each of us to achieve in our daily, gritty lives in Yorkshire. Pilgrims were encouraged to do as many or as few activities as they chose. Nothing was obligatory which made each chosen activity feel like a gift.
Post Pandemic – it makes more sense to look locally before setting off to Rome or Jerusalem, and so, in early September 2025, a miscellaneous coachload of our congregation set off to Northumberland with our focal destination being Holy Island – the birthplace of Celtic Christianity in the North of England.
After one of the hottest summers on record, the weather took an autumnal turn for the worst as 33 hopeful travellers set off from the church, under the watchful eye of Maggie (Whitaker) and Fr. John (Binks) who had organised the trip on our behalf. It was cloudy and dull as we left, but not so inside the charabanc itself. Ably commandeered and constantly entertained by our coach driver and all round comedian, Dave! He immediately became a vital part of the success of our trip. His witty one-liners and constant good humour, along with his kindness (especially towards those of us less mobile), supported us throughout the week. Maggie and Fr. John had spent months navigating the various trials and tribulations of planning, and now, at last, we were off! Our lay numbers were swelled by Clergy too, including Rector David, who travelled separately by car so that he could return mid-week for his son’s first day at school.
Our first port of call was the wonderful cathedral city of Durham, where we disembarked into monsoon rain. Most of us fanned out along the cobbled approach to the glorious cathedral, seeking shelter and replenishment in the cloister cafe. Others renewed old memories of student days and familiar hostelries before meeting up again with Dave a few hours later. Thankfully he returned early to rescue us from the Durham deluge.
Not far away lay our resting place, the Blue Bell Inn in Belford, a small village just off the A1 and nestled into the rolling Northumberland countryside between Alnwick and Berwick-Upon Tweed. The old coaching inn, surrounded by picturesque stone cottages, welcomed our noisy, chattering crew with colourful flags flying aloft. We had arrived…..
this is not a memoir of troubled souls hoping to be ‘fixed’ by the trip, nor of pilgrims re-enacting the barefoot journeys of the early medieval monks across the mudflats and tidal estuary surrounding the island. For us, it was a group endeavour with church friends – to help us on the sometimes increasingly complex , supposedly ‘smart’ journey of life.
The early 18th Century Inn sits in a cobbled courtyard with renovated horse stables once serving the 19th Century carriage mail route from Berwick to Newcastle. Its rustic charm and peace immediately broken by our arrival. It soon became apparent that whatever the hotel may lack in modern plumbing, it more than made up for in friendliness and care. The young staff, with their earthy Geordie humour, were eager to help in any way they could. Fixing the outdated waterworks was not always within their remit – though, embarrassingly, some of us boasted functioning showers!
Day two took us to Berwick-Upon-Tweed. Dave left us in the centre of this historic border town to explore. Finding the Barracks closed, we instead followed the beautifully preserved Elizabethan town walls. From there we could look out over the sandy beaches of the North Sea and the Tweed Estuary whilst gulls dived for fish.
Benches along the way provided rest and fellowship, before we sought out a coffee-and-cake emporium and reunited with Dave.
Our resident artist, Lynn, managed to pause long enough to capture in paint the otherwise intangible beauty of the views.
The colourful fishing harbour of Seahouses was our next stop. A gateway to the Farne Islands. It offered walkers a chance to stretch their legs and others to enjoy the bustle of harbour life. those who ventured onto the boat trip despite the choppy weather, were rewarded with sights of grey seals, slumbering on volcanic rocks. Vast brooding skies melted into an inky sea, thin places where God felt close, protective of his more vulnerable pilgrims. Nearer my God to thee and Eternal Father strong to save played in my head in equal measure.
the ‘whoops’ moment of the day award had to be given to Dave and his questionable navigation – taking us north up the A1, rather than South? As a polite bunch, we quietly watched as the rolling countryside passed us by until Fr. John gently suggested the error and we turned around. Our late arrival back for dinner was only heralded by our rumbling stomachs, how fortunate we were to have the extra views of the countryside.
Compline after dinner brought our day to a spiritual close.
Meals at the Blue Bell Inn were always hearty, with enormous plates of fish and chips and the Rector delighting in home made tomato soup. The hotel’s Ballroom, slightly anachronistic, became our chapel for Morning Prayer and Compline. (I say ‘apparently’ for Morning Prayer – Im not at my best before breakfast)
The hotel held curious history: in 1847 Mr. Boyle performed on music glasses and harmonica before a ‘respectable’ crowd. In 1850 a commercial traveller was ejected for failing to pay his bill; and in 1866 a carriage accident led to injured travellers being nursed inside the Inn. True to tradition, the Blue Bell Inn staff in 2025 showed the same kindness and care.
Later days took us to Alnwick, where Barter Books – the largest second-hand bookshop in Europe delighted many. Cosy armchairs, open fires and even a toy steam train circling overhead made it hard to leave. Pilgrims returned to the coach laden with books, perhaps ready fodder for future sermons.
HOLY ISLAND – THE FOCUS OF OUR TRIP
We were more subdued and prayerful as we approached Holy Island, highlight of our Pilgrimage, Founded in 635AD by St. Aidan and later home to St. Cuthbert’s ministry. It has welcomed Pilgrims of All Faiths – and none – ever since.
Cautious of Dave’s navigation, Fr. John rode shotgun to help him safely time the crossings of the tidal causeway. Twice Daily the road is submerged by the sea, cutting the island off to the rest of the world. Pilgrims of old walked barefoot across the mudflats, guided by wooden poles – a metaphor, perhaps for faith itself, where we follow the markers set by the previous generations.
On the island, windswept beauty frames the ruins of the Priory. In silence or in gently chatting groups Pilgrims paused here and there, meandering to St. Mary’s Church where Fr. John and Deacon Terry celebrated the Eucharist.
As they led us in Worship, a shaft of radiant light pierced the Stained Glass windows, illuminating them in glorious colours – Halo like. A breath-taking moment where emotions ran high, tears fell and centuries of prayer seemed to enfold us all.
Afterwards some Pilgrims sat quietly by the village cross, other walked in silence each finding their own moment of encounter with God. Words seemed unnecessary.
We returned across the causeway, mostly in silence, even Dave was a little subdued. The vast skies and brooding sea left us all very humbled and thoughtful.
The following day we headed home, pausing for a break at the Angel of the North. Warmed by the affection of the Blue Bell Inn staff and grateful to Maggie and Fr. John for their months of careful planning and hard work.
Each of us will have taken something different from this Pilgrimage but perhaps all of us sensed, in some way, the vastness of God and the closeness of his love in the fellowship we shared.
The following Sunday, arriving at Church, I realised with joy that I was no longer simply – coming to church – but coming home to a family.
Sue Young.
12th September, 2025
