The next morning I was very excited, for today was the day I would cross the boarder into Ireland. Anne and her husband Shaun checked my walking route and suggested that I go via the ‘hill of Faughart’, a holy place known as the birthplace of St Brigid. Now my route wasn’t the tourist la-dee-da type which allowed for checking the sights... I was on a covert mission of the greatest speed and efficiency using only a basic google maps route finder to keep me on the straight and narrow. I decided however to take this advice and detoured slightly for the hill of Faughart as recommended. Around late morning I arrived at the hill and found a small graveyard and remains of an ancient chapel with healing well. I stopped a while to refuel on an snack bar, when two friendly ladies came by praying the rosary. They were extremely devoted to St Brigid and were very taken by the quest to Kildare.  They really wanted to help in some way so they took me off to a beautiful barn café for a large cup of earl grey tea. After setting me off in Dundalk I was sent on my way with a large selection of prayer cards, talismans, some money and a generous bag of fruit. Betty was particularly worried about me so we exchanged number declaring should I ever run into tough times that I should ring her immediately and she would come to my rescue wherever I would be.  

  
I decided to take a bus to the next town to save my sore feet as they were now starting to blister in other places from the change of shoes. At the ticket office my bus was due and I hadn’t yet changed any money into euros. Luckily the kind driver let me on for free (buses can be quite infrequent in places). I hung about in the next town ‘Ardee’, which seemed like another nice pace but I was in too much pain to explore. Feeling the urge to move on and set camp for the night, I caught an onwards connection to a place called Slane. I hadn’t gone far when I happened across a private housing estate with a huge lawn and dense bushes on either side, ‘Perfecto’ to hide out the night. I was a bit anxious about the weather as it was forecast heavy rain the next morning, but my plan was to wake early and jettison out of there before the rain hit. I stashed my bags and limped back over to the town centre. In a local shop I found some instant noodles, hot water and a can of baked beans to pour over the top… yum-o. I limped about some more and found a nice grassy lawn at St Patrick’s church to tuck into my feast and enjoy the last of the warm sun.

It was around 8.00pm, and at some point I was aware that a girl had walked straight past me and into the church that I had assumed was locked, and then I started to wonder whether the church might be open all night. In the hope of finding a better place for refuge, I limped to the roadside noticeboard to look for a churchwarden’s number. There was none, but a dog walker advised that the priest only lived in the house opposite, so of course I went to knock on his front door.
After the initial shock of finding an English vagabond on his doorstep, Father Stephens quickly warmed to me once I explained the pilgrimage. And immediately agreed to me spending the night in the church. Behind the altar was a door leading to an office space, where I was made up a comfortable bed on a sofa with pillow and duvet. There was also a little kitchenette, a toilet, wifi and Father Stephens even made me a packed lunch for the morning.
Before I went to sleep, I prayed to Mary and wept at the altar in sheer gratitude, before collapsing into a deep sleep. In the morning heavy rain started early at 5.30am and I again felt so much gratitude for this shelter. Now each day that I approaching Kildare, I was anxious to harvest the Irish reed with which to make the St Brigids cross from. Father Stephens had advised of a nearby river to try my luck, so I donned my waterproofs and headed down to the river bank.
I walked barefoot. My shoes had immediately water-logged and the material was rubbing my blisters raw. Now I didn’t really know what Irish reeds were, but I thought I had a fair idea from what I’d been told and seen so far. There I spied not far away, a clump of large reeds ripe for the picking. Not knowing these reeds were the extremely extra large variety, I was overjoyed and waded into the water to fetch them. When I headed back to the church to collect my things, mass was starting and I joined in with the service. The priest introduced me to the congregation and explained about the pilgrimage. Afterwards a lovely lady came over and gave me a blessed rosary from the holy town of Medjugory... My collection of trinkets was growing nicely.

 After the service, I bade farewell to St Patrick's, the rain was still heavy and the pain of blisters was now unbearable, so I finally bought some blister plasters from the chemist on the main road. I had to wait for my feet to dry before I could apply them, so in the next town Navan, I headed for the nearest Cathedral to patch myself up. To my dismay the Cathedral was closed for a funeral so I ducked in at the Cathedral shop to see what I could find out. Inside was a great guy called Michael who said I was welcome to use the back room to rest up, he even brought me over a hot cup of tea. He also loved hearing about the pilgrimage and found it an inspiring journey which at that point was making the hardship all the more bearable. After parting company, I started to walk the final leg of the day to a town called Trim down the side of a busy road which was the fastest route. The grass verge was so wide, I honestly felt quite safe but a commuter lady certainly didn’t. About 3 hours into my journey I was again bare foot as the plasters had slipped off in the wet and the pain was again unbearable. At this point, the rain was getting heavier and was forecast all night, so my plan for the evening was again to look for a sheltered hidey hole somewhere... although I didn’t seem to be having much luck in finding sheltered hidey holes….
 "Oi, what do you think your doing walking bare foot on this busy road, come over here!". It was a very, very angry lady. To be honest her shouting was pretty rude and I did just want to ignore her, but I felt to cross over and ‘do what I was told’. The lady as it happened was the headmistress of a school in the town I was travelling towards and thought I was some silly lunatic kid putting myself in grave danger for no reason. Once I started explaining my pilgrimage to Kildare in search of the eternal flame of St Brigid, she softened and offered me a lift into the town. She also gave me 50 Euros making me promise to get a hot meal and BnB for the night.

I found the most lovely hotel and settled in with a large microwave meal and hot shower. The room was gorgeous in a Victorian style and the heating was on full blast so everything dried out nicely. It continued to rain throughout the night and the next morning and you can’t imagine how thankful I was for that beautiful room.
Today was the last day and night on the road and I had the furthest ground to cover. I decided to email the Dean of Kildare Cathedral to arrange a blessing for the cross that I was yet to make. But sadly, his response was that he’d rather that I stayed away from the service due to Covid times. I had however heard that St Brigids ancient fire pit was still in the cathedral grounds, so my intention was to perform some sort of ceremony there anyhow to mark the visit.  Anyway, time was getting away and I realised that I had missed the only morning bus out of town so the kind landlady took me by car to the next town Enfield. I think I was the most cheerful on the road today despite the rain, as it was my last day. I did have a fair distance to cover on foot and I was walking so slowly because my feet were in such poor shape. The roads were nice country lanes and the nicest scenery, but this was farming land and there were no shops what so ever for miles around. In the early afternoon I stopped to check the map and a car pulled up next to me. It was an elderly man who had stopped to see if I was okay. He was off somewhere but insisted that I should wait for his return because he really wanted to make me a cup of tea, so how could I refuse. 

While I was waiting, across the road a young woman came out of her driveway to ask if I was okay. I mentioned that I was waiting for an elderly gentleman and she said, "Well that’ll be me dad".  So we three went into the farmhouse for tea and baked beans on toast. The farmhouse looked like it was well over 100 years old with no renovations - it was so cool. He did offer a bed for the night but it was my last day so I decided to crack on. Several hours later I started to think about my final sleep. As I walked, I kept checking out churchyards with shrubs where I could hide but nothing appealed (I had grown fussy). I was getting desperate come 8.30pm so I decided to start knocking on a few doors to see if I might be allowed to camp in a garden.  I tried a few placed that didn’t answer but then one did and it was lovely lady Gronya, whose husband agreed it would be okay to camp. 

 That morning I bid farewell to Gronya and Dave and walked the remaining 7 miles to Kildare. By then I had learnt St Brigids prayer by heart and as I recited it over I noticed how fitting was my condition. ‘Brigid, you were a voice for the wounded and weary’, both wounded and weary I certainly was…  
As a congratulatory reward to myself, I booked a self-contained Airbnb for my two nights in Kildare. After putting down my bags, I raced out to the town to have a look around. First I found the high walled Anglican Cathedral which was all locked up. I was told that it would be open the next day so I didn’t mind waiting. Next I found a Carmalites church that was open, and here I went inside to thank Blessed Mary for getting me to Kildare safely (little did I know this extraordinary adventure wasn’t over yet). By now I had come to know that the reeds I had been carrying where the extra large type, so I decided to go in search of the smaller variety. My landlady had given me some direction of where I might find some and on the way I passed St Brigids Parish Catholic Church where mass was just finishing.
I popped inside to chat to the priest and met Father Andy who was a great guy. He even knew Father Stephen's from St Patricks Church that I had taken refuge in Slane. Amazingly he felt to gift the pilgrimage a newly made and already blessed St Brigids cross that he had received earlier that day.  I continued to the field where my landlady had advised I would find the reeds, but alas I could not find any. I started to worry slightly as the sun had started to set (and it wasn’t even the season for reeds anyway). But soon I stopped to ask another lady if she knew where some reeds might grow, and she very kindly drove me down to a bog behind St Brigids well. After getting my feet soaked again and getting paniky lost, I finally found enough reeds to make the journey back home. It was close to 9.00pm and I stayed up until 11.00pm making crosses – what fun I had.

I must have stayed only 20 minutes but upon my departure, I found that the Cathedral was now locked and so too were the tall entrance gates; leaving me trapped inside! Now, I am not a stranger to the business of climbing over walls, so I desperately ran about looking for a way over, but alas it was just all too high. After some poking about near a shed in the shrub area, I saw some familiar Haris fencing and a convenient slant of wood allowing me to scale it safely and drop to freedom into a kids playground: - phew.

Feeling elated at my new found freedom and having successfully completed my ceremonies, I decided to try my luck and pay a visit to Solas Bhride, a multi-faith centre set up by three Christian sisters, but which had been closed for many months due to Covid. The centre was a special place as it was home to a symbolic ‘eternal flame of Kildare’. The original flame that burned for centuries at the cathedral fire pit was extinguished during King Henry VIII's reformation. But in 1993 the flame was symbolically re-lit in the town centre as a tourist attraction. Defiant that it should never go out again, the sisters re-lit a candle from this flame and have tended to it ever since.
On my way there I bumped into my landlady. She was doubtful the centre would be open but was happy to accompany me all the same. As we were taking a walk around the gardens, one of the sisters saw us and came out to welcome us in. Here we spent a peaceful time in silence and meditated around the ‘eternal’ flame.
After visiting the centre, I felt the missions in Kildare were now complete.
 

 The next morning was my last in Kildare and I thought to light a candle in thanks for all those who had helped me on my journey, so off I went to the local parish. Unfortunately mass had just started, so then I tried the Carmalites but mass had started there too! Alas, I went back to the flat to collect my bags and see about my coach departure to Dublin. On my way I saw a nun who I recognised from the services at the parish church. She stopped to chat and invited me back to the convent for a quick cup of tea and breakfast. When we got there she showed me to an altar room and it was there I got to light my final candle of prayer and thanks.
I met my pall Gerry in Dublin for a few hours before heading onwards to Dundalk to see Betty and her family. We visited another St Brigids shrine and holy place and enjoyed a peaceful evening in the Irish hills. Betty is so overwhelmingly kind and generous and she filled my bag with even more prayer cards, another blessed rosary from Medjugori, a pin badge of St Brigids Cross and so much love.

 For my best friend Kasia 

 You could say there’s a difficult streak in all of us, and mine would certainly be: - my unrestrained desire to pull away from all things ‘popular culture’. Being naturally attracted to the weird and wonderful, if you’ve followed my stories so far, you may or may not be surprised to find that my new interested is church…  Because lets face it, if folk are running away from churches in their droves, then I’m headed straight for a service near you…  In search of the lost and forgotten riches that most have left behind. 

 In a recent visit to St Andrew’s Holborn: - a Catholic / CoE crossover known as, 'high church', I was captivated by Saturday Mass; an orthodox service of celestial beauty. The strange dress of the Ministers in golden capes and medallions, each word melodiously chanted. The ritual spreading of incense circling the congregation, even the long slim candles appeared so stunningly pretty in their delicate simplicity. Everything glittered in twinkley light … I was surprised however, at how soon my experience began to bore and alas I failed to last even the hour out. 

 As a firm believer in energy work and energy transformation through ritualistic practice, despite my reverences, l decided to leave that service early. I am just a casualty of modern day society and the desires of my meddlesome mind had given way to the promise of dinner, conversation, and checking my phone ‘ya’, all of which were demanding my immediate attention…. Praise be to modern technology, because life has never been so good. Moving from discipline into decadence in just a few decades, much time can now be spent luxuriating in the pleasures of modern technology and it’s social interfaces. In fact it is these technological advancements that are considered to be the very pinnacle of progressive societal success… but at what cost?

Now science-based reasoning has taken centre stage, it has never been easier to dismiss spirituality. After all, there is no logical argument to be had. But can millions of people believe in nothing? Can we ridicule folk as being brainwashed or gullible? Well, I refuse. The question is, for what reasons have spiritual practices stood the test of time, far reaching in strength and influence over the millennia. Have folk simply been stuck in a spiritual dictatorship? 

Historically, religious doctrine has been a poor show with centralised buildings of worship lording much power over the people. This is the problem with buildings, they are owned and in doing so have assumed the seat of power. And who can be fit to represent those holy places? Surely no man is capable of representing the supreme divine… So far I’ve not been proved far wrong. Corruption exists everywhere, in every establishment, and institution, the holy and the profane. It’s clear to see how control and fear have been used to cover up corrupt practices and much resentment still exists today.

As we traverse our way through life’s path, our call for guidance can take many forms. Some folk respond to the voice of leadership and authority, others will fall into trends and culture; but some will take a more inward path, following their own heart-felt intuition.  Ultimately it can only be in the heart connection to the divine that will transcend the mortal errors of any rabbi or imam, minister or monk: - in its true and lasting state, through the portal of the heart.

                            

Two years later, I can now write about the significance of that incident, ‘the ants incident’. Because it’s only now in the unfolding of our current experiences that this disconnect between the understanding of energy consciousness and the view that all life is sacred, is fast becoming our most painful undoing.

When I wrote Hope for Humanity, I used to think that the global elitists likened us common folk to animals; enslaved and monitored, abused and imposed upon. But it was worse, we are viewed with the coldest disregard of the most unsophisticated and unnecessary nuisance of little more than an insect.  What ever it is we’re thinking (or not thinking) about our fellow multi-legged beasties, some big rich guy with a ‘superiority complex’ is thinking about us. But can really we blame the global elitists for feeling superior when it is merely our human societal conditioning that teaches us to view ourselves as separate? Would a society that considered life as sacred go to war over land? Would we keep animals in factory farms, would we use pesticide or herbicide on our lands? We have all been taught to view our place on this planet within an intellectual order and the disconnect of modern society from its source can be experienced all around.

I am drawn to protests – I find them exhilarating; they form community, develop camaraderie, give meaning and purpose, but most importantly, they give us hope.

Over the years, I have been involved with many environmental protection camps and you need not have visited such places to know what lies at the heart of this agenda. With populist slogans like ‘save the trees’ emblazoned from post to post, to the environmental protester, trees are known to be the single most important, sacred and prized natural feature of our land, and rightly so. Owing to their impressive repertoire, including oxygen givers, erosion protectors, shade and habitat providers: - trees play one of the most fundamental parts of our ecosystem and must be protected at all costs.

Welcome the environmental protester:- valiant protector of our natural world, risking life and livelihood in this saintly pursuit. Unfortunately, there are a great number of folk who would fail to share this view and it’s not hard to understand why. Because let’s face it, despite centuries of uprising, nothing has been able to stop the steady increase in social and environmental issues. So much so, that when we consider the actual successes that environmental protection has offered, it has undoubtedly become a game of small wins and big losses and never was a true word said.

Of the protest camps that I’ve ‘knocked about’ in – a common sight amongst the security guards, the mud and ‘people up trees’, is that these camps are largely inhabited by folk happily whiling away the long under-stimulated hours somewhere up in a cloud of smoke. Smokers of all types, including those claiming to be of the ‘medicinal’ green variety. In fact it is such a common sight, there is absolutely nothing of any particular interest, until you start to deeply ponder upon it’s parallels and then you might begin to see something rather very wrong.

Because you see, there is no one who can really disagree with the fact that smoke inhalation of any sort is one of the most self-destructive and dangerous activities that we can knowingly impose on our bodies today. This toxic substance, starves the body of oxygen, directly targeting and damaging the lungs – who are the very oxygen givers of our bodies, and whose primary function is really no different to that of a tree. The very root of what many protesters are on one hand externally seeking so hard to save, while internally allowing it’s continued destruction.

This is the great delusion of separation, the lack of understanding that the very life giving instruments that we are trying so hard to protect are also right here within us. The most important tree that we can only truly offer any protection lies much forgotten, while our focus remains firmly fixed outside of ourselves. This failure to acknowledge our bodies also as part of the great magnificence of nature:- the co-dependence between the respiration of our lungs and the respiration of a tree, each bringing the other life is perhaps on one level a product of why environmental protesting continues to fail. Because how can we convince government and multi-nationals to care for nature when the truth is we care even less for our own.

People are drawn to environmental activism for many reasons and knowingly but more often unknowingly, ‘nature’ may not always be at the heart of this agenda. But whatever the reason, we are here for the most worthy cause of all – because we want change. We live in a culture of diminished responsibility, casting assertions and laying blame on all but ourselves. But when we consider change, we must first ask ourselves what is it within us that we can change first. Because nothings changes if no one changes so then what better place to start, than where the success is in our own hands.

‘Be the change you want to see in the world’ Ghandi.