No all who wander are lost

‘Not all who wander, are lost.’


Having decided to walk the Cornish Celtic Way as a personal retreat over the next ten months, it took a while to decide where to begin. Beginning as St Germans and ending at St Michael’s Mount (or visa versa) seems the obvious choice, however I had a nagging desire to start my journey where St Piran started his..and so this first photo journal does just that. Five photos (and one sound) that capture just a little of what I discovered..

St. Cubert’s Church I loved the way that the new and the old chancels stand together so beautifully. Our journey is not always one of tying to replicate the past, for if we do, surely we run the risk of becoming trapped by it? However capturing its beauty and allowing that to shape what we bring to the part that we have to play seems somehow more significant now, as we rest in this liminal place in time.

The door handle of St. Cubert’s Church spoke powerfully to me of the passage in The Revelation 3: 20 “Look! I stand at the door and knock. If you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in, and we will share a meal together as friends.” For it is the death and resurrection of Christ into which we are invited to enter..and that door is always open for those who choose to enter in.

The Holy Well at Holywell was the first port of call on my journey, now hidden in shrubbery adjacent to the fourteenth green of a golf course at the centre of a busy holiday park. And yet as I sat with the sound of the trickling water from this ancient well, juxtaposed with the laughter of a group of teenage golfers only meters away, it brought a profound relevance to this particular journey. For surely this is the centre of all our callings? To discover for ourselves and then bring the ever flowing, deep mysteries of God that are already present, into view for those that we encounter. Maybe I should take a strimmer next time I visit!

 The stained glass window in St. Cubert’s Church struck me, because what in fact I was seeing was the negative image of the beauty that, when the sun shone, was revealed within. Christ looks sad, perhaps because for many this is all they see of His church. The question that I pondered on for much of the rest of my walk was shaped by this. Whilst I enjoy the beauty of worship, what is it that the world is seeing?

And finally the standing cross at St. Piran’s Church, hidden in the dunes, the final point of my journey before the four mile trek back to my car. As I touched it, it felt uncomromising, hard, almost painful. It spoke to me of a baton, standing available for each and every generation to take hold of if they so choose.

Reference: Pages 106-109 A Cornish Celtic Way by Nigel Marns.

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