The Land Beneath my Feet

A local pilgrimage

This post was inspired by

Beth Kempton

‘s Summer Writing Sanctuary.

I feel the land beneath my feet and decide to make pilgrimage. Barefoot, of course, and starting right here, in the orchard. Seated on the old stone bench I remove my sandals and flex my feet, which are toughened by a summer of walks – on hot stone, hard wet sand, sunbaked footpaths. Today, between my toes,  I feel roughly mown grass and fallen leaves, brought down by last night’s winds. I feel my way, cautious for these first steps, for the bite of thorns or sharp stone.

There are ashes scattered underneath that little apple tree. Not my family but those who farmed this land, grew vegetables where my wild flowers grow. In the early days I felt their spirits warding me away – apple boughs catching in my hair, snagging my clothes. At night spiders wove webs across the entrance, subtle signs to keep me back. A crow froze to death high in the old pear tree and his ragged body kept me at bay as the seasons advanced and retreated.

Now, of course, the orchard welcomes me at all hours and in all seasons. The apple trees lift their boughs to let me pass and throw apples at my feet. Spiders build nests in the long grass I have gifted them and invite me to meet their offspring, tiny black dots readying themselves to go out and conquer their worlds. I have earned my place here.

So, these first steps are in this orchard, my base, home and stability.

One careful footstep at a time, I take a path south. This could be a journey of weeks or of months or indeed a lifetime, following the footsteps my ancestors laid down to the places where their dust mingles with the earth. Where human and land have once again become one.

My pilgrimage is an attempt to remake that connection. Those hands which now are bone and dust under the smooth green churchyard once worked this land. Some steered the plough, grasped the leather bridle of the shire, cut the cabbage stalks and hefted the haycocks at harvest. Others scattered the grain for the hens, plucked their feathers and prepared the fowls for table. Still others presided over sales of the ploughs and the horses and the fowls at auctions, when the farms failed or the family lines ran out. Soap scrubbed hands marking out the bidders, bringing down the hammer and going home to eat cake with a silver fork.

I follow heart lines through village and hamlet, past lonely isolated farmsteads. My feet stand beside mossy tombs where weather and the passage of time have almost obliterated the names. My feet are planted in this earth, the way my potatoes are planted in the Springtime. And that same yearning to dissolve and to be remade, to bring forth something real and beautiful, full of meaning, from this connection.

My feet, muddy, battered and bleeding can lead to a redemption if we can find ourselves once again in this land. Not gliding on the surface. We are not skaters. We are trees and seeds and flowers, growing and blooming and holding this land sacred.

My pilgrimage ends when I lift an apple from the tree and take a bite.