Walsingham

Cambridge and Norfolk come into their own at twilight. The air is soft, outlines blurred, the countryside crossed by sly and winding lanes; nothing quite as it seems. It may be the reason recusants and spies are associated with the area—along with mystics. I’m not so much thinking of Julian of Norwich, rather the mysterious Richeldis and the great shrine of Walsingham—its peace disturbed by Henry VIII. The whole shameful story can be read here. 

The full story of Richeldis and the visitation of Our Lady in 1061 can be read above and below. One thing for sure, the saintly Richeldis and her heavenly friends would make short work of the housing crisis.

I confess, shrines and pilgrimages hold little appeal for me, Lourdes, especially so. I have no rational explanation for this, then again rationality isn’t exactly a factor in religious experience. Perhaps it is the kitsch I associate with Lourdes: coaches, souvenirs and gift-shops; then again, having never been I may equally be missing the point: a religious experience.

The point was made apparent on our third day in Norfolk, when we visited Walsingham. First, a warning: other than the shrine, what you see in this photo is pretty much what you get in Walsingham. 

There is one pub. There is a bookshop that sells tea and sandwiches, light lunches. And there was the curse that dogged much of our trip: everything was closed in one form or another. The shop that sold books and light lunches closed at 4.30. The pub we’d counted on eating in served food two days a week, and they didn’t on the day we were there. On an empty stomach, beer and a packet of crisps held little attraction. These were material shortcomings, and having initially groused about coach parties, souvenir shops and kitsch, I suppose I shouldn’t really complain. 

What Walsingham did have was an atmosphere that slowly seeped into the bone. The largest of the two shrines was the Anglican which was more ‘High Church’ than the Pope. It was beautiful inside and is built within and incorporates much of the original medieval monastery.

The Catholic Shrine is housed in the smaller ‘Slipper’ Chapel just over a mile away at the other end of the village. It derives its name from the medieval custom of pilgrims housing their ‘slippers’/shoes in the chapel and walking to the shrine in bare feet. And presumably back again to retrieve their shoes. Bit like a bowling alley where you exchange your shoes for bowling slippers, but with the disadvantage of a two mile walk in between. 

We walked the ‘pilgrims’ way, with our shoes on. The track was straight and looked medieval. It was in fact a decommissioned rail track but did the job. 

A prosaic but informative board 

 Slipper Chapel exterior

The Slipper Chapel attracted me most strongly. It had a great sense of peace, an atmosphere you could cut with a knife. Totally unworldly. In truth, I could have stayed there much longer. The peace and sense of something other was probably magnified by being out of season. In Pilgrim season, packed with coachloads of the devout, I may have had a different experience. Then again, it may be ‘the sense of peace and an atmosphere you could cut with a knife’ was the residue of others’ religious experience. 

Walsingham was quiet but we did bear witness to a shadow of the medieval pilgrimage, two cheerful but skeletal Catholics proudly displaying their bare feet having done ‘the walk,’ and a chubby Anglican cleric with a small entourage of  'eager souls' who we kept bumping into. 

An interesting day but one that left us with an appetite, a craving for food.