after long journeying where they
began, catching this
one truth by surprise –
that there is everything to look forward to.

R.S. Thomas, Arrival

So, my sister and I got it into our heads that we had to take a dip in the Irish Sea on this pilgrimage together.

Especially after watching the tv series Bad Sisters.

And this feels like the day for it.

The weather is perfect, and it’s right before dinner.

So we pull on our suits and furtively sneak away from the hotel.

We feel like if anyone knew about this beforehand, we’d feel pressured, and then there’d be no way we could chicken out.

So we have to sneak.

Anyway, we begin our hike down the sandy path to the jagged bluff.

We are up pretty high on the rocks and the view is a gorgeous tableau of kelly green fields set against a swathe of bright blue sea.

I imagine Ireland across the ocean.

And as we wind our way down the cliff, we pass a local woman on her way back up.

Hello! Are you two swimming? she asks

Oh yes! we say

It’s absolutely lovely out there, the woman says

It’s about 68 degrees or so – really nice – enjoy!

Great, thanks – see ya! we reply

---

You know, you reach the other side of 60, and all of the sudden, you look around and you start to see so many of your selves out there in the world.

In the neighborhood, older women walking with sticks, women wearing wide brimmed hats and stretch pants. Women with the same telltale hair as you.

So many lined faces, and bifocals, and all of us with our NPR tote bags.

Women of a certain age, as they say.

---

And this woman that we meet on the path, she is definitely one of us.

But anyway, her sensible demeanor and optimistic attitude when she chats with us, it is so open and generous.

It’s like meeting another sister.

And so with her energy to billow our sails, we practically skip down that sandy embankment.

---

And below, we discover a deserted cove, with a gentle tide – all of it shimmering before sunset – and it is simply pristine.

Soft white sand, and in the valley around us, white puffs of sheep on the hillsides.

And near the water, there is even an ancient rock cave, that yawns wide with neon moss and a trickling spring inside.

Scary …

Should we go in?

No, stay focused – first order of business, get out of our clothes.

Meanwhile, the wind whips at the towels around our legs, and my sister’s lips are turning blue.

Then goosebumps.

If the air is this damn cool, how cold will the ocean be?

Now I’m wondering if my sister will bail, she looks dubious.

She’d better not.

Finally, we fling our clothes onto a huge rock and make a run for the waves.

Slashing out into the frothy surf, with our arms held high, we have no feeling in our legs.

Woo hoooo!

but, oh my God – –

what the –?

my heart seizes *heart attack * this is it – this is the way I’m gonna die.

My breath is caught somewhere in my upper chest and everything below that is numb, paralyzed.

I manage to dunk my head under the surf and it feels like being stung by a million bees.

But here we are, we are swimming.

And then, out we sprint, gasping for air.

What the hell was that old lady thinking?

Was she wearing a full wetsuit?

---

Anyway, I love this jaunt, I love egging my sister on, and being faux wild.

And now we have a new chant, a private footnote to this pilgrimage: We can say we did this. We swam in the Irish Sea.

And it’s clear that this activity is all the more special because we are women of this certain age.

And the simple ritual of this, this pact between us on this Welsh coastline – it marks a milestone in time, in some way.

This being in our 60s.

We recognize all of the decades of watching each other grow and change – with all the struggles, the secrets, the hurts, but mostly, the closeness and camaraderie.

And even the times we’ve been distant, and not as connected, we always circle back to the fact that we are sisters.

And we are so grounded in that.

And now, this pilgrimage has brought us to this tiny beach, in a wee country far from home – to a place outside of time, really.

A sacred place, where we are living fully in the present moment and at the same time witnessing our aging bodies being mirrored back to us.

Yet when I look at my sister, with her wet hair and chattering teeth, I see the same girl I’ve grown up with – and her clear blue eyes are laughing – so alive, so beautiful.

And I just want to have more crazy moments like this – the two of us – for as long as I can.

But what a risky thing to look forward to, to expect, or to even ask for, really.

Still I offer it up, like a tentative prayer:

why not?

Not conscious that you have been asking
suddenly 
you come upon it 

the village in the Welsh hills
dust free
with no road out
but the one you came in on

R.S. Thomas

There are 18 pilgrims.

The majority of our group is from St. David’s Episcopal Church in Minneapolis. And then there are a few people from Pennsylvania, and then there is me – the lone one from the South.

My sister is the rector of the St. David’s congregation, though she’s not one of the leaders of this trip, she’s one of our group.

I am here because she invited me.

Right away, these church folks are so welcoming to me, and easy. They’re like a close, extended family.

But me? I’m not part of this family.

Still, I would follow my sister just about anywhere.

---

Last year, when she asked me to go to Wales, I said yes without hesitation.

Wales, I thought, a wild place.

Wales, a place I know little about, and a country that fell through the cracks of our time in Europe.

Images of bright green fields, and massive stone fences.

Wild ponies?

Mostly I think about tired farmers living out hard lives. And mutton.

And I’m a little curious about the pilgrimage part in the travel description.

It kind of made me wonder, but hey – the reading list was poetry – and books on Celtic meditation!

And paganism!

And so I imagined windswept cliffs and foggy days.

A scrappy, rural place. A mystic place out of time (time travel!)

A place of deep folklore and tradition. A wee country far away from my own, thankfully – what a relief.

A place of peace and healing, perhaps.

Don’t we all need that?

Anyway, of course, I say yes.

---

It is the second day, and already my body feels like it is forgetting the familiar routine of home.

I am letting go of the outside world, specifically, my cell phone and the U.S. news media.

Like shrugging a backpack from my shoulders, I feel instantly lighter.

I am a seeker now. And I recognize that my fellow travelers are the same.

Jet lagged, rumpled, away from our small creature comforts, we come together as fellow wanderers, to walk away from regular life for a while.

To explore a new place.

We are open, and curious, and intentional.

Still, I am a little self-conscious about being identified as a pilgrim – I’m not sure why. It just sounds a little self-important, or pious, or maybe just too churchy.

It doesn’t matter.

Because I really like this whole group and the wonderful leaders.

And I’m sure the community will evolve to include me. With all of the bus time, and hiking time and time in the pubs.

Each of us is curious – we are seekers.

And already, I sense that each of us will find our own path to pilgrimage.

Some will choose hard hikes, others might rest.

Some will do yoga on the mat, and others from a chair.

Some will journal, others would rather not.

Some will travel slowly, others will be brisk.

And it doesn’t matter, we are together.

We are all passengers on this one bus – all heading down a dusty road to the next Welsh village.

We are en route to an ancient place – with no road out but the one we came in on.

A bird chimes
from a green tree
the hour that is no hour
you know. 

R.S. Thomas, Arrival

---

Today we will be traveling to the Pennant Melangell Center to visit the shrine and sacred grounds of the 7th Century abbess, Saint Melangell.

The legend goes that Saint Melangell fled from Ireland to escape an arranged marriage, running to this place to seek sanctuary.

Then one day, the royal Prince Brochwel, who was on a hunt, rode in on horseback with his dogs, in pursuit of a hare.

The hare took shelter under Melengell’s skirts, and the dogs froze, unwilling to continue the chase.

The prince, recognizing the entrancing power of this girl – and the shield of protection surrounding her – granted her the title to this large tract of land.

The Prince, witnessing this, recognized the girl’s power, and the shield of protection surrounding her – and subsequently granted her the title to the large tract of land in this valley.

And it is believed that this property is one of the earliest protected land trusts in the UK. Saint Melangell is now recognized as an iconic early environmentalist.

Today, she is an emblem for various ecological and environmental foundations – a symbol of inspiration for the preservation and protection of Welsh land.

I love this story, so this morning, climbing off of the bus, I take particular note of the blue hills that ring this green valley.

The air smells sweet.

Once again, the sun is bright and there is a riot of color from the Wesh poppies and vetch.

We are nestled in the fertile foothills of the impressive Snowdonia Mountains.

The view is bright green- stunning.

Bees crawl, heavy with pollen, among the bursts of pink orchids and mallow, and there is a vigorous stream running past the old church.

It is May, and everything is in a fertile frenzy: knapweed, enchanter’s nightshade, and wild thyme sprawl down to the stream.

There is a wildness here.

I notice that back behind the cemetery there are small cottages, cabin-like accommodations for guests.

This will be an unstructured, quiet day. We are free to move about the land and reflect.

I watch the others find their steps around the cobbled churchyard. I keep on walking, up to an old fence, where there is a handwritten sign that says prayer walk.

I open the gate and there is a dirt path that forks off through a meadow and another driveway that leads up to a house.

---

Suddenly, a car pulls up and a man jumps out, with his engine running, and car wheels stopped in the shallow stream.

Oh no, maybe I’m trespassing.

But what a friendly guy – his face is beaming and he’s extremely excited that I’m on his little prayer walk.

I explain that I am with the larger church group.

He smiles.

Do you feel the energy is this valley? he asks

Um.

It’s a feminine energy, he continues.

This whole valley, this stream, it has an ancient feminine quality.

It’s Pennant Melangell.

Do you sense it?

And then he invites me to hike up to his property and to explore beyond, into the meadow, and up through the grove of trees. He encourages me to wander wherever I want.

He literally says, take your time, go slowly, and, look at the small things.

He informs me that every living element here holds Melangell’s beauty.

I thank him, and he drives off, with a big wave.

---

At this point the meadow just looks like a good place to lie down and nap.

If I can make it over there at all.

I may just sit down here in the road, it’s a peaceful spot lined with red and yellow foxgloves.

The birdcalls, the lapping stream, and the lazy bees, all of it is hypnotizing me. I slip off my pack and wedge it under my head as I lean back into the grass.

Feminine energy, yes.

I’ll sign on for that.

---

Part of a pilgrimage, in my mind, is surrendering your complete boxed set of faith. It is letting go of musty beliefs, making room for something fresh, something revelatory.

In this magical, verdant valley, it is so easy to do. There is a nurturing, creative spirit at play here.

I think of Melangell’s story, whether it’s true to the letter or not – it feels true to me – in the way of most legends.

In the way that we tell stories, down through the ages, and how they capture the original truths and then double down even deeper, over time.

Like the heavy soil that sinks this church foundation, and the white headstones that pop up around this holy place – all of it seems to be shifting, and alive.

Retelling a story that is ancient, yet evolving.

And I sense a kind of wild silence in this valley – a reverence and quietude that has a pulsing heart beneath it.

The lush environment feels laden with the care and nurture of all that is engendered in this land.

---

I think about religion, and how this, right before me, this is the earliest religion of all.

This connection between a brave young woman taking shelter in this valley. Her pact with the land.

And then risking her life to build an abbey for other contemplatives Perhaps women who were also searching, maybe fleeing, but certainly vulnerable.

In very dark times.

And here, the body of this anchoress, buried in the sanctuary of this small Welsh church.

What is this place saying to me?

---

I rest my head back and watch a huge black bird circle high over the meadow. It flies nearer and I notice that it’s enormous wingspan has a striking pattern.

It has one bright white oval underneath each black wing. This creates the illusion of two disc-like eyes looking down on me.

I later learn that it is a red-billed kite, a glossy black raptor, once hunted to near extinction in these parts.

But it feels like more than just a bird to me. It feels like a presence – I’d like to think a female one – with its wide-eyed feathers hovering over me.

---

In Celtic spirituality, they talk about thin places- places where the veil between the physical and spiritual world seems to thin, opening up a sense of sacredness, and allowing for a connection between the human and the divine.

Like heaven and earth, I am in two places:

Cradled within the sacred haven of a feminine spirit from another century – and on a dusty lane with a sore hip that’s scraping against the rocks.

Like heaven and earth, I am in two places:
Cradled within the sacred haven of a feminine spirit from another century, and on a dusty lane, with a sore hip that’s scraping against the rocks.

And so I pay homage to the fierce commitment of this saint.

A woman ahead of her time.

And as I lie here today, I imagine myself as brave too.

And I summon Saint Melangell’s courageous spirit to be my own shield as I move forward on this mystical pilgrimage.

cover photo: Ann Carda

The river dawdles to hold a mirror for you
where you may see yourself
as you are, a traveller

R. S. Thomas

---

How do you talk about a pilgrimage?

It feels like uncovering a sacred relic, or like exposing something too personal, too tender.

If I write about it, will the sweetness fade – like a plucked magnolia blossom that bruises within hours?

I’ll try.

The route we are traveling on this tour will be following the ancient pilgrim’s path from the coast of North Wales to the stunning Llyn Peninsula. We will visit ancient churches and various holy sites.

These sites will be hosted by local guides. From them we will hear some of the old Celtic legends and we will visit sacred shrines and wells. And we will finish our journey at the venerable St. David’s Cathedral.

---

Today, on our drive, bright yellow gorse lines the pathway across a landscape that is rugged and windswept. But the flowers are thriving – so many varieties – who would think they could survive this harsh environment?

Stone walls divide the fields everywhere, keeping the sheep with new baby lambs safe within. Ancient divisions of properties.

The roads are crazy – just narrow cow-paths, really. Our driver, Steve, has to back up and give way constantly along the winding drive.

This afternoon, we are headed to the Island of Anglesey to visit the Roman fort town of Beaumaris, where the church and monastic ruins of St. Seriol stand.

When we arrive, we meet some church members, and have a brief prayer service. Then we are free to explore the 12th century ruins.

These rocks, this old church foundation, it is so ancient it blows my mind.

Some of us meander across the medieval cemetery, others take sips from the well. No one speaks.

The wind gently tousles the grasses and wildflowers in the courtyard. I feel the spirits stir – whispers from either a pilgrimage made centuries ago or maybe just yesterday?

What is this place?

I follow my sister across the timeworn path to the healing well. Under the rock archway, the black water sits in a deep pool – it is shiny with bright green moss, and very still.

I ask her to offer a blessing.

So she pours a cupped handful of the cold water on my head, and she sprinkles a little on my hands.

My head and my hands, to heal my addled brain and my insecurity.

Then she dips her own sore ankle into the deep, icy cold water.

My eyes fill up at her reverence and care. I feel such grace – a lightness, and a shining.

She is a mirror.

And today, her presence reflects the sunlight from the churchyard, the bright stones, the buttery yellow gorse.

Her gentle way allows me the space to breathe in deep and to open up my chest.

I pull back my shoulders and find my balance on the cobblestones.

Today I feel solid and steady, like the timeless yew trees pushing up their roots beneath the graves here in the churchyard.

I feel free.

There is something to this place, something about unburdening, something about letting go.

The limpid well, my tired brain – all things muddled just want to run clear.

photos: Ann Carda