Cautionary Pilgrim. Nick Flint

‘Perhaps we should mark it as such?’

      ‘Well I know what HB would do, find hospitality in a pub and refreshment in Sussex ale’ said Scribbler and taking him at his word we increased the length of our strides and within twenty minutes were under the roof of the Bridge Inn raising jugs of the finest Sussex brew, where Pilgrim reminded us in 1902 Belloc and his crew had sheltered from the rain. The weather had smiled on us thus far and The Bridge held one more surprise for the chef turned out to be none other than George – an old friend from times past. No Sussex man he, but from far flung Greece and now as then proclaiming passionately something that we four well understood as had indeed Belloc, a desire to be at home. And secure in the knowledge that we were doing something, albeit symbolically about reclaiming our Sussex patrimony we set off on our way with, as we headed east, the first of the four great Sussex rivers now behind us.

      ‘Physical landscapes are defined by the rivers that run through them. The sheer power of tons of water is one of the greatest forces on the planet’ said Pilgrim, throwing out his arms as if to embrace the scenery around us. ‘Carving valleys, borders and nation, the names of rivers, the Nile, Amazon, Thames, Jordan, powerfully evoke countless stories that have created a cultural identity, as well as quite literally bringing life to a region.’

      ‘Arun, Adur, Ouse, Cuckmere’ As I recited this litany the voices of the others one by one, joined my own, so that the name of the furthest river from where we now stood became a shout from four voices.

      ‘Time like an ever rolling stream’ is symbolized by any river.’ Said Pilgrim, continuing his theme ‘We talk of time passing as water that has flowed under the bridge. But the river is also a symbol of eternity, because it is the constant factor in the changing landscape. No matter how ancient its water always runs fresh and there is always the mystery of when and where it begins and where it ends.’

      There was little to be added to Pilgrim’s customary eloquence on this subject. We had reached a fork in the conversational path.

      ‘Who was the first saint of Sussex?’ asked Scribbler who had been pondering the extraordinary story of James Hannington and his sacrifice, and inspired by such courage found himself wondering, as indeed we all did, what or who in turn had inspired him. We were at the top of the Downs having found our way up from Amberley and were sharing lunchtime rations before resuming the walk east.

      ‘Well the first Sussex saint wasn’t a Sussex man at all’ said Who Knows, since the others including me still seemed to be chewing the question over with our sandwiches.