Summits and streams

We picked our way along the gravel banks of the river, a trickle in its summer wane.
Me, barefoot in the light of the rising sun, looking around for a sturdy branch to assist my travails. Others streamed about me, reflecting the river and spilling forth along the well-trodden path leading to the summit of Mount Urnath. So many sinners, creating a fluid backbone - the black spine of God’s mountain.
In the car park below, I had taken off my socks and shoes and held the stones and dirt between my feet, as if for the first time. My two boys, Donald and Reece, were joining me today. They looked so excited by the spectacle, all these people, gathered together to climb a mountain.
The boys kept their trainers on and said they’d scout ahead for a sturdy stick. From bitter experience, I knew I’d need one.
Thousands would make the journey from the hospitable car park - where kind ladies served tea and orange juice - to the rugged peak above. Most would do it barefoot.
I chatted to some of my fellow travellers as we followed the burbling River Streath to the base of the mountain.
Donald came back with a long brown stick. It was perfect, and I told him so. A smart height to help my hobbling, and its gnarls would provide a good grip for my hands. Reece followed on behind, annoyed and bitter that he didn’t find the stick, didn’t receive the praise.
I ruffled his hair and asked if he’d tell the story of the mountain and why we were climbing it today.
He gave a beautifully flowery account of when the monk, St Neil of Urnath, first heard the voice of God asking him to go barefoot up the grey mountain, on the 16th of August, 1622.
When he reached the summit he got down on his hands and knees, begging forgiveness for his sins and promising to atone for his wrongdoings, in the eyes of God.
At this, he was dazzled by a wondrous light and a great warmth, which he said was paradise revealed to him; the peaceful heart of Christ. From that moment, the barren mountain-top around was said to have sprung to life, with all manner of mosses, lichens, grasses and trees beginning to grow.
St Neil stayed, weeping with joy for three hours, before climbing down to tell his fellow monks in the nearby abbey about the miracle that had occurred.
I smiled as he told the story, my youngest, blessed with a gift for speech and storytelling. I could tell other travellers, other pilgrims were listening too, impressed with the zeal of Reece, like a young John the Baptist or, perhaps, St Paul himself.
Halfway up the mountain, small streams burst out of the heather and criss-cross the mountain path. Donald and Reece had to carefully step past them, but I was only too happy to let the cooling waters wash and sploosh over my blistered and bloodied feet.
I’m not sure if it is best to concentrate on the pain or rather meditate about God and think only of the summit. Should I be glorifying every crippling step, remembering Christ’s path to Golgotha? Or should I attempt to transcend this purely physical process of pain and struggle?
The war in my head, created by these two concepts, usually causes my annual journey to the peak of Urnath to be one of real anguish. But then, that’s no bad thing, I think.
Donald tells me he’ll accompany me bare-foot, next year. He wants to show me he’s a man. I nod at him, though I know I won’t let him. But, one year…
We reach the summit after just over an hour’s climb. Thankfully Urnath is not the highest of peaks. The summit is packed, people are everywhere - kneeling down and begging forgiveness for their sins.
It is organised chaos, though. There are two lines, two fast moving queues. One moves towards a small covered area where a Catholic priest is taking Confession.
People need to be kept moving, you see. They need to start their journey back down the mountain before the summit becomes dangerously crowded. It seems almost like a drive-through confessional though, God forgive me!
The boys join the Confessional queue, whereas I join the line for Penance. I drag my dusty feet along towards the two robed monks, remnants of the same order of St Neil of Urnath’s.
This queue moves a little slower, though a little more certainly. Each man, in turn, removes his shirt, and kneels beside the monks. One monk washes your back with holy water. You make the Sign of the Cross, and say the Act of Contrition. Then the two monks take turns striking your back with birch twigs.
Sometimes, as the blows rain down, I look to the sky to see if paradise will be revealed to me. But today I find myself looking towards the ground.
I notice that the well-trampled summit is almost devoid of the green life God once ignited here. I notice the red streams trickling out across the brown dirt floor.
And I notice my own tears, falling to the ground, mingling easily with the dirt and the blood. Such beautiful anguish, and my mind is clear once more.