​WALSINGHAM PILGRIMAGE DIARY

The Diary of Father Fred Hassleton (Rtd)
(Strictly Confidential. Not for circulation at Deanery Chapter.)
EDIT: A glossary of terms is appended in the below. You're welcome.
-Judith M Crowther, Parish Administrator.

Day One – Arrival
I have arrived at Walsingham. The blessed shrine of Our Lady. England's Nazareth.
Even typing that makes my cassock sit up straighter.
The coach journey from St Faithful’s Havnot was devout, if one excludes the back row attempting the Angelus in three keys and one tempo that may have been jazz. Mrs Davenport has brought a statue of Our Lady in bubble wrap “in case the official one looks tired.”
As we entered the village, I felt that particular glow known only to clergy who believe they are finally in the theological big leagues.
Within seven minutes I had been asked:
Whether I was 'Society' or 'Forward in Faith'. (I am neither. Never been one for clubs.)
Whether I concelebrate facing East or 'liturgically'.
Whether I travel with my own biretta.
Reader, I do not own a biretta.
I have always assumed my head theology was sufficiently sound without additional millinery. And, besides, I've never been able to look at a biretta without seeing a young priest who wore it wrong, and ended up looking like he had Mickey Mouse ears.
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Day Two – Procession
The Marian procession was magnificent. Banners snapping. Thuribles smoking. Hymns ascending with the confidence of people who have never once worried about copyright licensing.
And lace.
So much lace.
There are surplices here with sufficient yardage to curtain the nave at St Faithful’s twice over. I passed one priest whose cotta had sleeves so expansive that small mammals could plausibly have nested in them during Benediction.
And yet — and yet — it was beautiful.
The statue of Our Lady moving through the Norfolk sunlight. The hush in the Shrine. The weight of centuries of whispered prayer.
I felt unexpectedly moved.
Which was slightly undermined when Father Aloysius leaned across and murmured, “We’re going rather light on Marian maximalism this year.” I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I nodded gravely, as though maximalism is explained in the Book of Common Prayer.

Day Three – The Holy Mile
We walked the Holy Mile barefoot.
I had thought this would feel ancient and devotional.
It felt mainly like gravel.
Mrs Davenport floated ahead like a penitential gazelle. I lagged behind, wondering whether progressive clergy are constitutionally unsuited to pre-Reformation footwear policies. I'm guessing that medieval Walsingham had rather more nice soft mud, and rather less crumbling tarmac.
Halfway along I realised I was mentally drafting a safeguarding risk assessment for flint exposure and querying the insurance implications of medieval piety.
This may not be what the 14th century had in mind.

Day Four – Benediction
I like incense.
Or rather, I thought I liked incense.
There are, it transpires, competitive levels of incense.
At one point during Benediction I lost visual contact with the monstrance entirely and had a brief theological wobble about whether this was an advanced apophatic manoeuvre.
The thurifer swung with Olympic commitment. The bells rang with eschatological enthusiasm. My glasses fogged with what I can only describe as sacramental condensation.
And then — amid the splendour — something small and awkward stirred.
Not doubt.
Not cynicism.
Just… a tightening.
Over coffee I found myself in a conversation about “proper Catholic order” that appeared to involve diagrams.
Later, I slipped into a smaller gathering entitled “Mary, Mother of the Marginalised.”
It was quieter. Less certain. Diagram-free. More 'blessed are the poor', less 'blessed are the chasubles'.
And I felt oddly at home.

Day Five – A Mild Identity Crisis (With Incense)
I came to Walsingham on this first ever visit, quietly confident that I was properly Anglo-Catholic.
I leave wondering whether I am Anglo-Catholic with footnotes.
I love the beauty. The sacrament. The poetry. The unapologetic conviction that God is to be adored, not merely analysed over fair-trade coffee in the parish hall.
But I am less persuaded that holiness can be plotted on a graph of sleeve circumference.
I do not wish to abolish lace.
But neither do I wish to measure grace by it.
I love Our Lady.
But I suspect she is less anxious about sub-groupings within the Church of England than we are.
Perhaps Catholicity is not about recreating a lost golden age of striking headgear and Latin absolutions.
Perhaps it is about making space — for grace, for complexity, for the slightly unsure priest from St Faithful’s Havnot whose ecclesiology is catholic but whose conscience leans towards inclusion.
In any case, I return home with renewed devotion, marginally tougher soles, and a profound gratitude that Our Lady appears not to mind, or at least not to smite, progressive clergy.
Even the barefoot ones.

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Disclaimer
Pinched (with permission) from the fictional St Faithful’s is Havnot, because a number of our own St John's congregation are enjoying the stories so much ! 
Books by Canon Tom Kennar (including 'The Parish Life' – volumes 1 & 2 about St Faithful’s) are available in print and e-book. Merchandise lurks online. See https://tinyurl.com/4k9jtpbe for more details.