Passing by

Riding into the centre of Birmingham I’m assailed with complicated feelings, complicated memories. The cathedral sits in its own little green space. Overlooking that green space is the head office of a bank I once borrowed too much money from.

The first rule of banking is that you can borrow as much as you want, provided you can prove you don’t need it. So I used to go to that head office pretending a confidence I didn’t quite have. There’s a limit to how far a suit can disguise the heart. I always felt like an outsider, a chancer, without the qualification or right to be there.

And I feel the same now. I’m not going to perform the Meditation in Birmingham cathedral – they didn’t want it – but I feel the pilgrimage requires, for completeness, that I visit, quietly and inconspicuously

I had a long, if one-sided, correspondence with a senior person here. He didn’t always reply to emails in person. More often there was an automatic reply. The automatic replies emphasised that he was extremely busy, or that he was on retreat, or on jury service, or otherwise unavailable. The cathedral itself was also very busy, and when he did write it was to say that unfortunately it was too busy to accommodate my request.

In Coventry a lady bemoaned the fact she had to come there to hear my performance. Why aren’t you playing in Birmingham, she wanted to know? Nothing ever happens there – nothing. To my explanation that they were, on the contrary, too busy for a Meditation she replied with a snort, and something unprintable.

And now here I am. The busy cathedral is empty, in the middle of a Saturday morning. Outside there are crowds, but they don’t impinge on the quiet space.

The welcomer wants to chat. Why don’t I stay a bit longer and attend the afternoon’s bike blessing service? It would be churlish to tell her.

I’m anxious to move on. The day is hot, and I’ve still a long way to go.

I set off along canal paths, but they aren’t conducive to cycling. There are too many interruptions, and the periodic ups and downs are ridged with bricks so that barge-towing horses don’t slip. I can’t ride a bike with a cello up and down those. At one barrier I have to unload the bike completely, lift the luggage over, and then carry a 25kg bike. I give up after that, and aim for a main road.

It’s really hot by the time I get to Lichfield. They’re preparing for an ordination, which seems to involve moving about 1,000 chairs. I played the Meditation here in Lent, so that today’s chair shifting could proceed uninterrupted.

I get thoroughly lost in Cannock. A bit later I decide to ignore a Road Closed sign, which a mile along the road turns out to be a mistake. The road disappears into a trench that would have stopped a tank.

And then, thirty miles into the afternoon, a familiar voice hails me from across the road. Jake – he of the famous London to Cape Town ride – has come to escort me the last few miles to safety, conviviality, fire-cooked stew, cigars, and the best puddings in the world.

After dinner, Gillian’s paintings come out of their gold box, and are solemnly passed from hand to hand around the table, before being laid out in blessing, in the fading light at the end of a long and beautiful day.