Flat: Norfolk Shrine

Flat is a series of pieces on some trips I made into the heart of East Anglia with a little bit of music listening thrown in for good measure along the way. This is the fifth part of what will comprise seven posts and it covers my trip up into Norfolk to visit the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham.

Walsingham is a village in Norfolk where there are shrines to the Virgin Mary following a series of visions experienced by an Anglo-Saxon noblewoman in 1061. It was a major place of pilgrimage in the middle ages until its destruction during the time of the Reformation, at the beginning of the 20th century the shrine was revived and it is once again a popular place to visit, primarily but not exclusively, for Christians.

It was a sunny Monday morning early September when I set off in my Prius to drive to Norfolk. Up until a couple of years ago Monday mornings would have been a different kettle of fish, back in the time before we pulled the plug on Wisdom Books, the small company where I had worked for the last 27 years, when I still bought into the daytime illusion that business was the meaning of life. I had originally planned to go to Walsingham a few months ago, back in June, but on my way up I had changed my mind just past Swaffham on the A1065 and ended up in Cromer instead, a seaside town in north east Norfolk where there was a curious mix of tourists and down at heel locals for me to view, a considerable number of whom appeared to be either on medication or drugs. Or maybe it was me who was on the drugs, just seeing things strangely after nearly three hours driving.

I stayed in Cromer long enough to have fish and chips by the sea before getting out of there, later in the day ending up in Felixstowe, home to Treasure Chest, a second hand bookshop from where I picked up a paperback copy of a book called The Tantric Tradition for the princely sum of three quid. Clearly on that occasion my need for redemption or whatever it was you are supposed to get from shrines, fizzled out along the way. Maybe I shouldn’t have played the music quite so loud on the Prius sound system whilst going up. Music by the way, which had been some high quality, firing on all cylinders Def Leppard by way of Def Leppard, their 2015 eponymous album. This time around there was no doubt I would make it, if only to see what it was all about, shrines to the Virgin Mary in the fields of north Norfolk and all that, with no need to participate any further if I didn’t feel so inclined.

On the hard drive of my Prius was Stadium Arcadium by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, their 2006 effort divided into two parts – Jupiter and Mars – duly dishing out prime time slices of Californian funk rap infused with quality guitar straddling the borders of metal and hard rock, and which had to be played at high volume. This provided good company for me as I made my way up the M11 to junction 9 where I took the filter onto the A11 / A14 in the direction of Norwich, by now bombing along at speed due to a convenient lack of cameras whilst those Red Hot Chilies were bursting out of the speakers. It took me a little over an hour to drive from Woodford and reach the roundabout west of Thetford to take me onto the A1065 which headed due north in the direction of Walsingham. Once on the A1065 I turned the music off and opened the windows for the warm late summer breezes to blow in through the car, let them wash over me whilst making my way up the Norfolk Trail, England’s piece of the great wide open cast upon its eastern flats.

I have to admit there was no particularly pressing reason for me to go to Walsingham. As far as I knew I wasn’t sick, did not need to get healed of anything, well, apart from the obvious, did not feel any great burden of the soul for which I might have been seeking solace and redemption. It was simply a place on the map I had read about, don’t even recall where now, a place which people in the dim distant past had made great efforts to try to get to. It was strange when I thought about it. There I was in my Prius on a beautiful September Monday morning, those echoes of late summer in the clouds and sky, driving along to Walsingham with those rapping Red Hot Chili Peppers freshly imprinted on my consciousness. I wondered what those pious medieval kings and queens would have made of all that if they had been around. They were people who had made the pilgrimage to Walsingham in the true sense of the word, in acts of deep faith and penitence, hoping that the power of the place would be strong enough to wash away their sins in order for them to gain salvation. Edward I for example was a heavy duty English king in anyone’s book, the last ruling monarch to kill another man in one to one combat, so when he made the trip to Walsingham it would have been a deadly serious business. Felt like I was far, far away from such circumstances. In comparison to those true believers I was little more than a ghost in the machine, drifting along, going there on little more than a whim, not expecting any miracles or for my mind to get blasted by any great revelation. Nevertheless I did intend to sit and meditate once I got there if it was at all possible, because meditation was the closest I got to any kind of spiritual practice. If the shrine scene was peaceful I would quietly sit, do some breathing meditation, go with the flow and then probably leave it at that.

The lower parts of the A1065 skirted the edge of Thetford Forest on one side and the UK/US air base of Mildenhall on the other. Since it was a military area there were plenty of Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes fluttering in the breeze side by side, different designs in the red, white and blue of our special relationship. The road passed along the end of the vast runway at Mildenhall which was protected by a high fence with barbed wire on the top of it. There were a couple of sets of traffic lights and a 20 mph speed limit so as to slow us all down to a crawl, thus ensuring that somewhere no doubt, every single number plate would have been snapped by a hidden camera. I was surprised to see so many cars and vans parked along the side of the road, with men outside of them on the grass verges, all with high powered cameras pointing at the runway. Turning my head I saw a couple of fighter jets getting ready for take-off in a fury of fire and noise, and that of course was the reason why the men were there, to check out the kit. It all seemed like a club for the boys, anyone who wasn’t white, male, middle aged and slightly overweight would stand out a mile. So I guess it was fortunate, yet possibly tragic, that I could have pulled up my Prius and blended right in.

Since I had already driven the A1065 a few months previously on that aborted first attempt to reach Walsingham, I decided this time around to stay on it only halfway, then take the A134 westbound at Mundford, a road which would connect onto the A10 a few miles east of King’s Lynn. Thought I might as well shake things up and do things different, not follow the same route as before, in other words see what else there was to see. Once I got to King’s Lynn I would take the A149 which would follow the north Norfolk coast along the top, past the seaside town of Hunstanton and across to Wells next the Sea, before dropping down on the B1105 to reach Walsingham. Go the long way round in other words.

This was pretty much the route I took and it might have been OK if it wasn’t for a couple of things which I did not foresee. First problem was that the countryside west of Mundford on the A134 was rather dull and flat, clearly it was land farmed on an industrial scale, with super sized tractors and trailers wherever I looked. They were either in the fields or making their way onto the road, which made things tricky when it came to overtaking them, especially when you were behind the wheel of a Prius. There were also more than one or two seriously massive pig farms in the area, the smells from which were extremely potent and unpleasant, so much so that I had no choice but to wind up the windows of the car so as to stop things from getting too overpowering. This part of the country was clearly where a lot of our bacon came from, probably sausages too, and it did make me wonder, not for the first time, just what the hell were we doing as human beings on Planet Earth? Second issue that I had was the A149 coast road east of Hunstanton was narrow and way too busy with traffic, having far too many pinch points as it wound its way through what would otherwise have been a series of quite attractive Norfolk villages; they were so damn fume choked that it was a relief to get out of them as quickly as possible.

Before hitting the coast road at the top of Norfolk I drove into Hunstanton to see if it was worth stopping there for a coffee, but from a sprawling Tesco Extra onwards it was very busy, the sheer numbers of people who were there put me off for some reason, they were just sitting around like they were a bunch of dozy penguins with cappuccinos in front of them. It was only a Monday in September but there were plenty of punters out in their cars for a day trip, people clearly with nothing else better to do; in other words people like me, now that I come to think about it. By the time I got to Wells next the Sea I had been on the road for over two hours and it was already past midday. I did think of stopping there but when I drove through the middle of town it was also jam packed with people and it would have been a hell of a hassle finding somewhere to park. All of a sudden it left me feeling tired and irritated, thinking that all the other drivers on the road were either cretins, shit-for-brains, or both.

So I had to keep things simple, just get to my destination without any more messing around. The good news was that the B1105 down to Walsingham from Wells was free of traffic which meant I could drive fast, and soon enough I was on the single track road which after a mile or so took me more or less straight into the main car park of the village. There was a fair smattering of other vehicles already there, cars and a couple of mini buses, but it was by no means full, clearly most people were staying by the sea for the day rather than heading inland to pray. I got out of my Prius and had a good stretch of my legs before I walked over to the ticket machine and pumped a couple of quid into it, enough for a two hour stay, which I guessed was about all I would need.

The village of Walsingham was quiet with an air of peace and tranquil serenity about it which relaxed me as I walked down to the Anglican shrine of the Virgin Mary. Slowly I began to shrug off the effects of the last few hours behind the wheel, where towards the end when driving through Wells next the Sea I had got more than a little agitated. Walsingham was quiet enough to hear the birds singing, warm enough to enjoy late summer breezes blowing across my face, and safe enough for me not to worry about cars or lorries racing down the main street, swishing past me at a distance too close for comfort and possibly sending me skywards. Once inside the grounds of the Anglican spiritual complex I made my way to the chapel in which the shrine was located and at the third time of asking I found the correct door to open in order to go inside. Don’t quite know what happened there. The first two doors, which to me seemed the obvious ones to try, were locked and it was only after seeing people emerge from the third that I worked out it must be the one. Sometimes I was just plain dumb, simple as that! Despite the fact I had not drunk or eaten anything since leaving Woodford I was not particularly hungry or thirsty, as a matter of fact I felt pretty good, energised and keen to sit in front of the shrine to do my meditation.

The shrine was located at the back of the chapel and there were rows of lighted candles in front of the room it was in, which for some reason threw me off track, not quite knowing what to do. Nevertheless after sticking 30p in the box I picked up one of the candles and lit it from a candle already burning, then as I put it in its holder I mumbled something to myself along the lines of “For all the people I know” which in actual fact I was pretty pleased with, thinking it covered all the bases as far as being some kind of wish for the well being of others. Inside the shrine room were a few chairs you could sit on at the back and look at the wall opposite, where there was a statue of the Virgin Mary holding a baby Jesus who was staring straight at her, helpless yet looking very much like the Son of God. Rays of divine light were emanating in all directions from behind the top of the Virgin Mary’s head, all the more effective when set against the black background of the wall behind her. The intensity of the image was further enhanced by the deep, dark wood panels running along each side of the room, on which were shelves filled with many offerings left in remembrance of people either living or dead, offerings in the form of tokens, candles, tea lights, prayers, or simple notes. All of which made quite an impression on me as I quickly tried to take it all in.

I then sat down to bring my mind into focus in order to do a session of breathing meditation which I anticipated would take me around 25 minutes to complete, as this was what I had planned. A man and woman occupied two of the other chairs and as I began to settle down, bring the rhythm of my breath into focus, the man coughed a few times in a very strange manner. It was a bent out of shape cough, not quite right, and it dawned on me that it was possibly the reason why he was there; to find some healing, some relief from whatever it was that caused him to cough like that. Within a few minutes or so the couple got up and left the room which was good news for me because it minimized distractions and left me on my own, which was pretty much how it remained until I had finished my session. It allowed me to get down to business, concentrate on my breathing with all the associations and sensations which went with the pulling of the in breath and the pushing of the out breath, along with the before, middle and after; those periods in which the rhythm was stilled. At a certain point I got the distinct impression there were a couple of figures hovering around on the outer edges of the shrine and that they were a pair of large women from Eastern Europe, possibly Russian, that they were wore black dresses and talked in whispers. Distinctly odd feeling, whatever it was.

Meditation in front of that shrine was easy, quite blissful in fact, something for which I felt blessed and grateful without quite knowing why, other than that my concentration was clear and focused. Might have simply been that the meditation was done in a location which for centuries had built up an accumulation of human prayers, wishes and various other pacts with the invisible. All of them on the part of pilgrims from places far and wide, all quite probably in fervent hope of a good outcome. Many centuries of people wanting the best to happen for themselves, their loved ones, the whole world possibly, and all based on an Anglo Saxon noble lady’s visions from a long time ago, five years before William the Conqueror in fact. Once I had finished what I had planned to do I got up and left the shrine room, walked back into the chapel where a nun was mopping the floors, and then out into the gardens on what was now a stunningly beautiful day in what was a hidden away part of north Norfolk.

Since I was feeling more than a little hungry, I made my way through the gardens to the cafe where I had a cheese salad sandwich, a pot of tea and a slice of Norfolk currant cake. It all came in at just under 10 quid which I didn’t think was particularly cheap but whilst the sandwich was indifferent, too many onions in the salad for a start, the tea was very refreshing and the piece of currant cake fantastic. I sat at a table on my own, happy for the solitude, to be able to tap and swipe my mobile phone in between wolfing down my food. Sitting afterwards in the gardens outside the cafe I soaked up the rays of the sun whilst looking over some green mounds on which had been placed three crosses stuck out at odd angles. I gazed at them, mind blank, clearly not yet ready for conversion. There were other people in the gardens, either sitting on their own or in quiet conversation, no doubt each with their own story which on this particular day had brought them to Walsingham, and in that regard they were pretty much the same as me. Some of them might be there for a while, because the Anglicans who tended the shrine and performed all connected services, prayers and rituals, had enough accommodation in the complex for up to a couple of hundred people, so it was no doubt a popular place to stay for a few days, or even longer for those who were that way inclined, either through faith or curiosity.

Time had flown and I had my car park ticket to think about, because pilgrimage place or not, there were bound to be some eagle eyed parking wardens hovering around, waiting to pounce the minute you went over your time. So, after a quick walk around the rest of the village in order to stretch my legs, I headed back to the car park where I sat in the front seat of my Prius for a few minutes to knock out a couple of texts on my mobile phone. Once they were done I was good to go, straight down the A1065 and ultimately the M11 which would then take me back to Woodford. It was an extremely pleasant experience driving along at around 60 miles an hour, windows open, with a warm breeze blowing through the car and this time not a pig farm in sight, just some awesome Norfolk countryside to feast my eyes upon. Once I was at the bottom of the A1065 I rolled up the windows for the motorway and stuck on Stadium Arcadium – Jupiter this time instead of Mars – from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who of course had been on the deck for my drive up. Gotta say that when it came to the Peppers, Stadium Arcadium was the last of a triple run of theirs which I thought to be the best albums they had ever come up with, the other two being Californication and By The Way. No doubt diehard fans would have other ideas and possibly include none of those three at all in their own lists, but there you go, that was simply my take on it, and ya can rap my knuckles bad if ya wanna wanna.

A few nights after taking my trip up to Walsingham I woke up at around 4.30 in the morning with the following words firmly lodged in my mind’s eye, they were clear enough for me to get up and fetch my writing pad to write them down.

wealth on Earth is health,
death eats into the heart’s years

The core of these words was the ea centrality. Bizarrely when I got to this ea in my mind, the only words which appeared were extra-terrestrial and alien, followed by the conclusion that we are not of this planet, that we originate from somewhere else. A bit of a leap I know, peculiarly illogical, but there it is.

The importance of the ancient lady’s visions nearly 1000 years ago, lay not so much in their content but in the energy which empowered them. After all, pretty much everyone back then in Anglo-Saxon England would have been into Jesus and Mary, so it is not surprising that what she saw had Biblical associations. No, their power lay in the fact they opened a window to the wider universe, the great immensity which lies beyond the Earth, and within that immensity there is the place we originally came from. This window has the properties of being both invisible and magnetic. Therefore, since that point in time way back in 1061, Walsingham has become a place which human beings have journeyed to, without them necessarily knowing the real reasons for making the trek. On one level of course they are going there to receive the blessings of the Virgin Mary, with all the potentially wonderful healing properties those blessings might carry, but on a deeper, hidden level they are going to Walsingham to be by the window which is a gateway to home, something far more overwhelming, and way beyond the hand of any human being, of God even.