Pilgrimage for the Unborn Child 2007

I have been on pilgrimages before; but this one was different. It was a pilgrimage of reparation for the sin of abortion and to obtain graces for our country for it to cease completely. I was told that for several years running people have been walking a route from Goulburn to Canberra, a three-day pilgrimage, over country roads, totalling about 80 kilometres. Not a hard walk, but enough to be good penance. I signed up!

This year two people did it: my friend Michael Baker and I. Thanks to the unobliging Goulburn Council a permit was not issued to enable a large number of people to participate. This matter is being worked on, so please God the day will come when all those who would like to do the annual Pilgrimage for the Unborn Child will be able to.

A good start

Michael and I begin early on Thursday 31 May, rising and breakfasting at 5:30 am, followed by an hour's drive to 7:00 am Mass in Goulburn. We cannot start without paying respects to an ancient custom: the blessing of the pilgrims as they set out. Fr Stephen Byrnes is only too happy to give it. Father Byrnes is the local military vicar and will soon be in Iraq. Knowing how much chaplains are needed there, he is eager to go but agrees it will be hard. We promise to pray for him and leave.

Today's destination will be Tarago, 37 k down the road. The morning is frigid as we reach Goulburn Catholic Cathedral. To start officially the pilgrimage we both lay our hands on the main doors. This simple little ceremony will be repeated at the other end when we arrive at Canberra Cathedral. Then we are off.

The rising sun does little to soften the sharp nip in the air. But we are excited with the kind of excitement one feels when setting out on an adventure. We hardly notice our slight shivering. After a while of walking we will warm up anyway.

Soon we are into beautiful countryside as ridges and valleys stretch out before us. For the next two days -until we reach Canberra - we will be constantly treated to lovely scenery.

It is not long before we have settled down into a rhythm. We are now able to turn our thoughts to more lofty things and soon we are deep into conversation. It is curious how on a long walk like this the patterns of behaviour of normal existence seem to drop away and another behaviour pattern takes over.

Thinking, conversing and praying all seem easier. Gradually one enters into another world where the pace of existence is more in tune with the needs of a human being. We might as well be on another planet to the people whizzing past in cars. I can't help feeling some pity for them, in those glorified tin cans, trapped in a frenetic fast-paced world from which I have mercifully been released for a few days.

There is a great sense of freedom when one is travelling in a small group - a group of two in our case. When we feel like having lunch we simply find the next available grassy bank and plonk down. I have made the mistake of thinking we'd pass places where I could buy something. But no, we are really out in the wilderness. Not that I mind being in the wilderness; it is just that now I have a problem to solve, namely, hunger.

But I need not have worried. Michael has had the foresight to bring a bit of extra food and generously shares it with me. Munching on Michael's bread and cheese I am entertained by his demonstration of his ingenious home-made spirit burner producing two cups of boiling water in a couple of minutes.

On the open road

I always find being out on the open road an exhilarating thing. This road in particular has a very open feel in the flatlands south of Goulburn. In mid-afternoon we enter a tiny village with the ponderous name of Lake Bathurst. We spot a cemetery roadside and without hesitation choose it for afternoon tea-break. We repeat our custom of reciting at each cemetery the De Profundis, the Church's prayer for the dead. It's a good deal for both the living and the dead: we get a rest; they get a prayer.

While leaving the village with the ponderous name, the sight of a teashop results in an immediate temptation to go in. But we suppress it quickly by authoritatively advising each other that any delay now will mean arriving in Tarago after dark. Stoically quickening our pace we leave Lake Bathurst behind.

The ale at the Loaded Dog Inn at Tarago tastes like the nectar of the Gods at the end of a day on the road. Their dinner is equally delicious. And this is another advantage of a journey of this sort. All the simple things of life take on new meaning. The good meal, the hot shower and comfy bed taken for granted in normal life become delightful pleasures to be savoured. It's all a matter of a different perspective, I suppose.

High country, high spirits

Day two. After breakfast we say to good-bye to Mark and Nicole, owners of the Loaded Dog. Passing the local church we pay respects to the Blessed Sacrament.

Now we start climbing into the hills below Tarago. The going is harder than yesterday thanks to the road, which rises for several hours before we clear the top. And yesterday's kilometres have taken their toll, leaving us somewhat stiff and sore. As they saying goes, watch out for the second day!

Being amongst the hills the views are shorter today. But the magnificence of the surrounding trees more than makes up for it. Mountain Lorries (aka Crimson Rosells) wheel amongst the bushes on either side, flashes of red against the greenery. A spot of delicate orange-red on the ground catches our eye. We investigate, and see a freshly killed flame robin. Its colours are astonishing. Maybe a car hit it. We amuse ourselves keeping track of the variety of objects that have been thrown from passing vehicles. Every imaginable artefact known to man seems to be represented.

Passing cars often hoot their horns. From time to time the bellow of a truck adds variety. Some are clearly giving encouragement. Others seem to be hostile. After a while you can tell the difference between a friendly toot and an annoyed bong. Trying to discern whether friend or foe becomes another source of entertainment. It is obvious we are not ordinary hikers as the statue of the Infant of Prague that we carry gives us away, as do the rosary beads swinging from our hands much of the time.

I note the number of little crosses and mini shrines commemorating those killed along the way. What tragedies this road, for us the route of an enjoyable walk, has witnessed. Little inscriptions recount the people who love and miss so-and-so. We decide to say a De Profunids at these spots as well.

We are close to Bungendore now, the destination of today's march. We'll be there in an hour at this pace, but fatigue causes us to throw ourselves on a grassy patch for a rest. We lie there for a while lightly dozing and listening to the hiss of the wind in the tall grass. Michael springs up. A smiling face is approaching from a stopped car. It is John O'Shea, a Christian Brother who will lodge us tonight. He has kindly come out to greet us.

Later when we arrive bone weary at Brother John's place there is a welcoming hot cuppa waiting for us. Over dinner Brother John recounts the affairs of the local Church. There are four parishes associated with Bungendore. Formerly each one had a priest. Today there is one priest for all four as the congregations have dwindled. Brother takes care of St Mary's, the picturesque little parish church next to his house. I ask where the people went. To the cities, he replies.

The dinner and a hot shower seem to bring me back to life. Brother John kindly leaves his lovely little church open for us into the evening so we are able spend time there with Our Lord. Watching the red vigil lamp flickering in the silent darkness I think of all that has happened here over the years: the Masses said, the sinners restored to peace in the confessional, the graces received. Blessed Mary McKillop prayed here during her visit many years ago. In moments like this the Real Presence is especially palpable. Passing back to the house I pause to admire a full moon peeking serenely through the clouds and bathing the tranquil night with its ghostly light.

Journey's end

Day three is our last day and Brother John drives us past a treacherous stretch of road to today's starting point. Brother could not have been kinder to us, and it is with regret we say good-bye. We pick up a cycle trail and head towards the goal the pilgrimage, Canberra Cathedral.

It is one of those lovely autumn mornings common in Canberra. Yellow and red leaves drift from trees and float in the golden sunshine. The rustling carpet of fallen foliage at our feet tells us autumn is well underway. Today the blueness of the sky seems particularly intense. We chance on a clearing in a pinewood where logs have been arranged around for many people to sit on, but we are utterly alone. We have our last morning tea of the pilgrimage while enjoying the scent of the pines in the balmy autumn air.

Before we know it we are at the Cathedral. The end of the pilgrimage is a moment of both sadness that it is over and of joy at having achieved something worthwhile. We pray our pilgrimage prayers, joined by a friend on my mobile phone.

And we linger there for a while, savouring the last blessings of the magnificent three days of the 2007 Pilgrimage for the Unborn Child.