Sitting here in the middle of April with rain coming down, I long for a journey. A trek to a place of sun and adventure. Or, maybe a wind swept moor. It’s time for a pilgrimage, as Chaucer and his fellow pilgrims knew full well. Time to travel towards a sacred story. Time to get away in order better to live the story back at home.
Where would you go? What story would you follow?
The drought of March has pierced unto the root
And bathed each vein with liquor that has power
To generate therein and sire the flower;
When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,
Quickened again, in every holt and heath,
The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun
Into the Ram one half his course has run,
And many little birds make melody
That sleep through all the night with open eye
(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)-
Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage, . . .
Canterbury Tales Prologue, Geoffrey Chaucer