Charles Moseley – writer, scholar, traveller, speaker – records a journey alone, on foot, across a British countryside almost empty now but full of ancient memory, and records his meditations upon the intersection of past and present, of the holy and the humdrum. His many paths include the way to Walsingham, a Holy Week pilgrimage against the usual tide from Ely to Cambridge, St Herbert's Island in Derwentwater, the Holy Island off Arran, and further pilgrimages to Iona, and Lindisfarne. What makes such places numinous? What gives them that peculiar quality that even those who are sceptical of such things find strange, even challenging? This exceptional observation of the natural and internal landscapes revealed by solitary pilgrimage is a journey that cannot be finished this side of eternity.
