The day we arrived in Jerusalem

When I was a little girl, people talked in slightly hushed tones of ‘going on Pilgrimage to the Holy Land’. We Catholics do not, any longer, have the same imperative to go on pilgrimage as, say, the Muslims with the Haj. It was not always so. In the Middle Ages, and beyond, the idea of Pilgrimage, of travelling to the holy sites to atone for sin and to reawaken faith, was encouraged, endorsed and, sometimes, imposed. Over the centuries, we have become more relaxed, possibly more decadent, certainly less imbued with a sense of sin and the need for repentance.

Yet still there remains an idea of Pilgrimage. People continue to head to the Holy Land in little bands, part holiday, part prayer, sometimes slightly uncomfortable, a little prone to make light of it. It is the ‘well, I might as well go and see’ attitude that we bring to so much else today.

I must admit that I have always wanted to make this trip. For as long as I can remember it has been one of my top five. I always knew that someday I would do it. But I never thought the opportunity would arrive when I had booked another holiday, was in the middle of fighting for the NHS and had a million other things I needed to do. Perhaps this is always the way: this is not meant to be a comfort break.

Anyway, the opportunity was too good too pass up: the Cambridge Chaplaincy, the Chaplain (a highly intelligent and amusing man), a recently retired Professor of Eastern History, another historian, and a group of intelligent and interesting people. I rearranged my diary, collected my pennies from every possible source, and said I would go.

I have to admit that I was less sure yesterday evening as I set my alarm for 0500 this morning, having only landed back in England at 2030. However, when the alarm went I was already wide-awake, excited beyond measure. The flight was fine, the airport impressive. And now we are here. As we drove from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, you could feel the coach getting quieter. When we stopped to view the old city of Jerusalem from a hill above it, we were all awed.

Of course, it didn’t last. An hour in the bar and we were back to our normal selves! Or were we? The conversation at dinner was erudite and instructive. It made me realise how much I miss Cambridge (no offence Nottingham). But also, how much I miss the Chaplaincy there, with its extraordinary scholarship, friendliness, openness to all comers. Fisher House is a great place. It has contributed much to the University of Cambridge and to the life and health of Catholicism in England. I am privileged to have been a small cog in that wheel for a tiny space of time. I shall pray on this trip for many things, but Fisher House will certainly be one of them. It is a great institution. Long may it continue.