The Pilgrimage

The Pilgrimage

“We’re almost there now.”

It has been a long journey down the whole length of the Cornish peninsula. The day before they had been at the henge. That was an awe-inspiring experience. They had done weaves between the upright monoliths and Lucky, the tour guide, had intoned,

“Think of your ancestors here, among the stones, thousands upon thousands of years ago - And I’m talking human years, not dog years. It was believed this was a ritual site so our forebears may have stood outside of the ring, watching an ancient druid make a sacrifice here, on the central altar. Can you smell the blood? Hear the death throes of a goat or deer or even a human?” They all shivered at the thought. Humans sacrificing humans? Well, they were a self-destructive species. They were always killing each other. They just don’t do it as part of a religious ceremony any more.

“Take a moment,” Lucky continued, “I know, we haven’t got a lot of time here but each of you, take a moment and walk around the stone circle. Go ahead, mark a few of the monoliths. They are upright objects after all. But as you lift your leg and urinate, think of all the dogs before you that have done that exact same action, in this historic sight, all through the years. You, my friends, are now part of history.” As if let off leash for the first time in their lives the group went mad, barking and bouncing all over Stonehenge and liberally leaving their scent on all thirty stones. It hadn’t been that wild and crazy at the circle since the last Beltane ritual.

They were all shattered after their time at the magic stones and as it was starting to rain, they were glad enough to get in the coach and have a good snooze. A few dogs were prone to motion sickness and retched at the back of the coach where the relieving station was but most of them flopped down in their seats and snored away. Of course, the group of three spaniels had to stick their heads out the windows to see whose ears were longest when the wind was blowing them. Honestly, some dogs never grow up.

It was dark by the time they reached the western end of Cornwall. They had stopped at three holy wells along the way. You couldn’t get better drinking water than at a holy well and Cornwall was littered with them. The older dogs insisted the well water made them feel more spry and you don’t want to argue with an arthritic Newfoundland. He might sit on you, or worse still, drown you in drool. They skirted Bodmin Moor, planning to do The Hurlers - another stone circle, and hike up to the stone formation called The Cheesewring, on the way back. You could usually get some good group photos on top of the Cheesewring, if they could get the spaniels to sit still.

Men a Tol was their primary destination though. This was the most holy of all the sites the canine pilgrims visited. Here was the great stone that had been peed on day in and day out, year after year for millennia and then finally the perforation appeared, only small but it grew larger as each generation donated their urine to the creation of the blessed aperture. How many dogs had toiled to create the monument of Men a Tol? And now it stood for all time, the great circle of stone with the middle worn out of it.

It was said that St. Bonio himself had consecrated Men a Tol and it was firmly believed that those dogs that passed through the stone would be blessed. Humans had used the stone to wish for fertility and certainly a bitch going through could count on fine healthy pups and an easy parturition without even considering a c-section. In fact, the president of The Association of Frenchies (AF club) credited Men A Tol with saving their breed from extinction. There were other gifts attributed to passage through the stone’s opening - one dog had won Crufts after visiting Men a Tol. Another had invested in a company that invented slimming drugs for Labradors and had made a mint. A Golden Retriever had got a new hip, a Westie had even stopped scratching. There were so many stories, promises of things that could come true; everyone had a reason to leap into the hoop. Just one more sleep and they would be there.

The pack settled into a pub at St. Ives to spend the night. This was an artists’ community so it was a gastropub and the food was of the best quality; none of your supermarket brands here. There was even a side menu for the raw fed. Being a Border Collie, Lucky was content to see all his charges in one place but did become a bit nervous when he saw the Airedale terrier hit the bar. In his experience, you put a few drinks into a terrier and before you know it, you have a pub brawl. He sidled up to the Airedale and gave him a shoulder bump.

“Hey King Arfer, remember we’re on a pilgrimage, okay?” The terrier lifted his lip at Lucky and then let it fall.

“Sure, buddy but I don’t know why you’re worried about me.” He cocked his head towards a table in the corner where five chihuahuas were doing tequila shots. Lucky let out a long sigh. He wasn’t getting paid enough for this job.

It was a Yorkie though that started the fracas when he spilled a Jack Russel’s beer with a swish of his long locks. There were all kinds of yapping and snarling until the bar man (a huge wolfhound) threw a bucket of water over them and told them to take it outside. The water got the whippets upset causing them to run up to their rooms to hide under their duvets. The rest of the crowd decided to follow the sighthounds example and bed down for the night. It had been a long day.

Lucky watched the last two dogs make their way upstairs, Pippin and Bonzo. It warmed his heart to see them together, leaning into each other, deep brown eyes staring into another set of deep brown eyes. Occasionally one would lick the other delicately on the muzzle. They were so in love. If only they could find their miracle at Men a Tol.

The morning was misty but not raining, yet. The group decided on a beach run first thing before having to get back on the coach. As soon as the whippets hit the sand, they started racing, only stopping to twirl in place and then off they would go again. All the other dogs took after them, thrilling in the speed until the spaniels found a dead fish on the shore and then everyone had to have a good roll on it. Once, on one of these tours, they had come across a dead seal. It had been mayhem. Lucky had to take three pilgrims to hospital for pancreatitis. He’d told them not to eat seal blubber but they had ignored him. Dogs never paid as much attention to Lucky as the sheep used to do.

The smelly fish rolling was interrupted by a paddleboarding dog barking a greeting to the pilgrims. The pack watched in admiration as the dog out in the bay gracefully balanced himself through the swells.

“Where’s he going?” asked the Yorkie, “and what’s that on his board?”

“The locals know where the private coves are,” Lucky explained. “They usually take a picnic basket and spend the day.”

“Bet he’s got a six-pack with him as well,” Rambo intoned. Lucky shrugged. It wouldn’t be his problem if the paddleboarder was too drunk to make it home later in the day.

Back in the coach, the pilgrims took their places. Lucky saw the loving couple curled together on the back seat and smiled to himself. Young love, he remembered it well. He reminded everyone to put their seat belts on while looking sternly at the spaniels. He swore one of the chihuahuas gave him the paw. Never mind, they would be at the monument soon. They could all pass through the stone, make their wishes and he would have them back on the coach by 11.00. Maybe they could get to The Hurlers in time to have sausage rolls for lunch. The village shop there did a mean sausage roll.

The roads are narrow in Cornwall but Lucky was familiar with the route and knew where the passing places were. He never did the backing up though, not in a coach. Let the other driver manoeuvre between the hedges. It was parking that was a problem. He’d have to pull off the road into the mud and there was always the risk of getting stuck. However, he’d have the whole group help dig him out if it came to that.

A solemn air fell over the pack as they descended from the coach and began down the path to the monument. Most walked single file, though Pippin and Bonzo were still side by side. It had grown quiet; all you could hear was the intermittent whimpering of the worried whippets. Lucky glanced at the skinny sighthounds, bundled up in three or four layers. He could see them shaking under their many garments, though they couldn’t be cold today. It was full summer. What was wrong with them? Did they drink too much coffee? He’d once fancied a whippet bitch but her constant anxiety was too much for him. She had been a looker, that long Modigliani face and her super smooth hide but she refused to take the clomipramine he scored for her and ended up agoraphobic. That didn’t work with his career at all.

There was a gasp of wonder when they reached the sight. Lucky usually didn’t say much when they got to Men a Tol. They all knew the story of how the stone had been created. He thought it best to let the majesty of the place sink in. They all stood on their four feet and some even bowed their heads in respect. The whippets stopped their whining and you couldn’t even hear a spaniel sniff.

A cavalier turned to Lucky, “Thank you for bringing us here. Just looking at it gives me hope.”

Lucky nodded at her, “Why don’t you go through first Bella?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” murmured the others. They all knew what she was wishing for, a new mitral valve. Bella stepped up to the stone and then with a little hop, through the circle. She turned around and beamed at the group.

“I feel better already. I’m not even tired after making that jump.” Several dogs barked in applause and then they all lined up for their turn.

The Yorkie was next, chanting, “I am a terrier, not a toy, I am a terrier, not a toy.” When he managed to scramble up through the opening and tipped out the other side, he shook himself off and stood stalwart. “I am a terrier!” he announced.

“You are a terrier,” echoed the Airedale.

The spaniels then, one after another.

“No more ear infections.”

“I hope I don’t lose any more of my tail,” wished the spaniel who had lost part of her tail in a hunting accident.

“Keep grass seeds away from me on my travels.”

“Amen to that!” chorused the pack.

The chihuahuas crawled over each other’s back to get through,

“May I never wear another pink outfit,” declared the first.

“I want to keep my teeth,” snarled another.

“I would like someday, to actually catch a rat, as I was bred to do,” wished a third.

The other two chihuahuas needed to be lifted through the hole by Bess, the Newfoundland. Their vows were muffled by his saliva.

The whippets were next. One wished that he would never be cold again. As he was wearing a fleece with a sheepskin lined raincoat over it, it was hard to believe he was cold now but the other dogs tried their best not to laugh at him. A few snorts were heard, that was all. The second whippet wished it would stop raining.

“That was a wish thrown away,” King Arfer muttered. Lucky gave him the collie stare and he shut up.

“Your turn King.” The Airedale stepped forward and then leapt all the way through the hole, ran up to the standing stone posted opposite and pissed on it.

“What did he wish for?” The pack whispered to each other but only Lucky had heard, ‘To be brave enough to say goodbye’. The big terrier’s boy was leaving. That was rough for any dog to take, much less a tough guy who couldn’t let himself whinge and whine about it.

The Newfoundland stepped through slowly, wishing his joints would hurt less. They all winced as Bess’s knee crunched when she lifted it over the edge of stone.

Then it was the turn of the lovers.

“You go first Pippin,” her partner Bonzo insisted. She stepped through, delicate and graceful as the show dog she had been.

“Your wish,” Lucky reminded her.

“I wish to stay with Bonzo forever.”

Bonzo bounded after her,

“And I wish to always be by your side.”

“Aw,” the collected dogs sighed at the sweetness and the sadness of it. Pippin’s and Bonzo’s human couldn’t afford to keep both dogs anymore. He was going to have to give one of them away. It wasn’t known if dog wishes could have power in the human world. They could only hope.

Lucky always went last on these tours. He usually aspired to a smooth journey home but this time, he contemplated his group. Bella with her failing heart, the little dogs wishing for respect, the spaniels hoping to snuffle through the world without hazards, the ageing Newfie begging to be free of pain. The whippets only desired to be safe and warm, although the Airedale had made that huge request for bravery. And dear Pippin and Bonzo, hoping to live the rest of their lives together. Nothing too miraculous. Maybe he’d step through the magic ring and wish that all their dreams would come true.

He closed his eyes and leapt and for a moment and he could see it - St. Bonio among them, tossing treats to the pack of pilgrims and blessing them with holy well water. It was wonderful, weird, but wonderful. Then he was back in the mundane world, his paws wet from the damp grass. He shook himself all over. The pack looked at him expectantly.

“Tour leaders always wish the same thing, that all their pilgrims get home safely. Now, come on everybody, back to the coach. It’s starting to rain and I don’t want to have to spend all day digging us out of the mud.”

There was a chorus of barks and then the pack raced, trotted and plodded down the path. Next stop would be on Bodmin. Lucky prayed that none of his crew would get mistaken for the beast of Bodmin moor. The last time that happened he’d had to bribe a dog warden and a RSPCA inspector.

It’s going to be fine, he reassured himself. Maybe today we’ll all be Lucky.

Whippet at Men a Tol