Walking Among the Saints

 My poem, Walking Among the Saints, was written in 2023, but came to mind recently as I pondered my summer pilgrimage to Scotland (on my own) and Ireland (with Little Coracles). 

In Glasgow, Scotland I wandered through the Necropolis which sits at the highest point overlooking the city. The Necropolis is a Victorian-era cemetery containing graves and mausoleums of Glaswegians from that period into today (if a family holds deed to a plot purchased long ago). 

 

 

 

 

In the Dunfanaghy, County Donegal, Ireland we visited several sites where St. Columba visited or lived, such as Glen Colm Cille Abbey, as well as the Beltany Stone Circle. Once again we found ourselves walking among saints, as well as with the memories of those who lived long before Christianity came to the island.

 There are myriad of thin places in our world - those places and times when we feel as though the here and now are close enough to the ethereal that they all but touch one another. We need not go on a pilgrimage to find them, though a trip to somewhere like Iona, Scotland or the northern most reaches of Ireland can certain help. The ancient Celts even understood that we, ourselves, can become thin places in this world. In 2015 St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Smithfield, NC installed a labyrinth and created a columbarium around its outer edge (see photos below). To find oneself walking among the saints is to experience those thin places - not only surrounding us, but enfolding us and taking root within us.

 

 

 

Walking Among the Saints

It has been said by those more gifted,

all who wander are not lost.

Words I remember as I wind my way

among the markers of saints gone by.

 

Crepe Myrtles offer their shade,

releasing blossoms on the breeze

like tears of remembrance,

both happy and sad.

 

One cannot get lost wandering a labyrinth,

yet I often find myself bringing

my own lostness wrapped about me

as I turn, and turn, and turn again.

 

“Leave your lostness with us,”

the saints whisper as I pass them by.

“Shed among us what troubles you,

even as the Crepe Myrtles shed their petals.

 

Tree, and rock, and dust

are but an illusion,” they murmur.

“Even our whispers are merely a hint

Of the journey that waits beyond.”

 

Jim Melnyk, 08/04/2023

Pilgrimage Poems

Of Thin Places and Puffins

Puffins.

How can you not chuckle?

Floating calmly on frigid swells, then

Spiraling flight reaching to the heights,

Leading to crash landings, bumping along

          With tiny fish held tightly

                   In bright orange beaks.

 

The wonder of thin places comes alive

          With the improbability of it all –

Witnessed in the ancient rhythm of their lives.

Sailing far off in arctic chill,

The bleak gray skies meeting cold sea below,

But returning always to their ancient cliffs,

         Lifted high on beating wings,

                As sure as winter turns to spring.

 Jim Melnyk, 5/29/2025

 

 

High on Sliabh Liag*

High on Sliabh Liag's edge

Ewe and lamb stand grazing,

Buffeted by winds and

Pelted by early summer's rain.

 

Whispering cliffs keep them safe,

Guiding footfalls from loose stone

And lifting spirits

For those who pause to listen.

 

Jim Melnyk 7/8/2025

*pronounced "Sleeve League"

 

The Pilgrimage Before The Pilgrimage

 The Pilgrimage Before The Pilgrimage

Back in 2024 Lorraine and I completed a faith-inspiring pilgrimage to Iona, Scotland with Little Coracles, a pilgrimage program created by my niece and a colleague of hers. That 2024 Iona experience led me to jump at their 2025 Pilgrimage opportunity in Ireland (which I've mentioned in a previous entry). But an unexpected thing happened to me on the way to Ireland. To set the stage I have to go back five years to my retirement as a full time Episcopal Priest after 31+ years of active duty (bear with me - there is a good story here).

Retirement, which was supposed to be a gateway to world travel, happened in the midst of the COVID 19 lock-down. Farewells were shared as parishioners slowly drove by the church where Lorraine and I sat in lawn chairs set up across the sidewalk from their parade. There was a basket where farewell gifts could be deposited (and later disinfected with Clorox wipes). One present was a gift certificate to a local independent bookstore. Thankfully, reading was something that could be done during lock-down!

So, in September 2020, I was introduced to DCI Daley in the Scottish detective series written by Denzil Meyrick. Meyrick's series (now numbering 12 books) were set mostly in a small town on the east coast of the Kintyre Peninsula of Scotland's west coast. The town of Kinloch was inspired by Campbeltown, where Meyrick lived and worked for many years. By the end of the first book I was in love with Kinloch and the people who populated Meyrick's mysteries. I began dreaming of a chance to visit Campbeltown and walk the streets of Meyrick's fictional village. I even began corresponding with him about the possibility of visiting the town (something good coming out of Facebook!). I even floated the possibility of perhaps meeting him for a wee dram in Glasgow on the way there - to which he responded he would be honored.

Denzil reminded me a couple of times that Campbeltown is "a small, provincial place, with its own charm." He suggested I consider staying at the Argyll Arm Hotel, the place and staff that inspired the County Hotel in his books. He and I exchanged a few messages through early November 2024. In March 2025 I wrote to fill him in on my final plans for time in both Glasgow and Campbeltown, and the hope that we might meet over drinks. Uncharacteristically for Denzil, a week or more went by without a reply, so I tried again, without success. After a short search, I learned that Denzil Meyrick, age 59, had died rather unexpectedly in early February of 2025. I felt as though I had lost a friend - even though we never conversed beyond Facebook Messenger. I found myself heart-broken in a way that didn't seem rational, but it was every bit as real as if we had known each other for years.

 My plans were already in place - airline tickets and hotel reservations (I couldn't get into the Argyll, but stayed at the Ardshiel). Denzil had told me it was a "nice little hotel with a really good whisky bar" (and he was right). Taking Denzil's advice, I flew into Campbeltown on a Logan Air de Havilland Twin Otter Turboprop (seven rows of seats), only a 45 minute flight rather than the six - eight hour arduous bus trip down the spine of Kintyre.

 

The first person I met in town was a cab driver who took me from the airport (basically a one-room building) to my hotel. I told him my tale which had morphed from possibly meeting my "pen pal" to hoisting a wee dram in honor of his memory. The driver had known Denzil, and had actually worked with him at one time - possibly it was at Springbank Distillery. "Denzil loved this town," the cabbie told me. The person who checked me in at The Ardshiel told me the same thing. Later that day I dropped in at The Argyll Arms, and explained that though I wasn't staying there, I had a purpose for visiting. The

woman who welcomed me warmly said, "Oh, Denzil! We're all in his books, you know. Every one of us here. I bet you can tell who I am!" I'm pretty sure I could (why didn't I suggest she might be Annie, who managed the bar at The County through most of the books?). She pointed me to their small bar where Denzil, the hotel staff, and various townsfolk, would hold forth over drinks. Later that night (after a couple of great whisky tours and tastings) I came back to hoist a glass in honor of my friend.

 That evening I found myself sitting across the barroom from a couple of locals as I quietly toasted my friend with a Glen Scotia 10 Year Old Single Malt in a small glass (Denzil's first book is titled, Whisky in Small Glasses). As I stood up to leave the two called me over. "Did you enjoy your whisky?" they asked. "You must be an American," he said. "I can tell by your hat!" I wondered if he thought I was trying to look like a cowboy? That brief exchange became the beginning of a delightfully unexpected conversation which turned to the topic of my lost friend. "Oh, Denzil," the woman said. "He was our next door neighbor for some time." Her companion added, "Denzil was quite a character!" He mentioned that more than once, so it must have been true! They told me how he had bought a failing bar to save it. I'd later meet the part owner of the local launderette who had bought the building after Denzil moved away. He and I spent the entire wash cycle talking about his love for the town. "There are two reasons for moving to a new place," he said. "A new job or a woman. For me it was both." His wife had grown up in Campbeltown. 

I was walking back to the hotel, talking with Lorraine on the phone, when Lorraine commented that this was a pilgrimage of its own - a pilgrimage on the way to my planned pilgrimage. It didn't start out that way, but as I continued to meet the wonderful and welcoming folks of Campbeltown, I realized the truth behind Lorraine's comment. In 2020, and across the ensuing years, I had fallen in love with Kinloch. In mid-June 2025, I fell in love with Campbeltown - the Campbeltown that Denzil Meyrick had known and loved.

One Step Further - Jim Melnyk

One Step Further

There were times I knew I couldn't take one step further - one more step up the hill to a clifftop - one step further down the hill to a beach. My damn knee hurt too much. Or my legs were too tired. The rocks were too slick. There were times I knew I couldn't take one step beyond the last step, which was one more step beyond what I swore was my last.

But there was always someone taking those steps ahead of me to inspire me, or by my side to encourage my lagging spirit. Morris and Alice struck out immediately for Hell Hole at Malin Head. I wanted to follow, even though I knew all the initial downhill portion of the trail meant an uphill trek coming back to the bus. Jennifer, Jenny, and Matt quickly caught up to me and passed by - but Jenny and Jennifer each spent some time walking alongside me. I joked about them driving me forward, but actually, they were accompanying me in a way that seemed to share their strength and energy. And there were so many others - who took time to check in on me time and again. Pilgrims who walked with me along the Derry Wall and Derry's Bogside (thanks Corrine and Allison), or sat with me to rest climbing up from Maghera Beach, or shared a room in Dunfanaghy (thanks, Don!).

On All Saints' Day we talk a lot about being surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses - but that most often refers to those saints who went before us in ages past. Now, I'm certain Brigid, Brenden, and Columba walked with us to Malin Head that day. I could feel their presence enfolding me. But even more important was my pilgrim community walking with me along the furthest northern reaches of Ireland - a communion of living saints. Thanks be to God.

Without my fellow pilgrims from Little Coracles I wouldn't have stood on the cliffs' edges of Slieve Liag, watching a ewe and her lamb grazing at dizzying heights, or tossed my three rocks to the Wishing Stone on Tory Island (though I only landed two of my three tosses). Without my living

communion of saints I wouldn't have found myself stretched out over the edge of the island cliff to photograph the Puffins - wondrous creatures who make my heart sing and my soul laugh. I wouldn't have stood at Malin Head that day and experienced the roaring, buffeting winds, the captivating view of the icy blue ocean waters crashing of the jagged rocks far, far, below, or stretched out on the grassy mountain's edge in the bright sunshine, on what felt like the very top of the world.