Just before 8 am, on July 30, 2014, I made my way to a church in Kensington, London. As I drew nearer I saw smoke rising, and, nearer still, found a young man puffing on a fat cigar. It was then I knew I had arrived at the right place.
I had come to join the Catholic G.K. Chesterton Society’s annual pilgrimage, now in its fourth year. This consisted of a trek from the center of London, beginning at the church Chesterton was baptized in, to the place he now lies buried, some 30 or so miles away in the country town of Beaconsfield. The young man greeted me with a smile as I sat down and waited for others to join us. That said, there was no telling who was going to turn up. On its inaugural outing, the walk consisted of only two people, one of whom was the organizer, Stuart McCullough. So, if nothing else, having spoken to him earlier that week, I was expecting at least one other to arrive. He had better, I thought, as he had the route map.
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