Scaling new heights in Rome

Once in a while it really hits people that they don’t have to experience the world the way they’ve been told to.  Alan Keightly

I’ve climbed a few mountains in my travels. I’ve scaled the 1237 steps to the Tiger cave temple in Thailand and made my way up several other steep staircases to magnificent temples, castles and rooftops all around the world, but the hardest climb I’ve ever made was up just 28 wooden steps in Rome.

My journey up the Scala Sancta, the Holy Stairs, also known as Pilate’s Stairs was one made on my knees.

The Scala Sancta are housed in one of the most important papal sanctuaries in the Roman Catholic Church. I grew up indoctrinated in the Catholic faith but was never aware these stairs existed. By luck and a Lonely Planet guide-book, I discovered them on a trip to Italy some years ago.  Early one morning I set off on foot to locate the very unassuming building that houses this treasured relic.

It is thought Jesus climbed these stairs, once part of Pontius Pilate’s palace in Jerusalem, on the day he was sentenced to death. The stairs were later transported to Rome by Saint Helena, she secured a number of other holy relics also. The Holy Stairs were housed in a few places before the current sanctuary. The marble has been covered with wooden treads to protect them from wear and at certain points there are little glass windows that offer a view to the marble beneath and to stains, thought to be the actual blood of Jesus.

The truly devout will think poorly of me, for I had not worshipped in a church for many years nor had I knelt in prayer for some time, though my faith was strong. Having travelled across the world and appreciated the peace and quietude of other sacred and blessed places, I felt moved to join a small number of morning visitors up the stairs.

What I didn’t realise, despite my sincerity and solemn approach, was that to truly pay homage, to honour and respect the sanctity of the chapel and the man to whom it stands in remembrance of, one had to go slowly, with deep reverence. Each of the faithful climbers offered a prayer on every step. Not a short and sweet prayer but a decent, well-considered prayer. Many worked rosaries in their hands. I later discovered many climb the stairs to be forgiven for sins and seek favour with God.

With a genuine respect I proceeded, offering some long memorised prayers alternating with personal prayers of gratitude and thanks. It was a humbling and moving experience.

At the top of the stairs is a private, papal chapel adorned with 13th Century frescos and a 4th century painting of Christ, thought to have been begun by Saint Luke and completed by an angel. This Sancta Sanctorum, is viewed through a grated opening.

Descending is much easier with a set of steps on either side of the Holy Stairs. These can also be used by those interested in viewing the chapel who do not wish to or cannot ascend the Holy Stairs on their knees.

Once reserved as a place for popes the Scala Sancta and the Sancta Sanatorium are now open to the public for a small entrance fee. When visiting ensure appropriate and modest attire is worn. Arriving early in the morning there were no tourists in sight. In fact the whole piazza was empty.

It is easy to be critical and questioning when faced with monuments of faith. Is the story true? Did a man called Jesus climb these stairs? Were they once part of a palace in Jerusalem? Are they stained with blood? Whose blood is it? Regardless of faith, regardless of belief or facts; historically and anthropologically this experience made my mind buzz with intrigue. It served as a gesture in humility a chance to count my blessings and reflect on the sweetness of life. I hobbled away more enamoured with life than before my visit, which is saying something — I was in Rome after all.

Have you been somewhere that moved you to experience the world in a different way?

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Returning to Nepal

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 “Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.” – Pat Conroy

I’m off to Nepal. I hadn’t planned on returning but an opportunity arose that I couldn’t pass up. It was either go to Cornwall to immerse myself in the landscape, weather and all, for a solitary four weeks of writing and coastal walks or accompany my beloved on a trek to base camp of Ama Dublam.

How does one choose you may ask? It was a difficult decision. My heart was set on Cornwall and the inner peace and time for contemplation it would bring. I felt a primal pull to return to a place I felt  I belonged. At the same time my husband was taking a month to go climb a mountain in Nepal. I’d been there before and wasn’t particularly keen on returning, until I discovered some trekkers were accompanying the climbers for a section of the trail. I didn’t trek when last in Nepal. After a year of convalescence I wanted to do something closely resembling adventurous and hiking is one thing Duncan and I love to do together. A true tug a war was waged in my heart.

I guess I’m a sucker for love. Love won out. Time with my man, doing what we love was the decider. So I’m returning to Nepal.

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I last visited Nepal four years ago. I stayed for three weeks and saw a nice smattering of places: Kathmandu, Boudhanath, Pashupatinath,  Pokhara, Lumbini and Chitwan National Park.  I visited temples, monasteries, markets and monuments.  I rode an elephant, paddled a canoe down crocodile infested waters, sat on the banks of a river watching the sun set and saw where the Buddha was born. I spoke with wise men, drowned in the  gorgeous chanting of monks and revelled in the silence of a peace garden, in the middle of Kathmandu.  I ate glorious food, drank tea and did a spot of shopping. I skated on slippery pigeon poop in the streets of Kathmandu, held on for dear life on a bus as we clung to the edge of a steep cliff, on my way to Pokhara, and was sobered when confronted with the burning bodies on the holy river at Pashupatinath.

It was hot and humid. The streets were crowded and teeming with people, distances between places were further than I’d realised. Simply catching a bus seemed difficult. I was asked for money often, swindled by taxi drivers, more than once, and looked at warily at times too. I experienced my first earthquake in Kathmandu, that rattled me. All alone and far from family I was concerned should another occur. Needless to say that was a sleepless night.

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I was overwhelmed by the place yet in awe of it also.  I was on edge when asked for money and heckled in the streets yet overwhelmed by the kindness I experienced. My nerves were tested by the constant noise, the squalor and the heat yet also calmed in quiet and peaceful sanctuaries. I was shocked by the presence of soldiers with guns on Kathmandu street corners yet amazed at the laid back nature of locals in Pokhara and Lumbini and Patan.

For me, Nepal is a place of contradictions. It is a place of many faces. It is a place you can blend in or stand out depending on where you are.  Nepal is a place I wouldn’t say I enjoyed but feel richer for having been. It’s isn’t a place I felt a strong pull to return to but I find myself about to depart for her again.

Last time the majestic Himalayas were hidden from view by thick white clouds. On my last day in Pokhara, standing in a dusty bus station, the clouds parted  and revealed a sight truly worthy of postcard status. A silence descended as we travellers all looked in awe.

What new adventures will unfold this time as I head out beyond the cities and into the real heart of the country? I wonder?