24. Matthew R. Anderson, Someone Else’s Saint: How a Scottish Pilgrimage Led to Nova Scotia

First, a confession: my response to Matthew R. Anderson’s Someone Else’s Saint: How a Scottish Pilgrimage Led to Nova Scotia isn’t exactly neutral. That’s partly because Matthew’s a friend of mine, and partly because I was part of one of the pilgrimages he writes about in this book. In 2019, my partner and I joined Matthew and, for a day, his wife, Sara, on a walk on the Whithorn Way, an ancient pilgrimage route to Whithorn, where St. Ninian, who may or may not have brought Christianity to Scotland, may or may not have lived. I loved that walk, even though (or, in hindsight, perhaps because) it was often difficult, and reading Matthew’s account of the journey kept reminding me of things that happened and people we met. “Oh, yes! That place!” I would mutter to myself as I read, or “Right! Peter! I remember him!” Reading Someone Else’s Saint was a little like flipping through an old photo album for me–if you remember those–and that was part of what I loved about this book.

But it wasn’t the only thing I loved, and readers who have never been to the southwest corner of Scotland, or who have never gone on a longish walk, will enjoy this book, too. Structurally, Someone Else’s Saint tells two linked stories about pilgrimages in honour of St. Ninian: the one in Scotland, and another, from Matthew’s home near Pomquet, Nova Scotia, to St. Ninian’s Cathedral at St. Francis Xavier University in Antigonish, some 20 kilometres away. The book thinks about the complexity of the interconnected histories of those places, linked by colonization, immigration and displacement, faith, and the complexities of their pasts, and their presents. Matthew finds comfort in the layers of stories about St. Ninian. “Ninian may be the first saint of Scotland,” he writes. “But he likely came from somewhere else, his story was celebrated first elsewhere, and his shrine owes much to the pilgrims from elsewhere who came to enrich it. By welcoming those who are foreigners or strangers among us, honouring what they bring, we are more in the company of St. Ninian than we think.” Those are important words, especially now, as our neighbours to the south are divided between those who want to expel those strangers, especially the ones with brown skin, and those who want to honour what those strangers have brought. Similar ideas circulate in Canada, too. Simple answers about identity and belonging are seductive to many of us, but when the world is complex, and when we are ourselves complex, such simplicity does us no favours. We end up believing stories that are simply untrue, and acting on those untruths in ways that are harmful to ourselves and others.

So Someone Else’s Saint turns out to be more than a book about walking–although it does an excellent job of conveying the experience of the walks it narrates in clear and sometimes poetic prose. It’s a book about the power of stories, the difficulty of identifying clear or straightforward origins, and the need to accept, even love, the messiness of the past. That messiness includes the reality of Canada’s ongoing colonial history, the way those of us who are descendants of settlers have yet to come to terms with our past and present behaviour towards the first occupants of this land.

I must confess that at first I thought that, as a character, I came across as a bit of an idiot in Someone Else’s Saint. That picture wasn’t inaccurate. I can be pigheaded. My boots got soaked early in the walk after a long day of rain, and they didn’t dry. I foolishly wore wet socks in my wet boots, arguing that dry socks would just get wet anyway. The result: blisters. I should’ve listened to my companions. That description isn’t Matthew’s fault; it’s accurate, unfortunately, and if the wet boot fits, I’ll have to wear it. But as I kept reading, I saw how generous Matthew’s characterization of me is. He gives me credit for insights I’m not sure I could’ve had. He’s just as generous to my partner, describing her precisely in a lovely paragraph:

Christine was a wonderful travel companion: good-hearted, positive, resolute no matter the weather, and always with something interesting to say. As a professor of film, she had an eye for the landscape. I don’t know how many times she’d bring my gaze up from the asphalt by remarking: “Do you see how many shades of green there are on that hill?” Or: “Look at those stunning cinquefoil . . . Ken, did you see those?” And Ken and I would look, and of course, she’d be right.

That is absolutely what she’s like, especially the point about her ability to appreciate the varied colours she sees in the world around her. I’m convinced that Someone Else’s Saint is just as accurate about the people and events it relates, even (or especially) the ones that are foggy in my memory.

As I read, I was reminded of an interview I listened to on The Spectator‘s “Book Club” podcast recently. Robert Macfarlane was being interviewed by the host, Sam Leith, about his new book, Is A River Alive?. The pair recall the review Leith wrote of Macfarlane’s 2012 book The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot, in which he remarked, “Robert Macfarlane never meets a dickhead.” The point was that Macfarlane is open and generous when he writes about people. Macfarlane’s response: “I do meet dickheads, but I don’t like writing about them, because they get mic time aplenty.” I know that Matthew meets dickheads as he moves through the world–we’ve met a couple on our walks over the years–but demonstrates a similar openness and generosity and kindness when he writes about people. I’m impressed by that, and I want to follow his example.

As I noted at the beginning of this post, I’m not unbiased, but I do think this is a lovely book, and an important one. I recommend Matthew’s 2024 book, The Good Walk: Creating New Paths on Traditional Prairie Trails, too, for anyone interested in walking, pilgrimage, or thinking about how settler-descendants can live in a good way on land that isn’t really theirs.