Fellow Pilgrims…


Fellow Pilgrims,

Since I was unable to tell MY tale, I wanted to sing you all a little song that I sometimes sing to myself in the fields.

God Speed the Plow!



The merthe of alle this londe
maketh the gode husbonde,
With erynge of his plowe.
I-blessyd be Cristes sonde,
that hath us sent in honde
merthe & ioye y-nowe.


The plowe goth mony a gate,
Bothe erly & eke late,
In wynter in the clay.
Aboute barly and whete,
That maketh men to swete,
God spede the plowe al day!

Browne, morel, & sore
Drawen the plowe ful sore,
Al in the morwenynge.
Rewarde hem therfore
With a shefe or more,
Alle in the evenynge.

Whan men bygyne to sowe,
fful wel here corne they knowe,
In the mounthe of May.
Howe ever Ianyuer blowe,
Whether hye or lowe,
God spede the plowe all way!

Whan men bygyneth to wede
The thystle fro the sede,
In somer whan they may;
God lete hem wel to spede
& longe gode lyfe to lede,
All that for plowemen pray.



Well, I have a long hard day ahead of me tomorrow
God Speed 
~The Plowman


Hi All,

I hope you’re all doing well, sticking out the rest of this pilgrimage. It makes it a little more pleasant with this Spring weather. I feel as though I haven’t talked to many of you in awhile. I imagine it’s because we are all keeping busy reading Chaucer’s translations.

I myself have been working on The Romaunt of the Rose, which I suggest you all read when you find the time. It’s very interesting trying to decide whether you believe this is actually Chaucer’s translation or not, being that there is no real proof. I wonder if this is the case with the rest of the translations? I suppose I will find out today.

Please excuse my absence

I seem to have been celebrating St. Patrick’s Day for the past month or so. Tends to happen each year…


I’ve been busying myself learning about the astrolabe. Quite an instrument, though I’m still having trouble muddling through dear Chaucer’s descriptions. So many words! So many diagrams! All the reading has been getting in the way of my drinking, but I’m told the reading is better for me than the drinking. Hogwash! One brings pleasure, the other mere frustration.


But I have learned a bit about the astrolabe and its functions, for whatever it’s worth. Actually, maybe I just know how to hold it. Yes, I believe that’s all I’ve garnered. Perhaps it will all become clearer once I discuss it with my fellow pilgrims. Anyone up for a discussion? Over some ale? Or some mead? Or some wine?…

Finally, a Debate!

Well, it seem I have ruffled up some feathers in my statement that I am a fraud.  It’s about time somebody did don’t you think.

First of all, smart people do not believe in creation.  Second, I am being cremated so I will not become worm food after all.

It has been a long time debate over creation and evolution.  But that’s reading into the future.  Our dear friend Darwin hasn’t come along yet.  So believe in what I say since I have decided to come clean with the truth.

I have tricked you people into believing that Heaven and Hell really do exist.  Ha!  How naive you poor pilgrims are.  Nuns and priests have been depriving themselves from one of the greatest natural pleasures on earth- sex.  And for what?  Nothing that makes any sense.  Imagine going through life with self-deprivation ruling your very existence.  How sad.  I, on the other hand, enjoy the pleasures of sex every chance I can get by conning the village women while their husbands are away.  Ha, ha, ha, the Monk rules!

The Trouble With Comments

Hello fellow pilgrims.  It seems that I can’t make any more comments for one reason or another, but I can, however, make entries.  The following entry is in response to the Man of Law’s post.

Take heart my dear Man of Law for faith can be very strong in overcoming logic.  While it is true, and I say this as a man of the cloth, that “God,” and Heaven and Hell really don’t exist, they are fables concocted to help the weak have something to believe in.  Some people need to believe that there is something out there even if they cannot see it.  Sounds a bit strange to me as I take things on face value and only believe in that of which I can see.  Shh, this is just between you and me.  Don’t tell my parishioners or I’m finished.  Yes, believe it or not I am a fraud, but since nobody else is listening I think I’m safe.

The Man of Law’s Confession

Greetings, Pilgrims.  Now that we have all had a chance to rest and myself a chance to think and reorganize my scattered papers, I’ve had a chance to begin reading The Legend of Good Women.  I have found myself moved by the Prologue and though I risk being labelled a heathen I can bear my true thoughts no longer without sharing them.  I hope and trust that you all will forgive me for what I am about to tell you, and that once we reach our destination none of you will ever speak of it again.  Remember that you would all be held accountable for having travelled in my presence while being aware of the truth: I am not an untouchably devout Christian.

That is right, my dear friends–I am not who you’ve taken me to be.

At first I was drawn into the poem because of the word usage and revision; I find it both fascinating and admirable that Chaucer took the care to revise this work; as a man of law I am a frequent practicioner of meticulous redrafting.  In legal matters every word must be precise, perfectly chosen and placed.  It seems poetry calls for similar attention to detail.

However I find myself perturbed by the content and message of the first section.  I must say I regret more and more that our common law focuses on local knowledge as opposed to evidence; my realization of how difficult this would be to change has kept me mostly silent on this topic and I hope you, my faithful fellow-travelers, will not judge me for my frame of mind.  I am a man of logic and I believe what I see, yet The Legend of Good Women, skillfully written as it may be, goes against much of what I hold true within myself.  How am I to blindly accept what I am told of God, of Heaven and Hell, when I have never seen any of these with mine own eyes?

I feel deep admiration for Chaucer’s patience in revising his words, but no matter how many changes are made in diction the idea stands against mine in each version: that one should accept the tales told him from long ago whether or not there is any current proof.  Perhaps all of the things we are told were true at one time, but how do we know things remain the same?  What is the basis of our faith, upon what does it rest that keeps it so stable in the hearts of some, but allows it to crumble for others such as myself?

Is it my own fault?  Have I wrongfully allowed logic and reason to take the place of faith?  I ask this of you now in hopes that you will answer honestly but not cruelly.  What is a Man of Law to do when one set of legal ideals begins to conflict with the other?