On Foot to Canterbury by Ken Haigh is a finalist for the 2021 Hilary Weston Writers' Trust Prize for Nonfiction.

The $60,000 prize is the largest prize for nonfiction in Canada. The winner will be announced on Nov. 3, 2021.

On Foot to Canterbury retraces Ken Haigh's journey through south England, as he follows a traditional pilgrimage route from the medieval era. The journey is in honour of his father, and along the way, he contemplates the role of pilgrimages in modern life, his relationship with religion and spirituality and his relationship with his father. He also engages in the works and lives of several prominent English writers, such as Jane Austen, Jonathan Swift, Charles Dickens and Geoffrey Chaucer.

Haigh is a writer, teacher and librarian currently living in Ontario. He is also the author of the memoir Under the Holy Lake.

Read an excerpt from On Foot to Canterbury below.

The Mole has inspired a number of poets. This is mostly due to its curious habit of disappearing under the ground for a spell and then reappearing further downstream. Spenser, in The Faerie Queene, wrote:

Milton and Pope both refer to the Mole as "sullen" because of this habit of hiding underground.

Nevertheless, my problem with the Mole is not how to celebrate it in poetry, but how to cross it.

My map indicates some stepping stones just south of the Burford Bridge Hotel, but I wonder if they will even be visible after the past two days of rain, or if they will be underwater.

I needn't have worried. I reach a landing that slopes down to the river beneath the shade of several large chestnut trees. The stepping stones, though slick with rain and algae, rise proud above the surface of the river. Crossing the stones isn't going to be the problem; getting down to the water is going to be the problem. The broad path leading down to the river is wet clay and as slippery as a children's playground slide. I try to avoid the clay by stepping on tree roots, but this proves to be a mistake. The roots are, if anything, more slippery, and my feet shoot out sideways and down I go. It will be the first of many pratfalls that day.

Once over the Mole… my path is a steep zigzag of rustic steps carved into the slippery clay. It's humid, and the temperature is already becoming uncomfortably hot. I am overdressed. Before long I'm drenched in sweat and short of breath. Up and up I trudge, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.

"Morn-NING!"

I look up to see a middle-aged jogger quickly descending the slope, two steps at a time, a terry towel sweatband wrapped around his balding head. I grunt a reply.

Up and up grinds the path.

"MORN-ning!" chirps my jogger, as he passes me yet again, this time coming up the hill from behind.

Forward I trudge, step by bloody step, up this infernal muddy staircase. Then, overcome by fatigue or carelessness, I place a foot on one of the roots crossing my path, and down I go a second time.

"Oops. You want to be careful of those roots," warns my cheerful jogger, descending the hill in bounding leaps. "They can be slippery."

I nod wordlessly, lying on my back and gasping for air. Thank you, Captain Obvious. I roll to my knees, pull myself to my feet, and carry on. Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp.

"Pardon me, coming through," pipes my nemesis, springing up the slope yet again. I begin to fantasize ways of crippling him: piano wire garrote, bamboo Punji stakes smeared in strychnine, rabid sheepdog.

I am hunched over, grasping my knees and gasping for air when he passes me again.

"Almost there," he says, bouncing down the stairs. This guy isn't even breathing hard.

Rot in hell, I think.

Eventually, I reach the summit, but not before being lapped a sixth time by my cheerful companion.

"There you go. That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

I would like to say that I respond with a remark so cutting, so devastatingly clever that it leaves him gob-smacked, but I don't. It's tempting, but I hold my tongue…. Biting back a cutting remark, no matter how tempting the target, is always a virtue. My jogger strikes me as a condescending type, but perhaps I am misreading the situation and he really is trying to be encouraging. So instead of replying, I simply nod in assent and try to smile. As soon as he is out of sight, I collapse onto the nearest park bench and down half the contents of my water bottle in a single gulp.

Haigh, Ken. On Foot to Canterbury: A Son's Pilgrimage. Edmonton, AB: University of Alberta Press, 2021.