I was born to James my father, on St James' Day and baptised at St James' Church in a city that wasn’t Jerusalem but a bitterly wet and miserable district in North West England. I took the issue up with my Mother who claimed the whole thing had just been a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence, otherwise the erstwhile Sheffield crooner, Tony Christie would have been singing about the road to Santiago de Compostela and not Amarillo at my conception. But it inspired me nonetheless – and this year I have learned that July 25th – St James’ Feast Day - will be celebrated as a Jubilee by the thousands of jostling pilgrims making their way to Galacia in Spain to pay their respect to the Saint’s remains at Santiago de Compostela.

The traditional pilgrimage to the grave of the saint, known as the "Way of St. James", has become the most popular pilgrimage for Western European Catholics. It’s a 100km walk, and consists of a tree of routes that inevitably lead from home to home. For certain none-Christians it presents a Celtic death journey, westwards towards the setting sun – but I suppose the same could be said of any journey: Alpha and Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end – it’s a cycle thing, as I am sure you’ll appreciate by this stage. What goes around, comes around. There is a season .. turn, turn, turn. That I was born facing West simply ensured I started my journey in good time.

Herod Agrippa – King of the Jews - beheaded James in the year 44. I have no idea whether there was shell in his hands at the time of his death, but it nevertheless became his symbol. And though we have no way of knowing whether James got a chance to speak any final words or had any terrific final soundbites, I have little doubt he would have put the shell to Herod’s ear and asked him to listen.

But as is apt to be the case with Scallop Shells there would have been only silence: the sound of neither the beginning or the end but the sound that comes before and after both.

Try it yourselves at home. With a rounded pair of Scallops shells, naturally.

"I sing myself to sleep, a song from the darkest hour, secrets I can’t keep, insight of the day Swing from high to deep, extremes of sweet and sour, hope that God exists, I hope I pray

Drawn by the underto, My life is out of control, I believe this wave will bear my weigh, So let it flow.

Now I’m relieved to hear, That you’ve been to some far out place, It’s hard to carry on, When you feel all alone

Now I’ve swung back down again, It’s worse than it was before, If I hadn’t seen such riches, I could live with being poor.

Oh sit down
Oh sit down
Oh sit down
Sit down next to me
Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down, down
In sympathy In love, in fear, in hate, in tears
In love, in fear, in hate, in tears
In love, in fear, in hate, in tears
In love, in fear, in hate"

James - 'Sit Down' - one of the few good things to come out of the North West with the exception of Uncle Joes Mintballs