What’s the question?

“If you wasn’t a Christian, and you couldn’t be a Christian, what religion would you be?” She casually throws the question into the journey as we walk closer to Cardiff Bay.

It’s quite some question to be asked by an eleven year old. At the beginning of the day, as we left the Betty Campbell statue in the city centre, she’d asked simpler questions like “Do you believe in God?”

“Do you believe in God?” I asked her in return as we made our way closer to Butetown.

She squinted as she looked up at me, the sun shining in her eyes. She shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s ok,” I said. “Lots of people believe lots of different things. It’s good to have questions about life, and to explore, and to not know sometimes.”

Later in the day, after watching the Betty Campbell play, other questions are asked of Kim, the actor who plays her.

“If, as a young person, you could say one thing to Betty Campbell what would it be?” asks another eleven year old.

What a question.

“I would say, ‘Thank you,’ says Kim. ‘Thank you for fighting and standing up for things and changing things.’”

We’re at the back end of Refugee Week with just a few days left as we merge into the ‘Great Get Together’ celebrations. It’s been a full week so far and there is plenty more to come.

Meanwhile, as I write much later in the day, various political party leaders are being questioned on the TV by audience members, putting them under the spotlight, holding them to account in the General Election marathon.

It’s not long before the question of Immigration arises. It’s a key issue for leaders and electors. Emotive and sometimes divisive, with mixed rhetoric and huge consequences.

Questions are important. Dialogue is essential.

There is something about walking which makes the conversation flow. I listen in on the conversations between the children. Funny, amusing, sometimes touching. They’re talking about chocolate now. It soon moves on to something else. If only we could walk together more often.

There’s a quick visit to the Mosque, and we’re grateful to Saeed who warmly welcomes us whilst the Imam is on holidays. As we leave, and replace our shoes, one or two of the children linger with questions. Inquisitive. Interested. Wanting to know more.

But we have to move on. It’s time to move on. They return their shoes to their feet.

We end our journey at the water’s edge. The statue of the Rugby Codebreakers is silhouetted in the slight distance against a sky-blue sky. I tell them something of their story and Billy Boston’s fame but they are tired now. They’re a fifth of my age, and their legs seem more weary than mine.

“Are your shoes comfortable?” asked one girl just after we left the Betty Campbell statue, four hours and a mile earlier.

“Yes. They’re comfortable.”

“They don’t look comfortable,” she said.

I smiled.

“They’re good for walking,” I replied.

On Tuesday, when we welcomed a school from Blaenavon, we stopped at the statue of Gandhi, and told them the story of his sandals.

He was boarding a train and one of his sandals fell off as the train sped away. He took off his remaining sandal and threw it onto the tracks. Having one sandal was no good to him and no good to whoever found the other. Far better that someone had two sandals.

At least I had two shoes, whether or not they looked comfortable.

Now, as the children board their coach, my shoes seem to have done the job, and I’ve still to make the walk back home, back through Butetown.

“Would you like a coffee?” I’m asked on returning to St Mary’s.

The two schools for the afternoon performance of the Betty Campbell play have just left and I manage to see them as they leave, some high fives along the way.

“Would you like a coffee?”

Of all the questions of the day, that was the easiest to answer.

When I get home, I kick off my shoes.

Both of them.