by It is dawn when we get off the train at Lelant, a village situated in a bay near St Ives. The early morning light is still getting stronger as the distinctive repetitive screeching of thrushes wakes this sleepy corner of west Cornwall.
I’m in Cornwall with a friend to walk a pilgrim’s path – Saint Michael’s Way from Leinte to Michael’s Hill – which I tried for the first time a few years ago. Back then, I was alone, fresh out of a toxic relationship, and trying to piece my life together in the context of resurfacing trauma. But I did not feel melancholic, because I discovered, some time ago, the power of these ancient paths. And I say that as someone who is in no way religious.
Say pilgrimage and people usually think of week-long walks. But a pilgrim’s path can be as long or as short as you like. And there are many examples of meaningful loops found among recorded pilgrim paths that can be completed in a single day, or truncated sections of longer routes that can be equally worthwhile as multi-day quests. The main criteria is that they are “walking with a purpose”. I believe they can help us all find meaning, no matter what our faith.
Over the years I have walked many of the “micro-pilgrimages”, including the last five miles of St Birinus’ Way in the Thames Valley, the 3½ mile St Thomas’ Way in Llancarfan (one of 13 circular day pilgrimages designated as the the same). Swansea and Hereford), and one of the two 15 mile loops of the Porlock Pilgrim’s Way in Exmoor. And every time, I was amazed at the clarity I get from these tracks, no matter how long they are.
With a soundless nod – the kind that conveys much communication between two old friends – we begin our walk on the Michíl Way next to the purple roses in the vipers’ bulb. We pass a sign decorated with a scallop shell, which marks the route as an official part of the Camino de Santiago (as of 2016), one of nearly 300 paths covering more than 50,000 miles through 29 countries that people can walk to reach their final destination out. .
Next to it is the church of Naomh Uny, named after a Celtic missionary who converted the Cornish pagans to Christianity in the sixth century. He wasn’t the only one who crossed seas to get here. Although it was only designated as a pilgrim’s path in 2014, old shipping records show that rather than risking the dangerous seas around Land’s End, those souls would go to England from Wales and leave Ireland at Lelant and then walk south to Michael’s Hill. , and some of them even continuing to Spain.
As we have almost 14 hours to cover just under 14 miles, our pace is relaxed. We grab and stamp our “pilgrim passports” (available in the church) and spend time looking for the holy well above the cliffs of Carbys Bay before leaving the hunt for a coffee by the water’s edge. Heading inland we climb Worvas Hill, and during the ascent we share recent life events: work projects, life changes and our love of being outside, temporarily away from everything.
We stood on the hill of the giants, managed to find the last wolf and followed in the footsteps of our ancestors, all on one walking path
We pass the large granite landmark Bowl Rock, said to have been worn by two giants playing bowls, and stop for a packed lunch on top of Trencrom Hill to look at the remains of an old neolithic enclosure that was reused as a hill in the iron age. . Above here we find our “Monte do Gozo” – or Hill of Joy on the Camino de Santiago – moment: we can see our destination, the tidal island near Marazion, which has a Cornish name, (Karrek Loos yn Koos (“hoar rock in woodwood).”) indicates that it was once forested and free from water.
On my last visit, I discovered that the giant Trecobben used to throw stones at his coastal neighbor, the lazy cormoran, but accidentally hit and killed his wife. These legends are such an important thread in the fabric of history here that his grave is even marked on the Ordnance Survey map.
On a walk from the Celtic Sea to the Channel we see more stories woven together: from my own life – losing my mother as a teenager, overcoming an eating disorder – and touching on the natural history of Rospeith, where said to be the last wolf in Britain. to be killed. And local lore is being brought to life once again by a pirate’s grave, full of skulls and cross bones, at the Gulval church.
Our legs ache as we reach the promenade on the edge of Penzance and head east to Marazion. We revive ourselves with a taste of the wild brassica nigra, but we arrive too late to catch the last boat to the Mountain, and the tide is too far in to cross the causeway.
We make our way to the church of All Saints instead begrudgingly, feeling a little deflated, denied our destination. We are not here to pray, but we both seem to get into a meditative state as we ease into our seats and reflect on our journey.
We learned about saints and sinners, confessed secrets to each other and shared many laughs. We stood on top of the hill of the giants, managed to find the last wolf and followed in the footsteps of our ancestors. And all of this tied together on one walking path and at the same time giving ourselves space to reconnect the dots in our own lives – something I’ve found happens on many micro-pilgrimages.
Before we leave, we find the passport stamping station and find not one but two – including our last missing stamp from Sliabh Michael – left here for those souls who came so close but missed the boat to the island. We thought we had failed to reach our destination – but here we had a second chance to complete our mission.
A Catholic might call it the bestowal – but I call it pilgrimage magic.
