It’s dawn when we step off the train at Lelant, a village tucked into a bay near St Ives. The early morning light is still intensifying as the distinctive, repetitive shrill of a song thrush wakes this sleepy corner of west Cornwall.
I’m in Cornwall with a friend to walk a pilgrim path – the St Michael’s Way from Lelant to St Michael’s Mount – that I first trod a few years ago. Back then, I was alone, fresh out of a toxic relationship, and trying to piece together my life against a backdrop of resurfacing trauma. Yet I hadn’t arrived feeling melancholic, because I had discovered, some time ago, the power of these ancient trails. And I say that as someone who is not in any way religious.
Say pilgrimage and people usually think of extended weeks-long walks. But a pilgrim path can be as long or as short as you like. And there are many examples of meaningful meanders found among recorded pilgrim paths that can be completed in a single day, or truncated sections of longer routes that can be just as rewarding as multiday quests. The main criteria is that they are a “walk with a purpose”. I believe they can help us all find meaning, whatever our beliefs.
Over the years I’ve walked many of these “micro-pilgrimages”, including the last five miles of the St Birinus Way in the Thames Valley, the 3½-mile St Thomas Way in Llancarfan (one of 13 identically named daylong circular pilgrimages between Swansea and Hereford), and one of the two 15-mile loops of the Porlock Pilgrim’s Trail in Exmoor. And each time, I’ve been truly amazed at the clarity I gain from these trails, no matter the length.
With a soundless nod – the sort that communicates a great deal between two old friends – we begin our St Michael’s Way walk beside the purple rosettes of towering viper’s bugloss. We pass a sign emblazoned with a scallop shell, marking the route as an official section of the Camino de Santiago (as of 2016), one of almost 300 paths encompassing more than 50,000 miles through 29 countries that people can walk to reach the ultimate destination.
Beside it is the church of St Uny, named after a Celtic missionary who converted the Cornish pagans to Christianity in the sixth century. He was not the only one to cross seas to get here. Though it was only designated a pilgrim footpath in 2014, old shipping records show that, rather than risk the perilous seas around Land’s End, those souls headed to England from Wales and Ireland would be dropped off at Lelant and then walk south to St Michael’s Mount, with some even continuing onwards to Spain.
As we have nearly 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 Carbis Bay before abandoning the hunt in favour of grabbing coffee by the waterside. Heading inland we climb Worvas Hill, and during the ascent share recent life events: work projects, life changes and our love of being outside, temporarily away from it all.
We pass the huge landmark granite stone of Bowl Rock, said to have been discarded by two giants playing bowls, and stop for a packed lunch on top of Trencrom Hill to admire the tracing of an old neolithic enclosure reused in the iron age as a hillfort. Up here we get our “Monte do Gozo” – or Hill of Joy on the Camino de Santiago – moment: we can see our destination, the tidal island off Marazion, whose Cornish name, (Karrek Loos yn Koos (“hoar rock in woodland”) indicates it was once forested and free from water.
On my last visit, I learned that the giant Trecobben would throw stones at his coastal neighbour, the lazy Cormoran, but struck and killed his wife accidentally. These legends form such a key thread in the fabric of history here that her grave is even marked on the Ordnance Survey map.
Our walk from the Celtic Sea to the English Channel sees us weaving together more tales: from my own past – losing my mum as a teen, overcoming an eating disorder – and concerning the natural history at Rospeith, where the last wolf in Britain was said to have been killed. And local lore is once more brought to life by a pirate’s grave, replete with skull and cross bones, at Gulval church.
Our feet ache as we reach the promenade on the outskirts of Penzance and head east to Marazion. We reinvigorate ourselves with a taste of wild-growing brassica nigra, but arrive too late to catch the last boat to the Mount, and the tide is too far in to cross the causeway.
We begrudgingly make our way to the All Saints church instead, feeling a little deflated, our supposed destination denied. We are not here to pray, but a meditative state seems to befall us both as we ease on to pews and reflect on our journey.
We have learned about saints and sinners, confessed secrets to one another and shared much laughter. We’ve stood on the hilltops of giants, trailed the last wolf and followed in the footsteps of our ancestors. And connected it all together on a single walking trail while allowing ourselves space to reconnect the dots in our own lives – something I’ve found happens on many a micro-pilgrimage.
Before we leave, we locate the passport-stamping station and find not one but two – including our missing final stamp from St Michael’s Mount – left here for those souls who have come so close but missed the boat to the island. We thought we had failed to reach our destination – yet here we were, given a second chance to complete our mission.
A Catholic might call it providence – but I call it the magic of a pilgrimage.
