Canterbury for Evensong. Is there a more delightful cluster of syllables in the English language? Old English, I should say, as æfensang comes from that tongue, an update on the Latin-derived “vespers”. But whatever you call the service, Canterbury Cathedral does it in style. How beautiful the singing from the choristers in their white and purple. How beautiful the light as it honeys the stone of the quire. I had been in the city only an hour or so, and considered this early evening worship a sort of overture for my stay.
What a relief to get inside the great stone building. The lovely old city was horrible with heat. A statue of Chaucer on High Street appeared overdressed in robe, cloak and hat. He held out a page inscribed with the opening lines of The Canterbury Tales: “When in April the sweet showers fall … Then people long to go on pilgrimages.” The bronze had been hot to the touch and I began to suspect that I’d made a mistake starting my own pilgrimage at midsummer.
Walking to the cathedral, I had passed the former site of the Royal Fountain, where the travel writer HV Morton stayed in 1939. Morton chose the inn because it was quiet, Canterbury being very noisy in his experience, forever busy with tourist traffic. “And who can deny,” he wrote, “that the mobility given to masses of people by the cheap motor-car and the motor-bus has revived a wave of secular pilgrimage in Protestant England within the past 20 years and multiplied relics in a way unparalleled since the heyday of the Middle Ages?”
One could voice similar sentiments now. Pilgrimage is having a moment and has been for a while. According to YouGov research for the British Pilgrimage Trust in 2025, 3.7 million British adults have already made a pilgrimage, and almost one in five are considering making one. What is going on?
Torin Brown is the man to ask. The pilgrim officer at the cathedral meets many arriving in the city on foot and others for whom it is the start of a long, challenging walk. “We’ve seen a resurgence in pilgrimage in the last 10 years, especially since Covid. People are looking back to the old ways in their search for meaning. Even those who declare themselves atheists are engaging in this ancient religious ritual of walking to sacred spaces.”
Canterbury’s popularity as a pilgrimage site was accelerated by the murder in the cathedral of archbishop Thomas Becket in 1170 and his speedy elevation to sainthood. His shrine was among the most popular in Europe.
There are a number of historic routes to Canterbury, among them the Pilgrims’ Way from Winchester, the Old Way from Southampton, and the Augustine Camino from Rochester. Sarah Mullally, the new archbishop, spent six days walking from St Paul’s Cathedral ahead of her installation in March this year. My plan was to walk the English leg of the Via Francigena, which links Canterbury with Rome. This would mean reaching Dover in a day – about 20 miles. I had an OS map, the Via Francigena app, and a pilgrim passport, which Torin stamped before my departure. “You are now part of this wonderful history and tradition of pilgrimage,” he said.
I wouldn’t be leaving until the following day, so there was time for a proper look around the cathedral. They were tuning the organ, the building echoing with eerie drones and groans, which somehow gave a medieval air. I sat in the nave, beneath a vault built during the reign of Henry IV, and watched as a woman with a silver bob worked her way down the south aisle, cleaning memorials and tombs. She had a feather duster in one hand, a yellow cloth in the other and carried a pale blue handbag in the crook of her left arm. Her name, she told me, was Cilla.
“I’m one of the Holy Dusters! We’re the lowest of the low!” In the cathedral hierarchy, she said, the volunteer cleaners were below the florists and the welcomers. “And the older I get, the more that suits me.”
Cilla didn’t seem the sort of lady whose age one asks, so I contented myself with observing that the building was beautiful. “Isn’t it! I grew up in Salisbury, so I’m used to a more modern cathedral, but this is growing on me. Well, it would after 47 years.”
And she went on her way up the north aisle, dusting recumbent effigies of archbishops and deans, not neglecting to wipe beneath the ruff of Sir John Boys, who died in 1612. Forget memento mori, here was the true equality of the grave, every great man coming to the same humble pass – his stone face tickled by the feathers of the Holy Duster.
Next morning, I was out at first light. The heatwave was intensifying and I wanted to get ahead of the sun. A gull sat high on the cathedral gate, looking down as I touched the scallop shell, symbol of pilgrimage, carved into the wooden door.
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The route is waymarked with the logo of the Via Francigena: a pilgrim carrying a staff. It follows the North Downs Way, so you can also look for the acorn sign.
Mist lay in the fields, working its alchemy. Copses became floating islands. Pylons were robot ramblers; I envied the length of their stride. Still, despite my shorter pace, I reached Shepherdswell by 8am and refilled my water bottle from a tap set into the church wall.
I had thought of stopping at this village and catching the train to Dover. To press on meant another 10 miles. But I was too much in love with the idea of walking to the coast – until the land, not my legs, gave out.
Over the next hours, I had cause to regret that decision. The sun, so gentle at rising, turned vicious. Nine felt like noon. What would noon feel like? The earth in field paths was hard and cracked. Nodules of flint lay around like bones. I considered lying down and adding my own. Pilgrimage? More like an act of atonement. Henry II, in penance for Becket’s murder, walked barefoot into Canterbury and was whipped by the monks. That was my whole vibe now.
Once in a while, I’d pass a garden and someone would look up from watering their roses and say good morning. I said it back, but wondered: “How can it still be morning?” Worst of all was a man floating in his pool, happy as a hippo in a mudhole. I was too Scottish and reserved to ask if I could join him.
Arriving in Dover at midday, I went to the museum to get my pilgrim passport stamped. If continuing the Via Francigena, I’d catch a ferry to Calais. But I had another destination in mind. I passed a sign saying Welcome to England and another for Dame Vera Lynn Way and then there they were – the White Cliffs. So bright, so beautiful. The Channel was a blue haze; France a shadow.
I hope one day, before long, to be on the other side of that water, exploring the cathedrals of Europe. But, for now, this footsore pilgrim was on a more humdrum quest: ice-cream and a pack of blister plasters.