Canterbury for Evensong.

Is there a more delightful cluster of syllables in the English language, evoking centuries of spiritual devotion and architectural grandeur? The very word, ǣfensang, hails from Old English, a resonant echo of its Latin predecessor, ‘vespers.’ Yet, whatever its linguistic lineage, the experience of this early evening worship at Canterbury Cathedral transcends mere etymology. It is an immersion in living history, a symphonic embrace of faith, art, and tradition that few places on earth can rival.

Stepping into the vast, cool expanse of the Cathedral after only an hour in the city, the Evensong service felt less like a scheduled event and more like a profound overture to my pilgrimage. The air, thick with the scent of ancient stone and lingering incense, vibrated with the sublime harmonies of the choristers. Dressed in their crisp white surplices and deep purple cassocks, their young voices ascended into the vaulted nave, weaving intricate tapestries of sound that seemed to catch the light. As the setting sun streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, it bathed the ancient stone of the quire in a honeyed glow, illuminating centuries of craftsmanship and quiet reverence. It was a spectacle of ethereal beauty, a balm for the soul that had, moments before, been contending with the rather less ethereal realities of a scorching English summer day.

Indeed, the relief of entering the great stone building was immediate and profound. Outside, the charming, historic city of Canterbury was in the grip of a fierce heatwave. High Street, usually bustling with a more temperate energy, shimmered under the intense sun. I had passed the bronze statue of Geoffrey Chaucer, the revered father of English literature, who appeared comically overdressed in his medieval robe, cloak, and hat. His outstretched hand, presenting a page inscribed with the immortal opening lines of The Canterbury Tales – "When in April the sweet showers fall… Then people long to go on pilgrimages" – was hot to the touch. The irony was palpable; beginning my own pilgrimage at midsummer, under such punishing heat, felt like a whimsical miscalculation, a challenge rather than a gentle journey of springtime reflection.

My route to the cathedral had also taken me past the former site of the Royal Fountain, an inn once favoured by the celebrated travel writer H.V. Morton in 1939. Morton, seeking respite from what he described as Canterbury’s "noisy" and "forever busy with tourist traffic" atmosphere, had chosen the inn for its quietude. His observations, penned decades ago, struck a chord. He wrote with remarkable prescience about the burgeoning travel culture of his time: "And who can deny 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?" Morton’s words, a keen insight into the early democratisation of travel, resonate strongly today as we witness a contemporary resurgence of pilgrimage, albeit one driven by slightly different impulses.

One could certainly voice similar sentiments now. Pilgrimage, far from being a relic of the past, is experiencing a remarkable renaissance, a sustained "moment" that has been gathering momentum for over a decade. According to YouGov research conducted for the British Pilgrimage Trust in 2025 – a forward-looking survey highlighting ongoing trends – a staggering 3.7 million British adults have already embarked on a pilgrimage, and nearly one in five are actively considering undertaking one. This isn’t merely a niche activity; it’s a broad cultural phenomenon. What exactly is fuelling this profound return to ancient pathways?

Torin Brown, the dedicated pilgrim officer at Canterbury Cathedral, is uniquely positioned to answer this question. He regularly encounters a diverse array of individuals arriving in the city on foot, some completing short local journeys, others just beginning challenging, multi-day treks. "We’ve seen a resurgence in pilgrimage in the last 10 years, especially since Covid," Brown explains, his voice reflecting a deep understanding of human motivation. "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." This suggests that the modern pilgrimage often transcends conventional religious belief, tapping into a deeper human need for connection, introspection, and physical challenge in an increasingly digital and disconnected world.

Canterbury’s pre-eminence as a pilgrimage site, of course, was dramatically accelerated by a pivotal event in English history: the brutal murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket within the very walls of the cathedral in 1170. His swift elevation to sainthood transformed the cathedral into one of Europe’s most revered and popular shrines, drawing countless pilgrims seeking spiritual solace, healing, or penance. The enduring legacy of Becket’s martyrdom cemented Canterbury’s place on the map of Christendom, inspiring generations of pilgrims, from Chaucer’s colourful characters to today’s seekers.

Today, numerous historic routes converge on Canterbury, echoing those ancient footfalls. Among the most prominent are the Pilgrim’s Way from Winchester, a path steeped in centuries of devotional travel; the Old Way from Southampton, offering another historical approach; and the Augustine Camino from Rochester, named after the saint who brought Christianity to Anglo-Saxon England. Even in contemporary times, this tradition is actively embraced by figures of authority. Sarah Mullally, the new Archbishop, exemplified this commitment earlier this year, undertaking a six-day walk from St Paul’s Cathedral in London as part of her installation in March – a powerful symbolic gesture connecting past and present leadership.

My own aspiration was to embark on the English segment of the Via Francigena, an epic pilgrimage route that traditionally links Canterbury all the way to Rome. This initial leg would involve a demanding, approximately 20-mile trek to Dover. My preparations were meticulous: an Ordnance Survey map for detailed navigation, the official Via Francigena app for real-time guidance, and, crucially, a pilgrim passport. Before my departure, Torin Brown, with a warm smile and a sense of gravitas, stamped my passport. "You are now part of this wonderful history and tradition of pilgrimage," he affirmed, his words a powerful invocation of the journey I was about to undertake.

As I wasn’t scheduled to depart until the following day, I had the invaluable opportunity for a more thorough exploration of the cathedral itself. The air inside hummed with the rich, resonant tones of the organ being tuned, its eerie drones and groans reverberating through the vast spaces. Far from being discordant, the sounds somehow lent a deeper "medieval air" to the ancient edifice, a reminder of the continuous life that has pulsed through its stones for nearly a millennium. I settled into a pew in the magnificent nave, beneath a soaring vault constructed during the reign of Henry IV, and watched as a woman with a distinctive silver bob meticulously made her way down the south aisle. She was cleaning memorials and tombs, a feather duster in one hand, a yellow cloth in the other, and a pale blue handbag perched jauntily in the crook of her left arm.

Her name, she informed me with a cheerful grin, was Cilla. "I’m one of the Holy Dusters! We’re the lowest of the low!" she declared, a twinkle in her eye. She explained that in the intricate hierarchy of cathedral volunteers, the cleaners ranked below even the florists and the welcomers. "And the older I get," she added with a shrug, "the more that suits me." Without presuming to ask her age, I simply commented on the undeniable beauty of the building. "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." Forty-seven years of devoted service, of quietly maintaining the dignity of this sacred space – a testament to a different kind of pilgrimage, one of steadfast dedication. She then continued her quiet work up the north aisle, dusting the recumbent effigies of archbishops and deans, meticulously wiping even beneath the ruff of Sir John Boys, who died in 1612. Forget the grand philosophical statements of memento mori; here was the true, humbling equality of the grave, where every great man, regardless of his earthly stature, eventually comes to the same humble pass – his stone face tickled by the soft feathers of a "Holy Duster."

The following morning, I rose at first light, driven by the intensifying heatwave and a desire to conquer as much of the route as possible before the sun reached its zenith. A lone gull sat perched high on the cathedral gate, a silent sentinel watching as I performed a small, personal ritual: touching the scallop shell, the ancient symbol of pilgrimage, carved into the wooden door. This simple act felt like a quiet blessing, a connection to the countless pilgrims who had passed through this very threshold over the centuries.

The path ahead was clearly waymarked with the distinctive logo of the Via Francigena – a stylised pilgrim figure carrying a staff. Conveniently, it also followed the route of the North Downs Way, meaning I could double-check my bearings by looking for the familiar acorn sign that denotes Britain’s National Trails. The early morning landscape was mystical. Mist lay low in the fields, working its silent alchemy, transforming copses of trees into ethereal floating islands. Distant pylons, marching across the horizon, appeared like robot ramblers, their immense strides making me momentarily envious of their effortless progress.

Despite my own more modest, human pace, I reached the village of Shepherdswell by 8 am. The small church, a welcome sight, offered a communal tap set into its wall, allowing me to refill my water bottle – a small but vital blessing on a day already promising scorching temperatures. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: I could stop here, catch the train to Dover, and avoid the remaining ten miles. But the "idea of walking to the coast," of pushing on until the land itself, not my legs, gave out, was too powerful to resist.

Over the next few hours, I had ample cause to question that decision. The sun, which had been so gentle at its rising, now turned vicious, beating down with relentless intensity. Eight o’clock felt like noon, and the thought of what actual noon would bring filled me with dread. The earth of the field paths was hard and cracked, baked dry by the heat. Nodules of flint lay scattered around like ancient bones, and I found myself briefly contemplating joining them. This was pilgrimage? It felt more like an act of atonement. I recalled Henry II’s penance for Becket’s murder, his barefoot walk into Canterbury where he was whipped by monks – a historical parallel that perfectly captured my own suffering vibe.

Occasionally, I would pass a garden, and someone would look up from watering their roses, offering a cheerful "good morning." I returned the greeting, but internally wondered, "How can it still be morning?" The cruellest sight of all was a man floating serenely in his swimming pool, as happy as a hippo in a mudhole. My Scottish reserve, however, prevented me from asking if I could join him in his liquid paradise.

Arriving in Dover at midday, utterly footsore and heat-weary, my first priority was to visit the local museum to get my pilgrim passport stamped – a final, tangible record of this leg of my journey. Had I been continuing the Via Francigena without pause, my next step would have been a ferry to Calais, and then on towards the continent and ultimately, Rome. But my immediate destination was more prosaic, yet no less longed for. I passed a sign proudly declaring "Welcome to England" and another for "Dame Vera Lynn Way," a tribute to the beloved ‘Forces’ Sweetheart.’ Then, there they were – the iconic White Cliffs. So impossibly bright, so breathtakingly beautiful, their chalky faces gleaming under the midday sun. The English Channel stretched out before me, a shimmering blue haze, with France a distant, tantalising shadow on the horizon.

I hope, with every fibre of my being, that one day soon I will stand on the other side of that water, ready to explore the ancient cathedrals and pilgrimage routes of mainland Europe. But for now, this particular footsore pilgrim had a more immediate, yet equally essential, quest: a large, cold ice-cream and a fresh pack of blister plasters. The spiritual journey had been profound, the physical challenge immense, and the simple comforts of modern life never more welcome.