A Canterbury trail: my pilgrimage from the cathedral to the white cliffs of Dover

Stepping into the cool, echoing embrace of the great stone building offered a tangible respite, a sanctuary not only for the soul but also from the oppressive reality of a searing midsummer heatwave that had descended upon the ancient city. Outside, Canterbury, usually a picturesque tableau of medieval charm, simmered under an relentless sun. Even the iconic bronze statue of Geoffrey Chaucer on High Street, forever poised in contemplation, appeared overdressed in his sculpted robe, cloak, and hat. His outstretched hand, bearing 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"—felt ironically hot to the touch. It was a stark reminder, both humorous and discomfiting, that perhaps embarking on one’s own pilgrimage in the blazing heart of summer was a miscalculation, a test of endurance more than a gentle spiritual quest. The thought of Chaucer’s pilgrims, perhaps dreaming of cool spring breezes, only intensified the sensation of the sun beating down.

The journey to the cathedral had been a brief, sweltering walk through the city’s historic core, a path that led past the former site of the Royal Fountain, an inn that once hosted the acclaimed travel writer H.V. Morton in 1939. Morton, a keen observer of British life and landscape, had specifically chosen the Royal Fountain for its relative quiet, a stark contrast to his perception of Canterbury as a perpetually noisy city, ceaselessly bustling with tourist traffic even in the pre-war era. His prescient observations on the changing nature of travel resonated strongly with the present moment. "And who can deny," Morton 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?"

Morton’s words, penned over eight decades ago, possess an uncanny contemporary relevance. Indeed, one could voice similar sentiments now, perhaps even more emphatically. Pilgrimage, in its myriad forms, is undoubtedly experiencing a significant resurgence. Recent YouGov research commissioned by the British Pilgrimage Trust in 2025 painted a compelling picture: an estimated 3.7 million British adults have already undertaken some form of pilgrimage, and a remarkable one in five are actively considering embarking on one. This data points to a widespread societal shift, prompting the question: what profound forces are driving this renewed interest in ancient spiritual journeys?

To uncover the deeper motivations behind this modern phenomenon, the logical person to consult is Torin Brown, Canterbury Cathedral’s dedicated pilgrim officer. Brown, whose role places him at the nexus of history and contemporary spiritual seeking, daily encounters individuals arriving in the city on foot, some having completed arduous walks, others just beginning their own challenging treks. "We’ve witnessed a remarkable resurgence in pilgrimage over the last decade, particularly amplified since the Covid-19 pandemic," Brown explains, his voice reflecting a blend of academic insight and genuine enthusiasm. "There’s a palpable yearning among people to reconnect with older ways, to seek meaning in a world that often feels fragmented and overwhelmingly digital. It’s fascinating to see how even those who identify as atheists or agnostic are increasingly engaging in this ancient ritual of walking to sacred spaces. They might not articulate it in traditional religious terms, but the search for transcendence, community, and a deeper connection to history and self is undeniably present."

Canterbury’s pre-eminence as a pilgrimage destination, while rooted in its early Christian history, was irrevocably cemented and dramatically accelerated by the brutal murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket within the cathedral walls in 1170. Becket’s swift elevation to sainthood transformed the site into one of Europe’s most revered and popular shrines, second only to Santiago de Compostela in its magnetic pull. The conflict between Becket and King Henry II over the rights of the Church versus the Crown culminated in an act of shocking violence that reverberated across Christendom. Pilgrims, from humble peasants to powerful monarchs, flocked to Canterbury, seeking healing, penance, and spiritual solace at the tomb of the martyr. Though Henry VIII would later order the destruction of Becket’s shrine during the Reformation, its spiritual legacy and the tradition of pilgrimage endured, subtly shifting but never entirely vanishing.

Today, numerous historic routes converge on Canterbury, each bearing its own unique narrative. There’s the venerable Pilgrims’ Way from Winchester, tracing ancient paths across the North Downs; the Old Way from Southampton, connecting with earlier maritime pilgrim routes; and the Augustine Camino from Rochester, honouring the arrival of St. Augustine in Kent. Even contemporary figures are embracing these paths: Sarah Mullally, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, notably spent six days walking from St Paul’s Cathedral in London ahead of her installation in March of this year, a powerful symbolic act. For this personal journey, the choice was the English leg of the Via Francigena, the ancient pilgrimage route linking Canterbury all the way to Rome. The ambitious plan involved reaching Dover, approximately 20 miles away, in a single day. Armed with an Ordnance Survey map, the indispensable Via Francigena app for navigation, and a freshly acquired pilgrim passport, the journey officially began with Torin Brown’s ceremonial stamp. "You are now part of this wonderful history and tradition of pilgrimage," he declared, a simple phrase that carried the weight of centuries.

With departure scheduled for the following morning, there was ample time for a thorough exploration of the cathedral itself, a majestic edifice that had witnessed countless pilgrims and centuries of devotion. The air within the nave, beneath the magnificent vaulting constructed during the reign of Henry IV, was filled with the resonant, almost eerie drones and groans of the organ being tuned. It was a soundscape that, far from being discordant, somehow enhanced the sense of a living, breathing medieval space. Seated amidst this sonic tapestry, the observer watched as a woman with a neat silver bob moved gracefully down the south aisle. She was diligently 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 revealed with a twinkle in her eye, was Cilla.

"I’m one of the Holy Dusters!" she announced with a self-deprecating laugh, pausing her meticulous work. "We’re the lowest of the low! In the cathedral hierarchy, we volunteer cleaners are below the florists and the welcomers. And the older I get, the more that suits me." Cilla, a woman whose age one instinctively knew not to ask, radiated an unassuming dignity. Observing the sheer scale and intricate detail of the architecture, the visitor simply commented on the building’s undeniable beauty. "Isn’t it!" she responded, her voice filled with a quiet pride. "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 dedicated service, a testament to her profound connection to the sacred space. She then continued her quiet pilgrimage up the north aisle, meticulously dusting the recumbent effigies of archbishops and deans, not even neglecting to wipe beneath the intricate ruff of Sir John Boys, who died in 1612. In that moment, a profound truth emerged: forget memento mori, the stark reminder of death; here, in the humble act of Cilla’s dusting, was the true equality of the grave, every great man eventually coming to the same humble pass – his stone face gently tickled by the feathers of a Holy Duster.

The next morning, the heatwave showed no sign of abating, prompting an early start. Out at first light, the goal was to get ahead of the relentless sun. High on the cathedral gate, a solitary gull observed the departure as a hand reached out to touch the scallop shell, the ancient and ubiquitous symbol of pilgrimage, carved into the sturdy wooden door. It was a silent blessing, a moment of connection to generations of pilgrims who had passed through this very archway.

The route ahead was clearly waymarked, bearing the distinctive logo of the Via Francigena: a stylised pilgrim figure, staff in hand, striding purposefully forward. This path, for its initial English leg, cleverly co-opted sections of the North Downs Way, allowing for the additional reassurance of the familiar acorn sign that marks Britain’s National Trails. Mist still lay heavy in the fields, performing its quiet alchemy, transforming familiar landscapes into something otherworldly. Copses of trees appeared to float like islands on a silver sea, while distant pylons, silhouetted against the nascent sunrise, seemed like stoic, robotic ramblers, their long, metallic strides a source of momentary envy. Despite a considerably shorter, more human pace, Shepherdswell was reached by 8 am, a welcome milestone. Here, a simple yet vital act of replenishment occurred: refilling the water bottle from a tap thoughtfully set into the ancient church wall, a small but profound gesture of communal support for those on the path.

At Shepherdswell, a moment of decision arose. The village offered a convenient train link to Dover, a tempting shortcut for weary legs. To press on meant committing to another challenging ten miles. But the allure of walking to the very edge of the land, until the coast itself gave out and the English Channel beckoned, was too strong to resist. The romantic ideal of a complete journey, unyielding to modern convenience, won out.

Over the next arduous hours, however, the romantic ideal clashed brutally with the harsh reality of the intensifying heat. The sun, which had risen with such gentle promise, now turned vicious, its rays an unrelenting hammer. Nine o’clock felt like noon, and the thought of what actual noon would bring was a chilling prospect. The earth on the field paths, usually yielding, was hard and cracked, a testament to the prolonged drought. Nodules of flint, sharp and unforgiving, lay scattered like ancient bones, each one a potential twist of the ankle. The notion of simply lying down and adding one’s own bones to the landscape began to seem less like a morbid thought and more like a logical conclusion. This pilgrimage, once conceived as a spiritual journey, had morphed into an act of physical atonement. The historical parallel to Henry II, walking barefoot into Canterbury and being scourged by monks in penance for Becket’s murder, suddenly felt not just relevant, but entirely relatable to the current "vibe."

Periodically, a flash of green would signal a garden, and someone tending their roses would look up, offering a cheerful "Good morning." The greeting was returned, but the internal monologue persisted: "How can it still be morning?" The ultimate test of resolve came in the form of a man floating blissfully in his garden pool, utterly content, a human hippo in a cool, inviting mudhole. The urge to shed all dignity and simply ask if one could join him was overwhelming, but ingrained Scottish reservation, coupled with sheer exhaustion, prevailed.

Finally, at midday, Dover appeared, a welcome sight on the horizon. The first stop was the local museum, where the pilgrim passport received its final stamp, a tangible record of the journey completed. Had the intention been to continue the Via Francigena, a ferry to Calais would have been the next logical step, embarking on the European leg of the epic journey to Rome. But for now, another destination was firmly in mind. Passing signs welcoming visitors to England and marking the ‘Dame Vera Lynn Way’ – a poignant reminder of wartime resilience – the iconic White Cliffs finally emerged. So bright, so majestically beautiful, they rose from the turquoise Channel, a hazy blue expanse where France appeared as a distant, ethereal shadow.

The dream of exploring the grand cathedrals of Europe, of continuing the Via Francigena across continents, remains a potent aspiration, one to be fulfilled someday. But for this footsore pilgrim, standing on the chalky edge of England, the immediate quest was far more humble, yet equally vital: the urgent need for a generous scoop of ice-cream and a much-deserved pack of blister plasters. The pilgrimage had ended, but the spirit of the journey, with all its challenges and profound moments of beauty, had just begun.