On Tuesday after a trip to Kettle's Yard, and lunch with Yaz, I set off towards Waterbeach. It's not a long walk along the river, but it is very busy with bike commuters. I do spot a heron, and several cormorants. I'm staying with someone who follows me on Tiktok. When I first started talking about my pilgrimage online, almost a year ago, I was flooded with offers of meals and accommodation. I'm relying on these people - but only half of these people actually get back to me when I contact them asking for shelter. It's incredibly frustrating. But tonight, things have lined up and worked, and I spend the evening on the phone with my family.

My sister got back from travelling a few days ago, but I still haven't seen her. I'm not going back to Southampton anytime soon, and she's busy with her own adventures. I call one of my parents most days, and even if I don't, it's a good excuse to leave dull conversations. 'Sorry, I'd love to hear about your friend's niece's dogsitters birthday party in 2007, but I have to go and call my mum.' Blog writing is also a good excuse. This host was sleepy from travel, and I'm a bit tired too, so an evening alone was nice.

I visit the church in Waterbeach on my way back to the river the next morning. It's very gold inside. I've been thinking, and all the priests who read this may be angry with me, but there's sometimes a difference between a church built to glorify God, and a church built to the glory of a family's wealth. Especially old estate churches.

It's quieter along this stretch of the river, but herons are absent. I do see a few geese. I pass awkwardly through a herd of cows - I usually operate a cow avoidant policy - but they are occupying the entire walkable area. They don't seem to mind me.

It rains, very, very heavily, for about ten minutes. Enough to make me cold and a little grumpy, but I've not had a proper day of rain since Ash Wednesday. St Clare is looking out for me, apparently. I dry off soon enough, just as I spot Ely Cathedral. It's not hard to spot - it's the highest point for miles. The Ship of the Fens.

For six miles, it doesn't seem to get any closer, until I'm actually there. I meet my hosts for this evening, and the pilgrim chaplain, who manages to get me a stamp in my Bible, despite the complaints of the shop staff, who say it's too late. Pilgrims will arrive when they arrive - sorry. The vergers will not allow me to set my bag down anywhere, so I put it in his car while we have a tour. Ely Cathedral comes mid table with welcoming pilgrims.

It is, though, fantastically beautiful. Ely Cathedral has always been too big for the town - it's a moment of being conquered. It's too big now, and it was too big when this was a monastery and small market town. It is wonderful though. Makes it into my top five Cathedrals.

After evening prayer, I head back with my hosts to their house, and I'm asked to list all of the Cathedrals I have visited so far. In order of my experience in them, taking into account the welcome I received, and the beauty, and the deep feeling inside the stone, they are:

Chelmsford - someone practicing the organ, and no stamp.

St Edmundsbury - couldn't find their pilgrim stamp

Salisbury - no stamp, but I was allowed in for free and given a tour

Norwich - I went for the Solemn Liturgy, so a welcome was not likely. Beautiful though.

Coventry - not a fan of the architecture of the new, but something happened within me in the old.

Chichester - a warm welcome, and elderflower cordial after the service

Arundel (RC) - I was given chocolate biscuits and there was LOADS of incense

Canterbury - They know what they're doing with pilgrims

Honourable mentions to Southwark and Durham, which I've visited during my pilgrimage, but not really as a pilgrim. Both wonderful. Many more to come.

Onwards plans collapsed, I returned to Cambridge, for a few days of work. I found a wonderful host, who said I could cook some meals if it made me feel better about the fact I was staying for four nights. More churches and museums were explored (big fan of the Round Church and the museum of anthropology and archeology), but not one stamp for pilgrims to be found in the city. Things are a bit more organised now, and I'm heading North.

I quickly discover she is much, much faster than me. If I didn't have my bag, I could certainly keep pace, but with it, I'm struggling to keep up. The conversation is easy, and we talk about class, and how the title of 'pilgrim' helps. It is an insecurity I have, the fact that I'm offered meals, and wonderful experiences, and generous, warm hospitality on the basis of being a pilgrim, which because it's rooted in faith, is seen as a more noble thing than 'tramp' or 'wayfarer'.

I talk too about my other insecurity, which I've managed to pin down as the fact that I'm able to live the life I want to be living, and can do so joyfully and with an amount of ease. I feel selfish for this every day of my life. But, I'm reminded, it's not like I haven't worked for it. I have established my niche as a 'content creator' (someone called me that the other day and I felt sick, though it's technically correct'. I also have other paid work, and still exist within the system of labour. It's labour I don't mind doing, but it still counts.

We travel along some lovely paths, and by the time we part at lunchtime, sat outside a beautiful little church, still in her Easter dressing, I've already covered eight miles, which is a lot for me so early. I've also lost the new jumper I was given in Wymondham somewhere along the way. My host is walking back the same way, and she finds it, but getting things posted to me is a nightmare, so I tell her to hang on to it.

I carry on along a road to Barrow. Then I sneak behind a hedge and do some minor trespassing, to avoid being on the road. I reach Barrow. If we'd walked along the road, this village was only 6 miles from where we started in Bury. I've already walked 13. I find a cake cupboard, and buy myself a cookie and a chocolate brownie, which are both delicious, before getting on the bus.

£4 for a ten minute bus journey has to be one of the worst rates going. But it's the only option, and soon enough, I'm in Gazeley.

The ceiling of the chancel in Gazeley Church is covered with medieval wooden carved tiles. They're currently undergoing conservation work though, so I can't see them. There's one of the oddest carvings in the ceiling of the nave though.

I meet some people from the church in the pub, who are confused by my presence, but I have a chicken burger and some elderflower cider, so I'm happy.

I can get a late start today, so I wander up to East Harling church after breakfast. It's very large, and beautiful. There are traces of medieval wall paintings I can't make out properly. The devil, I assume.

It's also home to some wonderful stained glass, which was kept safe during the iconoclasm, and restored many years later to the church. I should learn more about stained glass. And the reformation.

After my adventure, I was driven a little of the way. The accommodation that's been found was too far from where I started, so I'll take the lift. Blo' Norton church is very cute, and the woman tidying up the flowers tells me a little of it's history. The churches I can get into are all still dressed up for Easter, and it's beautiful. The daffodils had a long run this year.

Then I'm off along the road. Getting started so late in the day means the heat is very upsetting. At least the church was cool. I walk along a stream for a time, but it looks too muddy and deep to paddle in.

Things are very beautiful in the sunlight. I know I say that every time it's sunny, but it's always true, and always amazes me.

I reach a village called Botesdale, where I part ways with my green jumper. It has served me well, but its time is over. I walk a little further, and I'm rescued from the heat by a friend I met the other day. Thank goodness. The sunburn is also worse.

I arrive at the house, which is gorgeous and wonderful, and I'm given a glass of sparkling elderflower, which is very refreshing. There's roast lamb and everything wonderful for supper.

My bag was being driven forward the next day, so I was given a string bag to carry my things. It falls apart fairly quickly, so I put everything into my dry bag and try to use my scarf as a strap. This isn't very good. I'll find a small folding rucksack once I reach Cambridge.

I reach the village of Badwell Ash, where I buy an ice cream and explore the church, which is lovely. St Mary's is a 14th Century church with carved angels in the rafters. It's also blessedly cold, which I appreciate.

I sit to eat my ice cream, and extract a very large thorn from my foot. Then I'm off along a footpath through a large estate. I see a little lamb with it's head under the fence, munching on the thicker grass there. He can get back through, I stay long enough to check.

Neither of the churches on the estate are open, but that's alright. I mean, I think they should be, or at least have information on key access, but it's not anyone's priority. There are some sheep sleeping under a huge old oak. The dream. I think my life is pretty good - wandering around old churches, eating sandwiches and occasionally ice creams, but I'd happily spend a few days wandering round a field and sleeping under old trees. I don't have the insulation of a sheep though.

I reach Norton as the rain starts. I have to put my scarf on, which means I'm just carrying my dry bag, which is inconvenient and annoying.

Norton church is home to some excellent 15th century wood carvings on the miserichords, as well as stained glass from around the same time. One carving is mislabeled as 'woman carving wood'. She is clearly carding wool. I don't know if this is a transcription error or a misunderstanding of the scene.

I make my way to the pub and wait for my bag, and a lift into Bury. I buy a half pint of cider and some chips, which I can't really afford, but I'm cold and tired. I shouldn't have been so arrogant to walk out without a jumper today.

I'm driven into Bury, and it starts raining on my short walk down to the house where in staying. My host is well versed in the art of pilgrimage, and says she'll join me tomorrow. I haven't had walking company since Canterbury, so it'll be nice to chat and walk.

Feeling unsettled, I get going out of Norwich. I pass by a few more wonderful churches, and then walk along a fairly main road for several miles. There's pavement though. Easter Sunday, and I'm on the move.

I reach a little church. It's the smallest church in Norfolk, and it's locked. All Saints, in Keswick. So small I lose sight of it behind a yew tree. Yews are huge though. It's very cute.

It's not a particularly nice walking day, the way I've gone. And all of the churches are locked. But the air is clear, and there's a breeze on my skin. I don't feel renewed by my time in Norwich. I wish I did.

Eventually, I reach a roundabout, and my host is out driving nearby, so she collects me. My head is weird, and my body isn't in alignment with anything. I take a long, long hot bath with candles. Always a good reset.

My wonderful host (I should send her a postcard) also helps me work out the route forward, and calls round some friends to help me find some places to sleep. I've got a rest day here tomorrow, and it's a different sort of rest day. Maybe I put too much pressure on the ceremonies and liturgy of the Triduum to restore something in me. Maybe feeling was the key.

We eat delicious pasta, and she takes me out to show me the seedlings in the greenhouse. Tiny shoots which will soon bloom and be wonderful.

I forgot to close the blinds, so I wake up with the sun. I don't mind. We're going to the cinema! I haven't been to the cinema for so long. And then out for lunch. A moment of friendship, of 'normal' time, and comfort, and joy.

My bag is being driven forward tomorrow, so I'm loaned a rucksack, which is wonderful. My bag needs to be ruthlessly sorted through again, it's getting too heavy. I'll see if I have floor space and energy tomorrow.

After breakfast (toast and Marmite, wonderful) I'm given my packed lunch and I'm off. The heat is almost bearable, and it's early, so the sun isn't that bad just yet. It's a pretty walk - I'm next to a main road, which I can hear, but can't see. I forgot to go to Wymondham Abbey, even with a rest day here. If I'm meant to go I'll go one day.

I make very good progress when I don't have my bag on. It is too burdensome a burden. I also make good progress on my audiobook.

The sun is high when I reach my halfway point and eat a late morning snack. I've lost my suncream, and an outline of my scallop shell pendant is burned into my chest. I'll try to find some in the next few days. Suncream is very important. Heavy, but important.

I pass through a village, where I fill up my water bottle (a new water bottle was acquired in Norwich) and sit for a few minutes to watch the ducks on the duck pond and eat a flapjack. There are much worse things I could be doing with my time. My life is wonderful.

The church in Old Buckenham is thatched, relatively recently by the looks of it, and has an octagonal tower. It's also wonderfully cool inside. Churches don't get that warm, which is a blessing in the heat. As long as they're open.

I walk along the road for a while, and someone offers me a lift. I've still got plenty of daylight left. And I'm not exhausted enough that my survival instincts have left me, and I'll get into a random van with a man I don't know.

I walk along a road, and nettles bite viciously at my legs. I chew some plantain leaves and rub them on my stings, which seems to help. I reach another village with a church, and eat the rest of my lunch. Tuna mayo wraps do not travel well. Lesson learned.

I reach East Harling, along with my host from last night. I'm staying with her mum, and we're having lasagna. The promise of lasagna is always enough to encourage me to get through the pain of walking. By some magic, accommodation has also been found in Bury St Edmunds, which relaxes me a little bit.

Lasagna is excellent, and so is a nice hot shower. Sweaty and sunburnt is an unpleasant situation. I repack my bag, so I'm ready to head off in the morning. No time or energy to get rid of anything. I do, however, pack my green jumper up to be posted back to my parents' house. I'll be sad to see it go, but it's too heavy and bulky to carry on into spring with.

After an accidental nap, I walk up the hill to the church of St John the Baptist, where most of the services take place. It's beautiful, and already dark when I arrive. I'd considered going to the Cathedral, but I'll give this a try.

There's an overwhelming quantity of priests. I try to relax, but I never washed the blood from my legs, and I'm aching after last night. And today's walking. Still, it's beautiful. I know that nothing will ever be the same as spending Holy Week at Hilfield, and the intense sharing of time and emotion there. I miss it desperately. I cry through most of the service, and I've forgotten my handkerchief.

I forgot to check about a curfew into the house, and the watch is very cramped and busy, so I leave. I sit alone until midnight, reading and crying, before I settle down to sleep.

Breakfast here is lovely. Sourdough toast and butter, and muesli. Also, the most fantastic dates I've ever eaten.

I walk down the road to St Julian's church, and I sit in Lady Julian's Shrine for a while. A long while. There are more tears shed.

I decide to head to the Cathedral for the Solemn Liturgy. There's an hour of meditation and reflections before, which I enjoy. Well, enjoy isn't the right word.

I'm not sure about choirs singing the Passion. It's hard to hear the words, it's hard to focus. The Cathedral is beautiful though, and I try not to let my gaze focus on the ceiling. There's not much else to focus on visually, with everything covered or absent.

There's compline in St Julian's. It's very confusing for absolutely no reason - the booklets are unclear. I talk afterwards over a cup of tea with some other people staying at the guesthouse. They are unimpressed by the fact I'm a pilgrim, and talk about how nice it is to be on retreat, and to spend money without worrying. I talk about Hilfield, and how I miss the all consuming nature of it. One of my companions says the evil one often tries to lead us away from what is good, and that I should never have left the Friary to start my pilgrimage. This is an unhelpful and incorrect line of thought and conversation.

Holy Saturday, the only day I don't do anything in the church, is possibly the most fruitful and pleasant of my days in Norwich. Right to Roam have organised a trespass in Hethersett, a short bus ride away. I'm too nervous to talk to any of my fellow walkers on the bus, but when we get off, we meet a crowd of about forty people ready to walk.

Me at Kett's Oak

Trespass, I will remind you, before I'm critisied for opening advertising criminal acts, is not a crime. It is a civil matter, and even then, only if the landowner can prove that you have damaged property or otherwise acted unlawfully. It's the same as wild camping. As long as you don't damage crops or fences, they don't have a leg to stand on. I'm still generally respectful - I understand that people who own land, especially if they have for generations, feel they have a connection to it. But I've also seen the old Ordinance Survey maps. You could walk a path around the edge of almost every field.

The theme of the walk was Robert Kett and the Norfolk rising. Kett was a landowner, and in 1549, when land became enclosed, the people began to tear up the fences put in place to mark land boundaries. Kett, a local landowner, agreed with the cause, and joined them in destroying his own fences.

On the 9th July 1549, Kett and his followers gathered at an oak tree, now known as Kett's Oak. It would have been a ridiculous coincidence if it had been known as Kett's Oak before that. The original group of three hundred swelled to twelve thousand on the march to Norwich, where they set up a camp on Household Heath, where they remained for seven weeks and wrote up a list of 29 demands, including:

- A reduction in rents

- The punishment of corrupt officials

- And the replacement of counsellors to the king (both clerical and lay) who enriched themselves at the expense of the state.

The fight has not yet been won.

Kett's army held brief control over the city, but soon enough a mercenary army was assembled and thousands of rebels killed. Robert Kett was hanged from the walls of Norwich castle, and his brother William was hanged from Wymondham Abbey.

Kett's Oak is an ancient tree, which isn't accessible by public footpaths. It's accessible across fields, or from a busy cycle lane. A hugely significant site of English protest history and it can't be safely reached on public land.

I meet lots of wonderful people on the walk. It's an enriching and joyful experience, and I learn lots about my rights in accessing land. Various people try to help me with the route going forward, but alas, nothing can be found. Hopefully something turns up.

After a quick nap and some food, I head back to St John's for the Easter Vigil. I'm welcomed in warmly, and given my candle. Even in the dark, the church is beautiful. We head outside where the fire in prepared. There's a very strong smell of something petrol based. Nothing will ever compare to the Hilfield Easter fire, but this is quite big for how central the church is in the city. Apparently last year a fire engine was called. It's certainly not just symbolic.

Lighting the Paschal candle takes enough attempts to be funny, with the priest stating, good humouredly, 'this liturgy was devised in the Mediterranean'. We go in, and I don't cry this time, but everything is wonderful, and joyful once the bells ring. I love Easter.

I stay awkwardly afterwards for drinks and cake, before heading back to where I'm staying. I've decided to leave tomorrow morning. I feel too unsettled here. But Christ is risen, there is joy and hope in my heart amidst the fear and stress.

In the early morning, the hares and deer are waking up in the woods. They're beautiful. My water is cold enough to hurt my stomach, which may also be because I haven't eaten anything. I have some peanut butter wraps a couple of miles in. I should have stocked up better.

I encounter a field of cows. There are calfs, and while I know how to keep myself safe (and remember that they're generally inquisitive rather than aggressive) I take a detour around the field. Through lots of nettles. These aren't that bad - some nettles are worse than other nettles.

I remember the first time stinging nettles got me. I was at the allotment with my grandparents, pulling rhubarb. I was very small, and put all my strength into pulling up a stem. When it came free, I fell back into a patch of nettles. Granny walked me home as I cried. The start of a lifelong feud with stinging nettles. They can sting me, but I can also trample them and uproot them. Or make them into a soup. They can hurt me, but they can't make me into a soup. At least, I don't think so.

I stop in at St Peter's in Hedenham. The artwork in here is beautiful, and it's very wood based and cosy. I step out, and the rains starts fairly soon after. I decide not to retreat into the church. Rain is fine - I've got enough layers, and body fat, to keep me warm. I can always get dry again.

The rain stops before I reach the next church where I could have sheltered. All Saints, in Woodton, which is charming, and has a circular tower with an octagonal belfry. It's very pretty. I like vibrant stained glass. Well, I like all stained glass.

I've been wondering about circular towers. There are around 180 in the country, and only a handful are outside of East Anglia. It turns out, if you're building with flint, it's much easier to build stable and neat circular structures than it is to build square ones. There's no stone around here to cut into blocks. Thatched churches, it's a similar story. If what you've got is water reeds, that's what you'll make a roof from. You can read a lot of the landscape through a church. You can also tell a lot about where the money is - or where it used to be.

I walk for about a mile on the wrong side of a ditch. I'm not backtracking, so I slide down the ditch, and crawl up the far bank, clutching at grass. My legs are shredded. It would have been easier to throw my bag over first, but I'm so stressed about my laptop.

I'm also incredibly hungry. But there are lots of people out walking, and I become very paranoid about someone telling me off for sitting down in a field to eat. My legs are shaking and I'm dizzy and stumbling when I reach the bus stop. I eat my remaining wraps with peanut butter.

There's a bit of a wait for the bus into Norwich, but I can wait. I find some chocolate in my bag.

I'm staying at All Hallows, which is the guest house at St Julian's. It's very peaceful here, even though it's in the city. My stay here was a birthday present from my parents several months ago, and the fact that I'm here when I said I would be is genuinely incredible. Well, I did plan to be here for the Triduum.

- Abraham Fleming on the Black Shuck, 1577

I get a late start. It's another short walking day, but I get going at around ten. I walk out of Beccles along the roads, then take a brief diversion (trespass is a civil matter, not a crime) to reach Holy Trinity church in Barsham, which is sumptuous and gorgeous.

I spend about an hour in here, reading the information booklet (very grateful to people who write these) and exploring. There's a Green Man, on the side of a tomb. There used to be another on the font, but he was a victim of the reformation.

The tomb belongs to Edward Etchingham, Captain of the Peter Pomegranate. The Peter Pomegranate does match the naming structure of her sister ship, the Mary Rose. Saint + family emblem. But, while the Tudor emblem was a rose, Katherine Howard's emblem was a pomegranate. It certainly doesn't sound formidable for such a great warship. It sounds like a children's character.

I pass another church at Shipmeadow, but on approach, find it is now a private home. I carry on my journey towards Bungay. It's road based, and a little dull, and the sky is not clear. Not threatening rain, but not bright.

I reach Bungay, and visit the church, which is mostly calm. There's another, much larger church opposite, which is in the care of the Churches conversation trust, and isn't open. It's still pretty.

I press on towards Ditchingham, stocked up with two samosas and a pot noodle. St Mary's is huge, and I'm immediately met with a tomb, and an effigy which I'm sure will terrify me in the dark.

I call my mum for support. I then call my friend Felix for support. I've never been this frightened inside a church before, but I've never been in one so isolated. Also, I can usually lock myself in. No way to even block the bolt here. And the animals outside are loud.

People have also been telling me for the last few days about the Black Shuck. I could have quite happily left East Anglia without knowing about the huge black beast which stalks travellers at night. Especially when I'm in this unlocked church.

Hopefully I make it through the night. Tomorrow, it's Maundy Thursday. And time to reach the next big destination - Norwich, and Julian's Shrine.

I head out early, but there's a lot of the day to fill. I can't arrive until after six, and there's only nine miles to walk. A chance to take my time.

I'm walking alongside the River Waveney, but I don't see much of it through the thick rushes. I'm occasionally reminded of it by the sound of swans, (still my main enemy) and boats rushing past. The river makes up a large part of the border with Norfolk, but I'm still on the Suffolk side for now. I decide not to make the extra walk up to the church at Burgh St Peter, which is thatched, but has the ugliest tower I've ever seen. Courtesy of the Boycott family. Yes, those Boycotts. There's no bridge across the river anyway.

River walking is nice. The path is far from level, but it is flat, and the views are good. I have two negative experiences, one of which is walking into some nettles to get around work vans (the STATE of my legs right now is awful). The other is passing two men and a dog. I step off the path to get around, and take off my headphones. They, for some terrifying reason stop, and start shouting at the dog, 'go on, go on, go on' while gritting their teeth at me. I'm suddenly struck by how long it's been since I've seen anyone else walking.

Rattled, I hurry on towards Beccles. I visit the church, which I was supposed to sleep in, but forgot to confirm this. I'm glad I'm not. It's very much in the centre of town, and even down in the undercroft, I think I'd be terrified. It is a beautiful church though.

The bell tower in Beccles is also notable. It isn't attached to the church, because it's on a cliff. There are clocks on 3 sides, two placed there in the 18th century, and the final one a century later. The West face has no clock. This is the side facing Norfolk, and if they didn't help pay for the clocks, they don't get to know the time. County rivalry pettiness at it's best.

I get myself a drink and catch up on some emails in the pub, still with time to fill before I can arrive. My host is a very experienced hiker, and she laughed at my bag the other day. She says once we get back, we're going through it to get rid of some things.

First, church crawling. There are three churches (into Norfolk now), with circular towers charististic of the county. The first is St Margaret's, in Hales, and the stairs up to the balcony are open too. It's a twelfth century church, with wall paintings. One is St Christopher, and the other is St James. I thank them both often for their care.

We then head to St Mary's in Norton Subcourse. Another circular tower. The roof is tiled, but it makes up for that with the most whimsical little organ I've ever seen.

Finally, we head to St Matthias' in Thorpe, which has a thatched nave. It isn't open, but we would have been extremely lucky to get three out of three, especially in the evening. I do peer in through the windows, and it's very lovely inside. My walking route doesn't take me to any of these churches, and St Margaret's in particular I would have been sad to miss.

Back at her house, I manage to get rid of 2kg of weight from my bag. Magic. My bag is still heavy, but I think I can post my heavy green jumper to my parents soon, as it's warming up. I can always get it back if I need it. I'll be sad to let it go, but it does weigh almost as much as my sleeping bag, so I think it needs to be gone. It's too hot to walk in anyway. It's nice in the evenings. I'm trying to convince myself it's more of a hindrance than help, but I do love it. It does weigh 1.4kg though.

Stretched, and washed, and full of spaghetti bolognese, it's time for bed. My sleep tomorrow will not be so comfortable, I fear.

After breakfast, I lock up and head out. The beach out of Southwold looks difficult, and there's a church I want to see.

I'm on the roads for a while, but they're quite quiet. There's a play park, and as is my custom, I take the opportunity to go on the zipwire. And the swing. I love going on zipwires.

I find a footpath, and a large fallen tree which I sit in to eat some cake. I would recommend this experience to anyone who can safely climb a tree. I will say, the lemon drizzle cake isn't lemony enough or drizzly enough for my liking, but it's still yummy. I do rip my shorts falling out of the tree. New ones were in order anyway.

St Andrew's, in Covehithe, was a very, very large church, built in the 14th Century. The 14th Century tower, and much of the original walls remain, but post reformation, the village was granted permission to make the church smaller. A little thatched church sits among the ruins, and it's beautiful. It was too expensive to maintain such a grand church.

Inside is white, and plain, with no stained glass, and damp walls slowly turning green and cracking. Peaceful, though.

You can't walk directly to the beach, because the cliffs are too unstable. I don't mind a little trespass, but not when there's a risk like, a cliff collapsing. I reach the sea. I feel very strange when I go a few weeks without seeing it. The next few weeks will be a struggle on this front.

The beach is wet sand, which is easier to walk on than shingle. I can see around to Southwold, and the lighthouse there.

I meet a man walking in the other direction, who I ask whether I can walk all the way to Kessingland. He tells me yes, but to be aware of the presence of a pig which has fallen down the cliffs. I assume it's dead, but he tells me it is very much alive, and he's told the estate, who are on their way to rescue it.

Even knowing it would be there, it's still a shock to see it running around on the sand, looking with great curiosity at the sea. It's only little, and apparently absolutely fine despite the several metre drop. They aren't very high cliffs. I compose and sing a nice rhyme to it.

There's a pig on the beach,

There's a pig on the sand,

Looking all confused because,

He wants to be on land

I'm unsure how this was received by the pig.

I encounter the rescue party, who call down to me from the cliff, and I tell them he's about ten minutes back. I meet them again when they've walked down to where the cliff dips, and I sit to eat my lunch.

I walk further along to Kessingland, where I'm meeting my hosts before driving back to their home. The sea has been calm today. The sun has shone on my face, and the wind has been soft and cool. A beautiful day. And I met a pig.

After breakfast, Stan and I head on a cheese based adventure. There's a place called Friday Street farm shop, which has a whole room full of cheese. This is very, very, very exciting. I buy myself two very small pieces of cheese.

Touring the country by cheese is a nice thought. Expensive - cheese counters generally don't like cutting such tiny pieces of cheese. I'm going to try to get a local cheese in each county going forward. I bought a piece of Ashmore in Kent, which was lovely, and I got some local gossip and apparently a 'pilgrim discount'. In Suffolk, I buy a piece of 'Raedwald' from Fen Farm dairy, which I think makes it into my top ten cheeses. I also buy a piece of St Helena, which was a bit mild and creamy, but still yummy. We'll see what Norfolk cheese I can find.

We visit Snape Maltings, and see some nice artwork in the gallery spaces, and then it's time to get going. The first bit of walking is along the river, with reed beds all around. It's beautiful, and it starts raining, and then hailing. Only for a couple of minutes though, and then the sky is clear again.

I reach the woods, where I see a muntjac. I know they're fairly widespread, but I've never seen one, and it's very exciting. They look like weird dogs. When I excitedly tell my host about this later, she shakes her head and says 'Sweet girl. They're a pest. They sell a muntjac vindaloo in the curry house here.'. I think this may say a lot more about what kind of place Aldeburgh is, rather than the muntjac population.

I'm following the fisherman's path, or something like that, which is nice. I get a glimpse of the sea across the marshes, and then I'm on the road. I try a little trespass, but it's not very easy. Too many brambles.

I reach Aldeburgh, and my host greets me warmly. She asks if I want to go and get fish and chips and drink wine on the beach. Obviously I want that.

Aldeburgh is gorgeous. Very pretty, and the moon over the sea is bright. Fish and chips, prosecco, a good conversation. Life is truly wonderful.

I hugely misunderstood where my host tonight lives. And miscalculated.

After breakfast, (bagels, wonderful) I make myself some lunch and set off. I hop on a bus out to Martlesham, and start walking.

Martlesham Church, I am learning, follows the blueprint for churches in Suffolk. Good square tower, flintwork, dedicated to Mary. 265 of Suffolk's roughly 500 Anglican churches are dedicated to Mary. Higher than the national proportion. I sit to pray, before walking back out.

The sun is shining when I reach Martlesham Creek. It's one of the most beautiful places I've seen. There are Godwits padding around on the mud, and I see my first ever White Egret, which is exciting. Water sparkles in sunlight, and I don't think it's an accident. There's mud, there's water, boats in various states of decay. And the birdsong is violently alive.

There are lots of friendly people out walking. Well, they're friendly to me, at least. I can't speak for their day to day conduct. I reach the River Deben, and wander into Woodbridge. I want some new sunglasses. And some biscuits.

Sunglasses acquired, I pay an extortionate amount of money for a solero on a cafe on a boat, which I eat in the sun, looking at the river. I call Stan, who is going to come and pick me up. The road I was planning to walk along is too dangerous, and I'm excited to see him.

I sit by a quiet road in the sun and do some work on the Franciscan Pilgrimage. Lots of emails to be sent. Stan finds me, and tells me I look really cool, which I appreciate. I'm very happy with my new sunglasses. They're huge, and with the scarf I hope I look like an old film star. Not that I'm old.

Stan's made moussaka, and biscuits, and he drives me to his mum's house. There's lots to catch up on over a cup of tea. We drive down to the beach, and make plans for tomorrow, and then eat the moussaka. I tell most people I stay with I can't eat aubergines, which isn't true, I just hate them. Fine in moussaka though. Delicious, in fact.

A lazy start to the following day, I get up, fetch one of my dresses which is now clean and dry, and Annie drives me down to meet Stan and his dog. Adventures await. Kev the dog is gorgeous, and I really shouldn't have worn a clean white dress around him. We head out on a walk in the drizzle, and get lunch in Felixstowe. Halloumi focaccia sandwiches.

There's a church in a place called Huntingfield, and a woman called Mildred Holland painted the ceiling here. It's beautiful. Vibrant, and inspiring. It took her seven years to plan and paint. There's a coin slot which would illuminate the painting, if Stan or I had a pound coin. Neither of us do. It's still magnificent.

We drive onward to Sibton Abbey, where we sneakily park near the church and walk along the road. It was a Cistercian monastery, which makes a change. There's really something about red brick ruins in the late afternoon drizzle. What remains standing was the refectory and kitchens. We walk back to the car in the rain.

I've offered to cook tonight. I love cooking, and it's one of the things I really miss while I'm on the road. Even if there's ever an opportunity, there's rarely the energy or motivation. I make roast sweet potatoes, black beans and feta, which ww have with couscous (by Stan) and a lemony salad.

Back on the move tomorrow, an

d more of beautiful Suffolk to see.

Accommodation request - Bury St Edmunds and Ely. If you have any connections, please let me know.

With my bag packed, and new scarf on my head, I set off. The lighter bag is a small blessing today. I head to the village shop, where I forget to buy breakfast, and eat half of my lunch sat in a tree. Ham and mozzarella sandwich - I try adding pistachios, which I don't think adds much. Eating in a tree is always fun though.

I also spot the first bluebells of the year! Well, the first ones I've ever seen. I'm careful not to walk in bluebell woods - I'm quite scared of fairies. A respectful fear. I sit to rest on a bench in the woods, and meet a friendly man out walking. He tells me about a large chunk of plastic he found in a tin of tuna recently, and that I've taken his bench. We part ways, and I'm walking through fields again.

I am, and it's happening too frequently now, running out of water. I only carry one litre, and that's not enough, if I'm not passing through anywhere I can fill it up. A small rainfall doesn't help, but it does make me panic a bit more than it should.

I'm in the woods, and there's been lots of forestry work recently. The smell of fresh cut pine is heady and wonderful. I'm back listening to Lord of the Rings, and I'm jealous of their soft beds and white bread in Tom Bombadil's house. I am tired most of the time. Even when I'm not, I could still take a nap. I love napping.

I reach the edge of Ipswich, where I stand in a little creek, which is still a bit too cold, but very refreshing on my aching feet. I walk across, because that's the quickest option, and dry my feet on a spare sock in my bag. I foolishly sent my towel ahead of me.

Ipswich is nice. It's big, and has some pretty buildings. I don't visit any of the churches, but press on to my friend's house. I ran out of water several miles ago, and I'm thirsty.

My host tonight I met through Tiktok several years ago. I apparently learned nothing from internet safety videos at school. It's always been fine so far, and this is no exception. We watch TV, and chat, and have dinner. It's great.

People keep asking if I'll start camping soon. I was planning to get my tent (very sweetly ask my parents to post it to me) in the next few weeks, but what I've been doing has worked so far. Camping in the Peak District would be nice though, just for a few days. But there haven't been any nights so far where it would be an advantage to have it, and my bag is already offensively heavy. Not sure how heavy, but it's certainly a hindrance.

I also enjoy meeting people. I like small times of solitude, but I'm a very social creature. I like to talk, I like to learn about people, and break bread together. Granted, it's usually their bread we are breaking. I feel less like my presence is a burden now too. People won't offer what they can't give. And it's a joy to be able to give hospitality to others. I spent two years doing it at the Friary. And it's an honour to welcome people and offer them shelter.

Yesterday afternoon, without any reason, I started listening to the Sydney Carter song 'John Ball'. On repeat. For several hours. Then I realised he was from Colchester. Where I was headed.

Upon research, there's no plaque here marking him. The church of St James the Great, which is where his preaching got him excommunicated, doesn't celebrate him, and obviously he has no marked grave anywhere. Well, there's a plaque in St Alban's marking the spot of his execution.

John Ball, for the unititiated, was a cleric involved in the peasants revolt of 1381. He was excommunicated several years before for his radical preaching, before travelling around Kent, Essex and London to deliver open air sermons. He delivered the following speech at Blackheath in May 1381.

When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman? From the beginning all men by nature were created alike, and our bondage or servitude came in by the unjust oppression of naughty men. For if God would have had any bondmen from the beginning, he would have appointed who should be bond, and who free. And therefore I exhort you to consider that now the time is come, appointed to us by God, in which ye may cast off the yoke of bondage, and recover liberty.

He was hung, drawn and quartered for his role in inciting the destruction and violence which followed. And long live the day that is dawning. I struggle with violent direct action, but his words ring true across the centuries.

St James' is not open, but I continue on to St Botolph's, the first Augustinian Priory in England, which is very beautiful, and I take a look at Colchester castle. I don't pay to go inside.

What you can't see in Colchester is the Boudiccan Destruction Horizon, a thick layer of ash and burned red clay deep in the earth, marking the area Queen Boudicca and her people burned to the ground. As she should.

History tour completed, I walk to Waitrose to buy some lunch, and keep walking. There's a section of road which I'm not sure is paved, and there's apparently a bus coming. I wait for twenty minutes, before I decide to walk to the next stop along. I'm tracking the bus, and it's really not moving. I carry on to the next stop, and the bus passes me, refusing to stop, when I'm ten metres shy of the stop. Some rather unsavoury language may have been used.

I break down in tears on the pavement, and check what the time is in Vietnam. Where my sister is. I call her for comfort, and for guidance. I then get a taxi to Dedham.

The guilt of getting a taxi, even during a time of great crisis and stress, eats at me. I can't shake this feeling. I don't know what it is. I think it makes me feel like I'm lying about what I'm doing - I can't claim to have walked as far as I've travelled, and I don't want people to think I'm a liar.

Dedham is lovely, and the church is beautiful. I cross a bridge, and I'm across the border into Suffolk. A short walk through the woods, and I'm at Old Hall, the community where I'll stay for the next two nights. A friend of mine put me in touch with someone who lives here. Old Hall is an intentional community of about 50 people of all ages, with a large organic food growing space, cows and sheep. I haven't been to many communities apart from Hilfield, and I was curious about what would be the same, and what would feel different. It's definitely more noisy here, but the same patterns of joy and frustration seem to emerge in all communities. Also their AGM was this evening, which means there's wine at supper, as well as pudding afterwards.

I'm given a tour in the morning by Jill, my host. A field of potatoes has just been planted, and the sheep are grazing peacefully. There are six polytunnels (Hilfield has one), and we peak into one filled with lettuces and other salad greens. I learn about the structure and history of the community, which started in 1974, when the house was bought from the Franciscan Friars who lived here, who bought it from the Benedictine nuns who lived here. Old Hall is not a religious community, and the deconsecrated chapel acts as a badminton court and community space. There's still a large mural above where the altar was, which most badminton courts don't have.

My friend from Ipswich drives over to join us for dinner, and to take a few of my things onward so my bag is lighter tomorrow. We then investigate the community wardrobe, where people leave things they don't want. I acquire a linen vest and a white cashmere scarf, which I think might be nicer in the heat than my current one. It is much, much bigger than my current one though. We'll see. N

othing has a permanent spot in my bag.

It's a Sunday, which means I'm not veiling today, and my hair can breathe. My scarf, while beautiful, is polyester, and not the most breathable. It also means I need to find a church.

I learned fairly early on that waiting around in the morning until after church is too late to get going - sometimes it's the only option, and the guilt about getting a bus on these days hits less intensely than it otherwise would. But today, there is a church four miles along my route, and I have time to get there. It's a nice walk out, and the sun is shining, but with less heat than yesterday. Essex is absolutely beautiful - and everything is lush and wonderful in the spring.

I reach Little Baddow as the church bells are ringing, and make my way inside. A large wall painting of St Christopher greets me. I'm told it's from 1270, but was revealed 101 years ago, and the advice on preserving medieval wall paintings in 1925 was to put something on it which is eating at the paint over time. He has no legs, and no fish around his feet as he once did. The woman telling me about it tells me, somewhat wistfully, 'I remember when St Christopher still had legs'. Mary is just about visible, and Christ is still there. I'm given a postcard of a version of the mural, which I tuck into my Bible. I've been meaning to send a postcard back to Hilfield - I just need to buy some stamps.

It's easy walking along the Navigation. I'm told very firmly by a man in the church that it's called the navigation, before he gives me all of the leftover biscuits wrapped in cling film. The service was lovely, but I did panic slightly when I was unexpectedly called on during the announcements to tell everyone about my pilgrimage. I'm good at doing this, but when the question is, 'where did you start and where are you going?' I do become a bit flustered, especially when there's such a captive audience. I did get to kneel at the altar rail, which I adore.

I reach the navigation, which is a canalised river, and there are plenty of people out walking and enjoying the sunshine. Not many conversations, but it's a lot of families, so that's to be expected. There are lots of Duke of Edinburgh groups out too, and I come across one boy dragging his bag. I ask if he needs help with the straps, and watch him struggle with the huge bag as his friends tell him he'll break it, and he's slowing them all down.

I also see a heron, which I haven't seen for a while. But I haven't been walking near rivers recently. I also see plenty of geese, which I always like. I divert onto a golf course to avoid an aggressive swan, much to the amusement of the golfers. I reach Maldon, which I won't claim to have visited, because all I've done is sit in the car park of a big Tesco and wait for a bus.

That seems to be my experience of a lot of places I visit. Passing through, not really visiting or seeing. I wish I had done - people say Maldon is beautiful. There's also a Travelodge, which I didn't know about, and I could have afforded, and then walked to Colchester tomorrow. But changing my plans now would knock out one of my rest days, which I'm very much looking forward to.

The bus arrives (thank goodness) and takes me to Colchester, where I collect the keys for the flat I'm staying in and get on another bus. Not before picking up the ingredients for nachos. I've been thinking about eating nachos for weeks, and tonight is the night.

I'm staying with the flatmate of a friend of a friend. She's around my age, and we chat for hours, which is nice. I forgot to buy any salsa, but the nachos are still edible. Time for rest, and a nice adventure in the morning. There are things I want to see in Colchester before I go - I'm determined not to have just passed through without looking.

Ancient markers in the land.

The walk from where I am in Maidstone to West Malling is not very far. But, there are two neolithic burial sites if I head North first. The walk is alright, a lot of confusing crossing over the A229, but there's pavement most of the way. More audiobook time.

I reach Little Kit's Coty, a jumble of stones in the ground. It hasn't always been a jumble of stones, but it is now. I stand to watch the stones for a while. They don't move. I carry on up the hill to Kit's Coty, with the standing stones. Both mark neolithic burial sites - markers in the land, markers of love, and memory. These, weirdly, make me start coughing uncontrollably, so I quickly leave. I stop coughing on the path, and go back to the stones to test my theory. They make me start coughing again. I think I'm allergic to these in particular.

I walk back down the hill, and walk along a road I'm definitely not supposed to, and then get lost in a vineyard. Worse places to be lost. I emerge, eventually, in Aylesford, where I pick up some lunch. Vegetable samosas again. I walk along the river, passing Aylesford Priory. It's beautiful, and they do offer a discount to pilgrims, but it's still way over budget. I'm carrying on to Malling Abbey.

There is a bus, but walking along the road is nice enough. And I'm not walking for the next few days, so it's good to use the energy I have. I feel a lot stronger now than three weeks ago. I'm picking up a new bag in London, which hopefully doesn't fall apart like this one. We'll see.

I arrive in West Malling, approaching the rather imposing gatehouse of the Abbey. I'm welcomed in and given a hug, before being given a quick tour. I'm shown into the church, where the guest sister tells me 'this was built in the 1960s'.

My response, which is not the correct response here, is 'Yes, you can tell'. I'm not great at filtering myself at the best of time, and after a twelve mile walking day, apparently this is worse then usual. She does laugh a bit.

It's desperately cold. I go outside to call my mum, and then head back in to eat my other samosa, some old crisps (very crushed up space raiders). I head to Compline, which is peaceful, but I can't face the cross. I like a point of focus. There is a candle.

I get back into my room, pack up and set off. There are the ruins of a chapel opposite the hotel, so I stop here first. Part of the structure is Roman, with lines of red brick running lines through the walls. These sections are 4th century, a Romano British temple or mauseleon later incorporated into the Christian church. Some is then Saxon, then 13th Century. It was abandoned in the early 16th Century. And now it's here, with moss growing on it, and ivy covering the North wall. I face East. The stones remember. They hold it all. 

A project I'm involved with is the Franciscan Peace Pilgrimage, which is happening this summer. An 80 day endeavour, connecting the Franciscan houses. It'll be joyful once we get to it, but the stress of coordinating it is weighing on me constantly. There's a meeting this afternoon to discuss it at, and after a few unpleasant miles walking along the road, I jump on a bus to Maidstone. This wasn't the plan, but it's very windy, and I don't have time to do all of my walking and be in a good place for the call.

I acquire some boot wax in town, and find a nice tree to sit against for the call. It's a bit drizzly, but I don't like talking on the phone in coffee shops, and it might stop raining soon. There are some teeangers smoking weed on a bandstand, and lots of dogs sniffing around. A lot of people assume I'm sleeping rough, when I'm in big towns like this, which gets me a lot of dirty looks. Oxford was the worst for that, actually. It's something I'll talk to people about in person, but something I won't talk about on here.

The call is very productive, and I try to visit a church. There's a very aggressive looking dog barking outside the main entrance, so no luck there, and I ask my hosts whether I can arrive a bit earlier than I'd said, and set off towards their house. 

I'm welcomed in, and I apologise again for the fact I have a work call tonight. I was thinking I'd be in a hotel tonight, so it would be fine, as I find hiding in a room on a call a little antisocial when people who don't know me have very kindly offered to host me for the night. But money has to be earned somehow, and my hosts are very understanding. 

I do speak with them afterwards, and eat some very nice stew and a jacket potato. I also get strawberries and ice cream, which is wonderful. My final walking day (before a six day rest) is tomorrow. I can stretch myself, especially after the minimal walking today. 

I'm forever running out of blister plasters and zinc oxide tape. My boots are perfect, when they're dry. They are often not dry. I stock up, and find a route called 'squeeze gut alley'. From the end I'm at, this seems very dramatic. Then the last ten metres, my bag can barely fit through. Well named then.

I'm on the coast path. The sea is so far out, and everything is quite bleak and wonderful. The wind is blowing fiercely, and I've done a terrible job putting on my scarf. I shelter behind a beach hut to call someone I'm staying with in a couple of weeks.

I'm listening to Lord of the Rings, read by Andy Serkis. I'd vaguely said I'd wear my headphones less during Lent, but my ears are cold. And it's very engaging. I sit to eat my bread and cheese on the beach, looking over to Sheppey. Cheese and bread is always good. This cheese is delicious, and I got a 'pilgrim discount'. I don't know how much it would have been otherwise - I paid more than I want to admit, but I can eat it for a few days if I can get more bread.

Eventually I turn off through a solar farm, and then along a river. Little flying creatures are abundant here. Too abundant for my liking. Then I'm in a shipyard, then I'm in Faversham. I see a sign to the shrine of St Jude. It's closed, because I spent too long looking at the sea today. Again, we can blame an awful lot on my poor research. St Jude is the patron saint of desperate situations and lost causes. I don't think I'm either, and I don't think 'I don't have anywhere to stay in Essex' is a desperate situation just yet.

I reach my hotel, which is currently experiencing a power cut, but everything in the rooms is alright. Someone generously paid half with me, so I had somewhere for the night. It's very comfy and lovely. I can't afford a meal at the restaurant, but because of the power cut, the only options were sandwiches anyway. I have a pot noodle in my bag. And a satsuma.

Every type of place I stay has pros and cons. People houses, including vicarages, are usually my favourites. I like the conversation, a hot shower, a shared meal. Most of my mealtimes are alone, or with the dinosaurs and Sister Cecelia, who are still not very talkative (these are my mascots, for the unititiated). Hotels are sometimes needed, or more specifically, a night alone is needed. But if I go more than twelve hours without talking to another person, I start to get very sad. Churches are wonderful, but often cold. But there's nothing like sleeping in front of an altar. There hasn't been any camping yet, and I'm not sure that there will be. If I can get away with not carrying a tent, things will be a lot easier on my back when it's warm enough to sleep outside. I can still cowboy camp, if things are dry enough.

I'm all sorted for accommodation for the next two days. Maidstone tomorrow, and two meetings. Hopefully I can find somewhere dry enough for the afternoon one.

A rest day. A proper rest day. I wake up late (or as late as you can in a shared dorm, which isn't very) and make sure I've got all my valuables with me before I head out.

There are a few things in Canterbury I wanted to do, aside from visit the Cathedral. St Martin's church is closed on Mondays, and so is St Augustine's Abbey. Apparently the Franciscan Chapel is never open now, but I stand on the bridge to look at it while I chat with a couple of women. They want to know why I know so much about St Francis. They also encourage me to write a book about my journey, but I say that most books I've read about pilgrimage seem to start with tragedy. They say that not everyone wants to read about tragedy, and that my story is still a good one. I guess people read this, so maybe they're right.

Franciscan Chapel, Canterbury

I buy a burrito, which is horrible, and a bottle of mexican cola, because people talk about it a lot. It's alright. I wander around sone more, and buy myself a new scarf in a charity shop, which is very light and floaty. I also buy a ready meal lasagna, and eat this in the very awkward kitchen back at the hostel. I feel physically rested, definitely. A relaxing day, even if I didn't get to do any of the things I wanted to do.

People say 'Oh, but it's up to God, and when the time is right, you'll do everything you're supposed to do', but quite frankly, we can put a lot of the blame on my poor planning and research.

I'm forced to pack in the dark by a very grumpy bunkmate, who won't let us turn on the light even though it's nine in the morning, and she's on her phone anyway. Whatever. I pack, and set off out of the city.

I walk up to St Dunstan's, where Thomas More's head is, and I get another stamp in my Bible. Then I set off, and walk for several miles in entirely the wrong direction.

I wanted to walk through East Blean woods, which is where the Bison are. I misunderstood the map, and wander around in the woods for ages. Then I'm back on the right path, but there's forestry work, and then I'm on a different path, which ends abruptly. I take a diversion through some brambles. My legs are scratched constantly, but there's no time in my life that hasn't been the case.

Eventually, I see the bison fencing. I knew I wouldn't see one, but the potential of seeing a bison is higher if you go to where they live. It's still a nice walk. I'm walking with confidence along a path when someone asks if I'm lost. I didn't think I was.

There's no time to get to Whitstable before dark, so I jump on a bus, then a train. I'm met by Simon, the vicar of All Saint's in Whitstable, who offered to host me overnight rather than have me sleep in the church. Simon and Cathy are both very funny, and we have a lovely evening. They also help me find onward accommodation, which is good, because I didn't have anywhere to stay tomorrow night. Pilgrimage planning is TRICKY, and there's not always a friendly church or convenient tiktok follower. But

there is often enough.

I wake up, still cold. My sleeping bag is inexplicably damp, but there's no time to dry it. I pack up, and my makeshift door lock is rattled violently by the curate, here considerably earlier than I'd been led to expect. Still, she makes me a cup of tea. I walk down to the pub where my companions from yesterday stayed, to retrieve my headphones. They're also walking into Canterbury today, but I'm taking the most direct route, and they're going the long way round. We agree to meet up for evensong, if not before. 

Walking is pleasant, if misty. It's been like that for a few days now. Just white, everywhere. It'll clear one day. I walk across a few fields, and into the village of Bishopsbourne, which is alarmingly busy. I can't find space in the tearoom, and the bakery has just closed, so I continue on. I sit in a field to eat a cereal bar and some monster munch. If I never see a nature valley bar again, it'll be too soon. 

I wash my face in the wet grass, and take a few willow stems to weave into a crown. Willow is resilient, and adaptable. I'm learning to be both. It's a Sunday, so I'm not wearing my scarf. I'm also not wearing my scarf because I've been sweating into it and it absolutely needs washing. I set the crown on my head. Five miles to Canterbury.

I walk through some woods, and into the city. The way I've come in, I'm walking along the Via Francigena, which is very well signposted. I reach the gates. 

I walk into the ticket office, and ask if I'm allowed to go inside as a pilgrim. I'm brought through to the Pilgrim's Office, where I put down my bag, and I'm offered a stamp. I get a stamp in my Bible, and I get to sign the Pilgrims Book. Every Pilgrim who passes through Canterbury, whether it marks to start of the end of their journey (or a stopping place, like me) gets to sign the book. And my name will be in the archive here forever - or at least, while the cathedral stands. 

I really didn't think I'd be moved so deeply by entering the Cathedral. It's beautiful. My legs are shaking, and everything is exhausted and broken, but my spirit is revived. Centuries of prayer and worship pressed into the stone. I recall the words of Peter Ross and press my hand against the South wall. 

Break open a piece from an old church wall, and you might find joy and grief spiralling, ammonite-like, through the stone. 

I really didn't think I'd cry. But I approach the Pilgrim's steps, and pause to look at a window. A tour guide passes, and looks me over. 

'Welcome, Pilgrim.' 

I start crying immediately. I lean against a wall, exhausted, and welcome. 

I walk up the steps, my feet in the grooves made by the thousands of pilgrims who have walked before me. 

The rest is between me and God. There was more crying, and then I found my companions from yesterday, who gave me (a very squashed) hot cross bun, which I devoured, and joined them for a drink. We spoke about the highs and lows of the last three days, before heading back into the Cathedral for Evensong. We are once again greeted as pilgrims, and asked if we want a blessing after the service. 

Choral Evensong is beautiful. I don't cry, because my main focus is the pain in my legs every time I stand and sit, which is a lot. But it's beautiful. We're invited up to stand by the flame, on the site of Becket's Shrine, and receive a blessing. 

Everything is beautiful. Everything is wonderful. I am a Pilgrim in Canterbury, and I am very glad to be that.

We pass a locked church, and stop halfway up a hill. One of them passes round a block of cheese and some apples, because he says it seems like what pilgrims would eat. It's nice. He asks about my walking staff, and snaps one from the ground, using my knife to whittle a handhold and a point at one end.

We reach St Ethelburga's church in Lyminge, and sit in silence. The window here is fantastic. Strong stained glass game in Kent. The walls of the original church are marked out in the churchyard.

There's also a Holy Well. I love a Holy Well. St Eadburg's, and the source of the Nail Bourne. I crouch on a stone in the river to wash my hands and face.

We try to get some food in a pub. This is not possible, so we get what we can from Londis. I'm laughed at for my vegetable samosas and tzatiki, but I don't see their meals being any better.

We carry on. The path is waterlogged and squelchy, which my boots handle well. I collect scraps of wool from the branches as we pass, which I'll sort and spin at some point.

We enter another church, in Elham, and I ask whether the date is the third or fourth while writing in the visitors book. I am informed that it is the seventh. I really have no grasp on anything, no wonder my accommodation arrangements are a disaster.

A strap on my bag snaps. And it's a shoulder strap. I find a piece of elastic to hold it together, and hope it will hold. We eat almond cake, and I say I'm getting on the bus, because I'm worried about my bag, and because I haven't had a rest day since Brighton. And I don't want to snap before I reach Canterbury.

I reach the pub, where it's £2.50 pints of cider. I buy a strawberry cider, which is almost undrinkably sweet. Almost. I chat to a few people, which I'm getting better at. The trick in pubs is just to stand there with a huge bag and a staff. People will ask questions.

I go up to the pub so I can see it in daylight. There's a space to sleep on the bell ringing platform, which is novel, and I opt for that, despite all the dead flies. I go back to the pub and wait for my companions, who share some food with me and buy me another drink before I head up to the church.

I've got a bit of a cough. I think it's just from being out in the cold, and sleeping in cold rooms. I bought a pack of fisherman's friends, which are horrible, but help a bit.

It's so cold in here, but I'll try my best to stay warm though the night. And I'll have the best view of the sunrise through the stained glass window at the East end.