Debbie's story

Canterbury to Rome, Via Francigena stage one.

A Pilgrim’s First Steps: A Journey of Healing.

This was the first pilgrim adventure for two remarkable women in our small group of three. Both carried the weight of profound loss. Becky, a mother of two young daughters, lost her husband just one year ago this month—he was only 54. Julia, too, had endured heartbreak, having lost both her parents during the isolating and painful days of the COVID pandemic.

As someone who has walked this pilgrim route several times, I knew the journey would be more than just physical. It’s nearly impossible to explain the emotional depth of a pilgrimage to someone who hasn’t experienced it. The path doesn’t just lead you through landscapes—it winds through grief, memory, and hope. It offers silence where healing begins, and companionship where strength is found.

For Becky and Julia, this was not just a walk—it was a quiet reckoning, a sacred space to grieve, reflect, and begin to mend. And for me, it was a privilege to witness their courage and resilience unfold with each step.

We arrived at Canterbury Cathedral with nervous anticipation, unsure of what to expect but filled with hope. Waiting to greet us was Torin—a truly wonderful man who understands the profound significance of pilgrimage. From the moment we met him, Torin’s calm presence and heartfelt welcome put our minds and hearts at ease.

He gave us our first passport stamp, marking the official beginning of our journey. With gentle wisdom, he shared insights into the tradition of pilgrimage, its history, and the sacred steps we were about to take. His words brought depth and meaning to our purpose.

Torin then led us to the deacon, where we received a personal blessing to send us forth. It was a moment of quiet reflection and spiritual grounding—an unforgettable start to what promises to be a transformative journey.

We began our walk under the wrath of the year’s first tempest—Storm Amy. The trek was grueling, with fierce winds battering us and rain falling in relentless sheets. Yet rather than dampen our spirits, the storm seemed to fuel our resolve. Each gust and downpour became a challenge we embraced, forging ahead with renewed determination.

By the time we reached the third church, seeking shelter and rest, we were drenched to the bone. A quick change of clothes revived us, and we returned to the trail with fresh energy. The path was well signposted, guiding us steadily forward. Knowing that millions of pilgrims had walked this route before us filled us with courage and a deep sense of connection. The storm may have tested us, but it also transformed our journey into something unforgettable.

As we walked past the village, Julia grew quiet. It was the place she had once called home, where she’d lived with her parents before their passing. She hadn’t returned since, and the sight of the familiar rooftops in the distance stirred something deep within her.

The moment was heavy, yet strangely comforting. Though the memories brought tears, they also brought warmth—echoes of laughter, shared meals, and childhood joy. It was a difficult passage for Julia, but also a deeply satisfying one. In seeing those houses again, she reclaimed a piece of herself she hadn’t touched in years.

As we reached the end of our wonderful journey, Becky experienced a quiet, inspiring revelation. At the start, each of us had tucked a small pebble into our pockets—a symbol of our intent, a silent companion to carry the emotions we brought with us. Becky’s pebble had been clenched tightly in her hand, a physical anchor for the grief and loss she carried deep inside.

But as we stood at the final stretch of the trail, Becky paused. She reached into her pocket and found—nothing. The pebble was still there, but she no longer felt its weight. She hadn’t noticed when she stopped holding it, when it ceased to be a burden. “It’s like all my grief was absorbed along the way,” she said softly. “Now, I only feel the joy of the journey.”

Her words lingered in the air, a quiet testament to the healing power of movement, memory, and shared silence.

That evening, we parked our camper vans along the seafront, the sky still rumbling with the remnants of Storm Amy. Waves crashed against the shore as we watched the storm roll over the sea, wrapped in blankets and quiet reflection. The day ended with the comforting ritual of fish and chips, shared laughter, and the soft hum of the ocean.

Morning greeted us with a breathtaking sunrise—gold spilling across the water, painting everything in warmth. We ran into the sea, letting the cold waves wash over us, cleansing not just our bodies but something deeper. It felt like a rebirth.

This journey has been one of the most profound experiences of my life. I’m endlessly grateful to my dear friends Becky and Julia, whose strength and spirit carried us through. A heartfelt thank you to Torin, whose passion lit the path before us, and to the Deacon, whose blessing gave our steps meaning. We walked through storms, memories, and healing—and emerged into light.