I hadn’t been up in about ten years. The last few times I climbed it were for other reasons, once for the exposure and the challenge of it, a few times in an attempt to share a formative experience with students. Something about endeavour, maybe, or what you find when you push yourself somewhere unfamiliar. I’m not sure it worked, but the intention was there.
This time there was no real reason beyond wanting a view and some space to think.
We took the Pyg Track on a busy Saturday. Busier than I’ve ever seen it with mini mountain path traffic jams and a multitude of clothing, some maybe less than ideal for the wet summit. At some point we passed a succession of groups moving at pace, perhaps doing the Three Peaks, or something like it. I recognised the energy immediately. Ten years ago that would have appealed to me with the logistics, the challenge, the story to tell afterwards. It doesn’t now, and I noticed that without quite being able to explain it.
I walked slowly. A mountain guide in Nepal once told me to place each foot fully before lifting the other, taking a micro pause on each extended leg rather than pushing straight through. The memory returned somewhere on the lower path and I just kept doing it. It became a meditation on the climb up.
My companion valued quiet in the same way I was learning to, so there was no pressure to fill the gaps. We stopped often. Not for rest particularly, just to look. The outline of a distant peak emerging briefly through cloud. Wild thyme growing in a crack in a stone wall on the approach. Maidenhair fern doing something improbable in the gap between two rocks, completely unbothered by everything above it.
I took fewer photos at the top than I expected. More of the edges and of the unexpected.
Yr Wyddfa is the mountain’s Welsh name. Snowdon is what most people I know call it, and what most people seem to search for. I’d always used them interchangeably before. This time Yr Wyddfa felt more accurate, though I can’t say why exactly.
I started walking the North Downs Way when I was still in school with a friend. It felt like a real adventure getting to Farnham by train and starting a two-night walk to Box Hill. We weren’t very prepared, using a ramshackle collection of old camping gear and an old tarp as our shelter. But we had an amazing couple of days, getting lost, trying to cook food, and putting up the shelter. It was real freedom for a young school kid, even with feet full of blisters from ill-fitted boots.
Returning with New Eyes
Years later, I returned to the trail with another kindred spirit. We decided to restart the journey so they could begin it as I had. This time, we were more prepared. With several walking and mountaineering trips between us, we had lighter gear, better boots, and a clearer sense of direction. We covered the route more quickly between Farnham, through Guildford, and onto Box Hill. The section was rich with forest paths, stunning views, and historic pillboxes scattered along the route. We still used a tarp shelter, setting up camp after dark and disappearing again early in the morning.
Over several years, we completed more two-day sections in this way. Quick, joyful bursts that focused on mileage, camaraderie, and shared laughs, often ending with a local pub. One memorable night involved stumbling into a beer festival and a late-night campsite scramble.
Walking as Medicine
After a period of life challenges, I felt the pull to return again, but this time alone. What began as a trail walked in youth and adventure had become something deeper: a space for healing, reflection, and reconnection.
With the trail’s good travel connections, I began walking day sections. I planned shorter routes with time to stop and soak in the experience. There were moments of slow, meditative walking, just listening and sensing, and often a feeling of merging with the surroundings. These solitary walks gave me new perspective and a sense of peace I hadn’t realised I needed.
Eventually, I reached Canterbury. Though the trail continues, this point felt like a natural and symbolic place to pause: a full-circle moment that brought me back to a centre point in myself.
Following in Ancient Footsteps
Much of the North Downs Way aligns with the historic Pilgrims’ Way, an ancient route said to have stretched from Winchester to Canterbury which are two significant cathedral cities. While the term ‘Pilgrims’ Way’ was popularised during the Victorian era, many believe it traces a route walked for centuries by those journeying to the shrine of Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral.
This connection adds another layer of reflection to the trail. Walking this path isn’t just a scenic experience, it’s also a way of treading ground steeped in story and significance. For modern pilgrims, spiritual seekers, or those simply curious about deeper journeys, this link can transform a long-distance path into a soulful rite of passage.
Other pilgrims’ routes like the Via Francigena, which stretches from Canterbury all the way to Rome, also share this sacred starting point, reminding us that Canterbury is not an end, but often a beginning.
On the Evolving Nature of a Journey
One thing that’s stood out across the years is how age and maturity reshape the journey. In my youth, walks were energetic and driven by challenges. More about how far, how fast, how wild. As I grew older, the same path invited a gentler approach. Walking became more about connection than conquest; more about the journey than the destination.
A Note on Wild Camping
While wild camping is technically not allowed on the North Downs Way, we made every effort to follow leave-no-trace principles. Arriving late, departing early, and never leaving a mark. Although I can’t advocate it for legal reasons, I do acknowledge its role in our experience.
Interested in Walking the North Downs Way?
If anyone is interested or has questions, feel free to get in touch. In the coming months, I plan to offer introductory walking sessions from Farnham to Guildford for those looking to begin their own journey but need a little extra confidence to get started.
Mindful Trails 