Burnham-on-Crouch to Mayland Creek

As Mum dropped me off in Burnham-on-Crouch, it was bizarre walking through the town’s pretty backstreets and seeing everyone bustling about their usual daily business. It was market day and I was struck by how normal everyone was, yet I felt the excitement and inevitable slight trepidation of embarking upon such a trek as I was. Did I not stick out like a sore thumb as much as I felt I did?

Once I left the hubbub of the promenade, passing families and couples sitting out and enjoying lunches in the sunshine, I was struck by the vastness of Essex’s coastal countryside. I could see for miles and miles and as Burnham gradually vanished into the distance behind me, I started to feel my mind open up. The wide open spaces of the mudflats and the endless blue skies above me gave me a whole new sense of headspace. Coming from a hectic couple of weeks at university and some delicate dynamics at home, the sea air was a much needed mental balm. The sense of freedom continued to grow as I walked and I couldn’t help feeling that this might just be the start of something amazing.

Swifts and swallows darted around over my head, signalling that summer was truly starting, and oystercatchers regularly screeched as they came into land, their monochrome tricolore punctuated by that iconic crimson bill. I was walking on the Saltmarsh Trail, a 75 mile path along some of Essex’s sea walls. Few people know about this coastal path; despite its flatness and relative ease, it is extremely exposed to the elements and sun scorched down. Though just a stone’s throw away from London, those mudflats were one of the most isolated places I have been. It was absolutely incredible.

A few hours later as the sun was beginning to sink low in the sky, I arrived at the Chapel of St Peter on the Wall. It marks the end of the Pilgrim’s Way, a 40 mile pilgrimage trail across Essex, sacred to many Celtic Christians. The chapel itself was built in the third century by St Cedd and sits in a remote location looking out over the ocean. I went inside and sat on the bare stone floor, enjoying the cool air and calming meditation. I couldn’t help but feel it was somewhat profound that I was beginning my journey in the very place that has been the sacred finish for so many over the centuries.

I set up camp nearby, the entrance to my tent granting me a fantastic view of the sunrise over the sea the following morning. First day done, first night of wild camping solo. It would have been easy to let the isolation creep in overaw me, but instead I simply felt myself reconnecting to nature. It’s a bit scary when you realise that you have only yourself to rely on, no other human beings nearby. But it’s important to feel that; how else will you know your limits and know what you’re really doing with yourself in life?

The following morning I got up in search of water and stumbled across the Othona community, a small collection of volunteers who help run the chapel, maintain a permaculture garden there and welcome visitors and pilgrims. They invited me in and offered me tea and mountains of biscuits, which I gladly chowed down. They were not the hardcore, Bible-wielding monks you might expect but open hearted, kind people simply with an enthusiasm for keeping a tangible connection with their spirituality. They didn’t even ask if I was religious or not, instead seeming keener to hear about my trek and my reasons for doing it. After a couple of hours I eventually had to get on my way, though not before I was offered a hot shower in the ladies’ dormitory. I was soon to learn that this would be the first of many acts of spontaneous, unabashed generosity that strangers would show me on this walk.

I picked up my bag and made my way back to the coast, the sun shimmering off the glass-like mudflats as I plodded along. Whilst having a rest on a bench, one gentleman started chatting to me and turned out to be a goldmine of local history, explaining how the caravan park I was about to pass used to be the favourite holiday spot of infamous East End gangsters the Kray twins. Goes to show the nuggets of information you can find when you chat to people.

That night’s wild camp was in some woods, just off some reedbeds on Mayland Creek. Despite being much more hidden from sight, it must have been part of the old reptilian brain that was telling me the woods meant danger. At first I jumped at every snapping branch, thought every call of a rook meant an intruder. I soon calmed, lulled by the salty air, though it was much cooler and I shivered through most of the night, relieved when the sun finally came up in the morning.