This is a phrase I often hear in the confessional – I find it quite comforting; a simple, kind reminder that God is forgiving and merciful, and that we can start again. Whilst I am not quite going back to the start of this pilgrimage route, I do begin again where I ended: Subiaco. In a week’s time I will set off from Subiaco along the Aniene river, past the ruins of Nero’s villa, St Benedict’s pond, old mills, and waterfalls, to Trevi nel Lazio some 20km (12.5 miles) later.

One of the things I most appreciated about my walk last time was seeing hidden parts of the country that the vast majority of visitors to Italy never see – indeed, many Italians probably don’t either! Seeing it alone almost made it more special, as if I were part of a secret group – connected through time to ancient pilgrims, St Benedict himself, the shepherds and farmers who have tended the land for centuries and still do, the privileged few. Land over which Romans would have trodden, over which the Papal State and the Kings of Sicily fought – each step a glimpse into a rich past. Some of the ancient hamlets and villages along the route have a quietness and stillness to them, along with a sadness. Like many small towns and villages in recent decades, the young people leave for the cities, so the few who are still there are often warm, charming, and very happy to see the slow traveller. I experienced such wonderful hospitality and warmth from strangers last time.

Someone recently asked me what I was hoping to get from the experience, and whilst slightly taken aback, an answer naturally arose: stillness and a reset. Stillness may seem odd, given that for six days I will be anything other than still! Returning to a rhythm of packing my bag in the morning, walking constantly for hours to the next destination, arriving, doing my stretches and laundry – yet there is a deeper stillness that runs throughout the walk. It is the stillness of the surroundings, which have been there for far longer than I can imagine, and through which I am merely passing. The trees with their dappled light, the rock formations to guide my feet down the slopes, the lilies scattered by the birds – they are the constants, the true stillness. Walking is the most natural mode of transport for humans; it allows a more natural rhythm to set in us, slows the mind down, calms and soothes.

The same friend, and many others, are often surprised and impressed that I do this alone, and wonder how I cope with the silence of the hills and nature for so long. This was perhaps the greatest surprise to me when I started out last time – I had the headphones, music, and podcasts lined up, but I did not want them. I did try sometimes, but it just felt so incongruous. I eventually realised I wasn’t trying to block anything out; rather, I was trying to let God in.

So I will set out again, better prepared in my expectations, with slightly better Italian, and secure in the knowledge that there is no heatwave and I need not wake at 5am to try to beat the midday heat as much as possible! Whilst I might know roughly what to expect, I also don’t – each time we walk, we arrive a different person, and remain open to what the pilgrimage brings and what the landscape chooses to reveal.

And so we begin again.