Ticked off a big one on the bucket list this weekend: a night Hike across The Tinners Way. 8 hours, moors, one very confused body, and zero light. Would I do it again? Absolutely not. not at midnight. But am I glad I did it? Weirdly… yes.

Turns out walking through pitch black moorland with nothing but head torches and blind optimism gives you a lot of time to be locked in your own head. (Highly recommend if you’re looking for a dramatic way to confront your inner demons.)

The route itself is packed with history—Neolithic quoits and barrows, Bronze Age standing stones, Iron Age villages, even early Christian stones.
Did we see any of that?
Not a thing. It was so dark we could barely see the path in front of us, let alone 4,000 years of Cornish history. At one point our head torches started dying too—mental note: I need a better head torch. One that doesn’t start giving up before I do.

And then there were the bogs. Hidden ones.
Cornwall’s been so dry lately, we weren’t expecting it—but the moors had other plans. There were moments where the ground just gave way, and suddenly we were all one wrong step away from becoming part of the landscape.

There was a moment—one I won’t forget any time soon.

We were heading downhill, and I found myself in the middle. The fast walkers had vanished ahead—I couldn’t see the glow of their head torches anymore. I turned to check behind me… and Amanda and Dave were nowhere to be seen either.
I should’ve stayed put. Waited. But instead, I kept going.
down the hill and Deeper into a little wooded area where shadows danced and stretched in every direction. My head torch flickered across branches that suddenly looked like arms, shapes that didn’t quite make sense.
And for a brief second, I panicked. Proper panic.
I could hear my heart beating in my ears.

But it passed. Just like that.
I took a breath, kept walking, and pushed through to the other side.

It turns out, stomping through pitch-blackness and ancient paths gives you a lot of time to be stuck in your own head. (Highly recommend if you’re looking for a dramatic, slightly squelchy way to confront your inner demons.)

Massive shoutout to David the walk leader, (not really a leader, but he did organize the walk) , for being the most patient human alive with us slow stragglers, Glynn for sprinkling historical facts and sarcasm all over the trail, pointing out areas we had no chance of seeing, and Linda for powering us through with her “Come on girls, you’ve got this!” her warm smile could probably heal trauma.

Also just wanted to give a special mention to my friend Amanda, who joined us for the walk. It was honestly lovely not to be the only slow walker for once! We plodded along at our own pace—and even though she had her own challenges, we stuck it out together. Sometimes just having someone by your side makes all the difference.

The truth is, I’m not the same walker I was a year ago. My body’s changed. COVID left its mark on my lungs, arthritis decided to tag along for the ride, and honestly—pain is just my new hiking buddy now. But this pain? Last night’s pain? She came with brass knuckles. Still, I didn’t cry. I lost the ability to form words by the end, but I did not cry. Growth.

Biggest lesson of the night: I can still hike—but I’ve got to do it on my own terms. My own pace. No shame in that.

And maybe the biggest surprise? Anxiety didn’t win. I met two people I’d never spoken to before and ended up chatting like we’d known each other for years. No panic, no awkwardness, just laughs in the dark. Depression’s tried to drag me down this year, but last night, I dragged it across the land.

All in all, there were lots of slips, a couple of falls, grazed knees, and bruised pride—but I’m proud to report: I never face-planted the earth. A miracle, frankly.

So yeah. One foot in front of the other, headlamp on most of the time, pain in every joint—but joy somewhere in there too.

And next time?
I’m definitely doing this walk again—but in daylight. So I can actually see the blinking quoits.