Recently, my mum and I spent 12 days hiking in Pelion, Greece. A region, before this hike that I had no idea existed. My mum had put so much time into the planning, the researching and she did such an incredible job. Our route was incredible. I will share more about the hike itself, as I have so much to say, but today I want to write about the 3 angels that crossed our paths, that helped us, gave us direction and unrequited kindness.

We ran some numbers at the end of the hike and this is what we came up with:

2 ladies
154 km
12 days
10 hikes
3 angels
6 snakes
5 swims
A plethora of yellow butterflies 🦋
And too many good people to mention

The area that we were hiking in had been absolutely devastated by a Cyclone on 4 September 2023.

“Storm Daniel, also known as Cyclone Daniel, was a catastrophic tropical cyclone that became the deadliest Mediterranean tropical-like cyclone in recorded history, as well as one of the costliest tropical cyclones on record outside of the North Atlantic Basin. Forming as a low-pressure system around 4 September 2023, the storm affected Greece, Bulgaria, and Turkey with extensive flooding….In Greece, severe rainfall led to flooding that caused more than two billion euros in damage, making it the most costly recorded storm for the country.”

It was really unsettling to see the visible damage to the area, everywhere we went. Roads had been washed away, rockslides were commonplace place and the trails that stretched across the Pelion had been completely destroyed. There were a number of times when we were walking that we had to make a diversion because a path had completely given way in a gorge or a massive tree had blocked the crossing.

At some points, we got a little frustrated that the local municipalities hadn’t made more of an effort to warn hikers against doing some of the routes, or showing us that there was a diversion. As, sometimes the routes felt dangerous and the alternative option was unknown

ANGEL 1

Some days on the trail feel like magic. Others test your faith in every step.

We started this leg of our journey with a tail-wagging send-off, a pack of dogs trotting us out of the hotel driveway as if to say, Go on, you’ve got this. I felt a tiny pang of camper’s guilt: all my tents and gear strapped to my back, yet I’d just slept in a hotel bed. But that had been the lesson of this trip, lean in, flow with it. If the forecast whispers storms, you listen. You rest where you can.

That morning, we traded the road for the forest, dry leaves underfoot, soft green shade above, a beautiful reprieve from the winding switchbacks we knew the road would force on us. Downhill. Always downhill.

Our goal: breakfast at the end of the drop.

And we found it — a tiny church tucked beneath trees, benches deliciously covered in shade. We unpacked cucumber and ham sandwiches, sprinkled them with my mum’s smart stash of seasonings and savoured the crunch alongside the saltiness of real feta.

Then we packed up, lighter in food and unaware of what was to come, because that’s when the path turned tricky.

Where there should have been a trail, there was wild grass, broken piping, tangled orchards. My mum had her eyes glued to the phone screen, trying to catch the faintest line that might be the right way. But the forest didn’t care for our map. It hid the path like a secret.

Things turned comical fast: one fork gave us two options — climb over a tree trunk that looked like it belonged in a fairytale or slide down a loose rockfall. Naturally, we tried the tree. Naturally, I gouged my shin on a hidden branch and had to pull it out from under my skin. There’s nothing like a trail injury to remind you who’s boss.

Once I’d stemmed the bleeding and mum had torn a new hole in her pants, we found our way to solid ground and sat under a patch of shade to regroup — just us, our scuffed legs, and a kind stranger who greeted us. He kindlykindly offered us a lift to our final destination, when we said no, he came back with bottles of water. Little gestures. They go a long way.

By the time we reached a café in Zagora for a cold drink, my spirit needed the lift. Pan called from the boat — Pavan Guru was back in the water. His grin through the screen felt like good luck itself.

We changed plans then and there. We’d skip going north to Pouri and rather drop down to the coast — to Chorefto.

And that’s where we met him. Angel number One.

He came bouncing down the road like he’d walked this path a thousand times, young, grinning, curious. I said hello, we started sharing in light conversation. I told him where we were going. He looked at me, shrugged, and said, “I go there too. But the path? Not so easy. Follow me.”

So we did. We slipped in behind him, ducking through bushes and grasses that made no sense as a route but somehow were the route. He explained how the floods had torn the old trails apart, how no one was fixing them, how the paths now belonged more to nature than people. It felt true — no signposts, just trusting this angel.

By the time we stumbled out at the bottom, tired but safe, we thanked him. He smiled, turned, and disappeared his own way. Just like that. A guide, right when we needed one.

Some angels wear wings. Ours wore dusty shoes and knew the shortcuts no map could show.

ANGEL NUMBER 2 – NIKO

Sometimes help finds you through a stranger’s kindness. Sometimes it arrives as a number etched into a blogpost.

We’d reached our halfway point on the hike and gifted ourselves a small luxury: two nights at Amanita, an enchanting guesthouse tucked among Pelion’s forested slopes. A soft bed, fresh linen, and breakfast under the trees, a gentle pause in the middle of the wildness.

Over breakfast, our warm host, Phil, had mentioned a local legend, Nikolas, the Trail Expert. He promised to share his number before we left, but, as life goes, breakfast turned into busy morning chores, guests needed tending, and the number never arrived.

Still, the path ahead weighed on my mind. The only trail from Tsagarada to Milies was rumoured to have sections washed away by last year’s floods. With no alternative if we got stuck, we needed to be sure. By chance, Mum stumbled across Nikolas’s number on a local hiker’s blog. I sent him a message, explaining in detail the section we were planning to tackle.

His reply was simple but reassuring:

“Hello. Generally the trail is ok. There is one problem as you’re moving from Xourihti to Tsagarada. So it’s better to finish in Xourihti. Until there it’s ok.”

I still felt uneasy, maps can only say so much, so I called him. His calm voice on the line gave me what the map couldn’t: landmarks, little markers to find when the trail seemed to disappear. A shepherd’s hut here, a little church there.

The next morning we set off — later than usual, after 10am. I’ve come to believe these delays are their own kind of guidance. Because just as we were finding our rhythm along the quiet road, a car passed us, slowed, then reversed.

The window rolled down, and a man leaned out, smiling.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

We explained.

“I’m Nikolas,” he said, that same voice from the phone — now leaning out a car window in the middle of a mountain road. The number on a blog. The man himself, pulling over just to check we were alright.

We chatted for a few minutes, warm and easy, reconfirming the instructions form the day before. Then he waved us on and drove off.

Not long after, the tarmac gave way to the forest. Mum and I didn’t talk much that day. We didn’t need to. The forest was quiet and we followed suit, walking side by side in comfortable silence, deep in our own thoughts.

It’s funny to think of how help comes in all shapes — a stranger’s blog post, a host’s passing suggestion, a warm voice on the line, a car window rolled down at exactly the right bend in the road.

ANGEL 3:

Our third angel arrived with a flock of goats and a whistle that echoed through the gorge just when we had run out of options.

We were deep into the day, bodies already weary from an hour and a half of navigating two gorges that had half collapsed under old storms and steady waterfalls. We’d climbed slick roots, balanced on slippery rocks half-hidden beneath gushing water, and navigated some tricky paths.

In moments like these, mum and I fall into our own hush; speaking less, thinking more, doing our best to make good choices without feeding each other’s worry. But relentless concentration is its own kind of exhaustion. By the time we clambered out of the second gorge, we were tired, still moving, but weary.

And yet the trail gave us no relief. Instead, we found ourselves hemmed in by bushes taller than our heads—thorny, tangled, stubborn. The map on our phone showed a faint line pointing… somewhere… but honestly, it could have been anywhere.

Then came the bleating, goats drifting toward us through the green and behind them, the low, protective bark of dogs. I felt my shoulders tense. We’d been warned about the local shepherd dogs; fiercely loyal, fiercely protective. The kind of dogs that saw off wolves and wild boars.

But before our worry could grow legs, the shepherd’s whistle floated through the brambles. A man stepped into view, sun-browned and smiling, stick in hand, dogs at his feet, and a whole flock trailing behind him like a soft, moving blanket.

He looked at us, two tired strangers standing lost in a mess of bushes, and smiled. He asked something in Greek. I recognised only one word. Portaria?

“Ne,” I said, a little burst of pride for my tiny bit of Greek. Yes.

He looked at our confused faces, grinned, then lifted his walking stick and pointed it straight through the thickest part of the bush wall; the only “trail” that made no sense to us at all. Then, without another word, he stepped ahead of us and began slicing the thicket away with the end of his stick, hacking a path through leaves and brambles until we found ourselves blinking at clear ground again.

At the other side, he turned, tipped his hat with a smile, then whistled to his dogs and goats and wandered back the way he’d come,back to his herd.

Mum and I stood there, stunned and then laughing, really laughing, the verse ringing in both our minds at the same time: “The Lord is my shepherd…”

We couldn’t stop marvelling at the timing. How we’d have stood there, tangled in indecision, fumbling with a map that didn’t make sense, if this quiet, smiling shepherd hadn’t arrived right on cue to cut us a doorway through the thorns.

It’s these moments on the mountain that humble me. They make me realise that when I am fully awake and aligned, things come to me. They give me a reminder that I have to loosen my grip, try not to control too much and allow what will be to be. That which is meant for me, will never pass me.

A strong message I am leaning in to as my heart breaks.

See our full itinerary here, if you are interested:

https://www.polarsteps.com/TashDay/18237268-pelion-hike/embed