Seven countries.
Over 8,000 kilometers.
219 days on trail.
Four summers and one winter.
That’s the E1 — at least in numbers. But numbers barely scratch the surface.
From the tundra of northern Norway to the sunburned edge of Sicily, the European long-distance path became far more than a marked route on a map. It turned into something deeply personal — a journey stitched together from wild landscapes, stubborn climbs, quiet doubts, and unforgettable highs.
From the Edge of the World
It began at Nordkapp, at three in the morning.
Fog drifting.
Sun breaking through.
Silence stretching endlessly.
I stepped away from the cliff into something completely unknown. I had no idea how much this decision would change me.
Norway: Raw and Untamed
Norway was pure wilderness. Vast, empty, relentless. There were stretches where trails disappeared, markings faded, and weather ruled everything.
Snowfields. River crossings. Mosquito swarms.
Food carries for 300 kilometers.
A backpack that felt heavier with every step.
And yet — I loved it. Every day of it.
Walking beneath the midnight sun, when time loses meaning and the sky refuses to darken, felt almost surreal. Solitude wasn’t lonely; it was expansive. The trail itself became the destination.
Sweden: Shelter in the Forest
Crossing into Sweden felt like entering a different world.
The openness of Norway gave way to forests — endless forests. The trees offered comfort and protection, but sometimes I missed the wide views.
What made Sweden magical were the vindskydd — simple wooden shelters, often perched beside glassy lakes. Most nights I had them entirely to myself.
Swim.
Campfire.
Warmth against cool evening air.
Those quiet evenings became the highlight of my days. I felt light, present, deeply content. After exactly 100 days, I reached Sweden’s southernmost point — the Scandinavian peninsula complete.
Denmark: Wind, Darkness, and Something Special
Denmark in November. Was it wise? I’m still not sure.
Cold wind cut through everything. Days were short, often ending in darkness. Beaches were deserted, dunes towering and wild.
But there was beauty in it. Christmas lights in small towns. Candlelight in shelters. Reading just to stay warm.
It was harsh — but quietly beautiful in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
Germany: A Pleasant Surprise
When I resumed in Flensburg the following spring, I didn’t expect much.
Flat terrain. Forests. Predictability.
But Germany surprised me.
Yes, the north was flat — a 200-meter hill felt like an event. Yet walking along the Baltic Sea between Eckernförde and Kiel under bright late-spring skies was unforgettable.
And then there were the people.
Hospitality I hadn’t anticipated. Backyards opened to me. Homes opened to me. Food, beer, laughter. Not a single night spent in a hostel or campground.
Germany became what I’d call “comfort hiking.” Civilized, generous, unexpectedly refreshing.
Switzerland: Home Ground
The 250 kilometers across Switzerland felt different — familiar.
Mountains rose again. Lakes dotted the landscape. The terrain felt like home turf. Sharing parts of the trail with friends added warmth to an already special stretch.
But even home couldn’t hold me long. Italy was waiting.
Italy: Beauty and Battle
Italy tested me more than any other country.
I resumed in Porto Ceresio after a short break that was somehow too long and too short at once — long enough to disrupt rhythm, short enough to leave fatigue lingering.
The Po Valley was flat and mentally exhausting. Asphalt. Barking dogs. Sparse trails. Drivers who seemed unaware of hikers’ existence.
Then the Ligurian Mountains appeared — and everything changed.
Clearer air. Higher ridges. Proper trails.
And then, one day, the Mediterranean came into view.
I cried.
Seeing that blue expanse made me realize how far I had walked. The journey suddenly felt real, tangible.
The Apennines demanded everything physically: relentless ups and downs, remote stretches requiring heavy food carries. But the rewards were spectacular ridgelines and breathtaking camps.
Then came the mental struggle.
Near Amatrice, in an earthquake-scarred region, I reached a low I hadn’t experienced on any hike before. I nearly quit. Support from home — messages, encouragement — helped me shift perspective.
I learned to accept the rain. The hardship. The fatigue.
Italy stretched on and on until finally — the coast. Heat replaced rain. The sea stayed to my right, always inviting. I felt as though I was flying down the spine of the boot toward Sicily.
Italy was the hardest — physically, yes. But especially mentally.
What the Countries Meant
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Norway: The trail itself is the reward. Wildness defines the experience.
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Sweden: The shelters by pristine lakes become daily destinations.
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Germany: Comfort, hospitality, and pleasant surprise.
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Switzerland: Familiar, grounding, home.
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Italy: A test of endurance and resilience — and ultimately triumph.
By the time I reached Sicily, there was no turning back. Only forward.
And I finished.
Looking Back from 30,000 Feet
It wasn’t until I was flying home, looking down at Italy from 30,000 feet, that the magnitude truly hit me.
Those valleys.
Those ridges.
I had walked them.
A quiet sense of fulfillment settled in. Completion. Gratitude. Joy.
What’s Next?
Honestly? I don’t know.
Maybe Scandinavia again. Maybe something entirely different. For now, I’m content simply remembering.
Because sometimes, finishing a journey isn’t about what comes next.
Sometimes it’s enough to know you dared to begin — and kept going all the way to the end.
