WE’VE walked past tiny hamlets and ancient stone farms, stopping only to drink water from a mountain stream. We strode in dappled sunlight through pine forests, then wandered up a hill, alongside verdant fields and cattle wearing cow-bells.

Now one of the oldest monasteries in the Western world – the imposing Monasterio de Samos – stands resplendent below us in the spectacula Ouribo River valley.

No wonder walking this, the medieval pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, northern Spain, is considered something to experience before you die.

It had never crossed my mind to do it. But then Nancy Durrell McKenna, film-maker and founder of the charity SafeHands for Mothers, asked me to join their six-day, 84-mile sponsored walk – the last leg of the 500-mile ‘French Road’.

Having never walked further than seven miles, it seemed an irresistible challenge. We were a motly group of 19 international ‘pilgrims’, all with our own reasons for walking, but united by charitable worthiness.

Lesley Nelson was a 40-something Aboriginal and maternity health worker taking her first-ever trip outside Australia; Sir Robert Naylor is chief executive of University College London Hospital, usually in charge of seven London hospitals and a budget of £750 million but was now our driver and gofer.

Events organser Michelle Laven had a poignant reason for participating: ‘I want to do something really difficult to alleviate my depression,’ she said. ‘My brother died in December.’ ‘It’s a privilege to follow in the footsteps of St James the Apostle,’ added Irish midwife Sally Griffiths, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I hope to strengthen my faith.’ For me, it had taken seven weeks of traumatic preparation for me to get to this point. I had all the nerdy essentials – from spring-loaded retractable walking poles and water backpack to fashion disaster Gore-Tex tousers (thereby facing the awful prospect that it often pours in northern Spain).

For relief I’d escaped to Sweaty Betty for voguish walking gear – but the shop assistant had suddenly produced a list of anorak pilgrimage must-haves: ‘Duct tape (to cover blisters), Vaseline for preventing chafing…’ With mouting horror, I read about the refugios (hostels) in which pilgrims sleep communally in rooms full of snoring people, if they can even get a bunk, and endure cold showers. Then came Ryanair’s demand for £250 on my excess luggage – so I emptied my suitcase, put on all my clothes at the check-in desk and waddled, Michelin Man-like on to the plane.

The first night we stayed in Casa de Labranza Arza, near Samos, in a 1720s, thick stone-waled farmhouse surrounded by spectacular scenery.

Next morning we started our pilgrimag at Igles de Camino in nearby Triacastela. We stamped our pilgrims’ passports in the church. Two Lithuanian monks wearing habits asked us to join them in prayer. We held hands in a circle, dew on the grass, mist rising. ‘Bless these pilgrims, our walk,’ intoned the monk. ‘Hallelujah.’ Yee ha!

We set off, following the yellow pilgrimage arrows. For more than 1,000 years pilgrims – including Louis VII and St Francis of Assisi – have undertaken the Way to earn forgiveness for their sins. Was I going to have a pilgrimage like the actress Shirley MacLaine famously had, with visions and meetings with angels? Or perhaps the opposite – as satirised in Luis Bunuel’s film The Milky Way – of encountering religious hypocrisy and human cruelty? Over the ensuing days we climbed gently rolling hills, followed tracks between stone fences and passed ancient pilgrims’ hospitals and centuries-old churches. We walked by smallholdings with private chapels, and sprouts and cabbages growing neatly for the family’s thick evening soup (caldo).

One day, in a medieval scene, a pilgrim walked past playing bagpipes, with people following him. My James Bond-style Silva radio pedometer recorded things like: ’27km, 2,016 (calories burned), five hours 48 mins (walking), 36,273 (steps).’ Part of the interest of the journey was meeting other pilgrims. There was Lavinia Scrymgeour, 22, a Scot who’d been walking for five weeks. And Andre Barreiro, 32, a Knight of Malta and son of a retired admiral. He worked in a Knights’ hospital and had walked 1,864 miles from Rome, living on alms.

The Camino (‘Way’) is said to be a journey of the soul. Outwardly, the pilgrim faces the weather and terrain.

The inward journey is about encountering challenges and having the space to discover what’s important in life.

The first ‘test’ of my pilgrimage was living communally. One of my room-mates snored like an erupting volcano.

Still sleepless at 3am, my torch clenched between my teeth like some wannabe Girl Guide, I dragged my mattress into the corridor – only to be woken every 15 minutes by a chiming clock.

As the journey progressed, people became reflective, self-disclosing and authentic.

We were on literally and metaphorically on the walk of life – helping each other face obstacles along the way.

NORMALLY I’m competitive and have to be first – but on the Camino I challenged myself to arrive last every day. I learnt to dally and eat chorizo. When I walked alone, it was harder – just spotting the arrows pointing the Way.

Then I was more aware of minor aches – and just focused on taking one step at a time. (I discovered a team of Aussie midwives were winning by using haemorrhoid cream on their feet…) When we arrived in the splendour of Santiago, I felt both elated and deflated. We were staying in the beutiful San Francisco Hotel Monumento, a lovely old convent with thick stone walls and courtyards. Musicians played schmaltzy Ave Maria in the streets. Pilgrims wer lying on rucksack pillows, sunbathing.

The architecture rivalled Venice. But for the first time in my life it had been the journey, not the destination that mattered.

We reached the great Baroque cathedral, and joined the queue for the tomb of St James. Every pew was full for the daily pilgrims’ mass, wi th people standing and baggage and sticks piled high. I sat on the floor while an enormous silent incense burner was swung spectacularly and dangerously overhead on a massive rope.

As we wandered cheerfully to the pilgrims’ office to get our completion certificates, I surprised myself. I decided which stretch of the Camino I’d walk next…

TO donate to Safe Hands For Mothers, visit njustgiving.com/safehandswalkforlife

WEB WISDOM For more uplifting walking ideas worldwide,go to travelmail.co.uk