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

JULIA Smith, 29, is marrying sport’s most eligible bachelor, England’s rugby union captain, Will Carling. She’s also dated Eric Clapton. And, at 18, she dropped out of university to live with the then 39-year-old veteran guitarist and millionaire Jeff Beck, erstwhile lover of fabled Sixties model Celia Hammond.

It’s Julia, the ravishing blonde in a see-through skimpy dress, that you see at post-rugby match dinners. (`It wasn’t see-through. The photographers made it look like that with high-powered flash,’ she laughs later.) And public relations girl Julia, now promoting Right Said Fred, Aswad and Vanessa Paradis through her company Hands On PR.

She’s getting married on June 18 in Northamptonshire, with 300 guests and a marquee. `A bit of a bun fight. I’d imagined a small wedding, but I’m the only daughter and the youngest,’ she says. The couple have turned down a reputed £20,000 from Hello! to avoid falling victim to its curse – `I wouldn’t want to be caught on somebody’s coffee table, no way!’ So far, family arguments (`we’re both from very close families’) have been confined to disagreements about the flowers.

The wedding has been a long time coming, as they got engaged in May 1993. `It’s the first Saturday Will has had free of rugby commitments to get married.’ Last year, he went on tour to New Zealand for two months. `We promised to call each other every day, but it ended up being five times a day. A lot of money from New Zealand – each call was a good 20 minutes.’ She coped badly, and had to join him after three weeks.

Julia met him first at a dinner party in 1989. `I didn’t think a lot of him. He didn’t say a word. He was obviously very shy. I felt sorry for him.’ But they became friends (she had just broken up with Jeff), and would call each other when they were depressed.

She says: `I used to get very low. It’s a typical Piscean trait, very emotional and up and down like a yo-yo. I was very much the loner, and would exaggerate things in my mind. Like: `Oh God, work was awful today . . . so I’m going to lose my job’.’

Will took her on their first date only last year, a month after they’d both broken up with their respective partners. A month later, he proposed to her in bed. Initially, she declined because she thought he was joking. Why did it take them four years to get together? `We didn’t tell each other that we liked one other. We’re both very shy. I don’t have enough confidence in myself and need encouragement,’ she elaborates. `If people are supportive, I’ll feel better about myself. If I’m left to my own devices, I’ll shy away into a hovel.

`I’m not a party-goer. I don’t like going out, and would rather stay in for the evening. If I go out, I’ve got to be with people I know really well. Otherwise, I’ll close up and daydream, which is my favourite pastime. `If someone is talking, I’ll be a million miles away, travelling to countries in my head or dreaming about my wedding day.’

Her lack of confidence is totally unapparent. Her mother considers her a very good actress; even her body language is relaxed.

Julia’s country childhood was idyllic. She had ponies, and her two elder brothers and father – now a retired chartered accountant – doted on her. `I was very spoilt, and probably still am. I’ve grown out of the stamping my feet syndrome, but I did that until I was about 11.

`I was a horror at primary school, a real tomboy. I used to beat up little girls. I used to get in a panic when they went off crying to teacher, and had to bribe them to stop them snitching on me.’ She grins. Julia `grew up rapidly’ at Oakham Boarding School in Leicestershire. `It was fantastic. It was a mixed school, but there were a lot more boys.’ She showed early signs of being a man’s woman: `I get on better with guys and find it easier to talk to them.’

She worked hard to get eight O-levels and three A-levels: `I wouldn’t say I’m stupid. I’m just average.’

Aged 18, she lost her virginity to Jeff, and left her history degree at Goldsmiths after a term to co-habit. (`I hated university, standing around stupid bars drinking beer.’) There was a 21-year age discrepancy, and they were together for six years. `My parents were very laid back about it.’

But the relationship made her very isolated. `I lost contact with my friends. There was no one of my own age group around me. I was on my own a lot and lonely. It toughened me up.’ She hugs herself. `He wasn’t a father figure. I learned a lot from him, but he wanted me to be a mother to him. I just wasn’t strong enough for that.’ They eventually broke up in 1989. Julia had two serious relationships before Will, neither with well-known men. `I haven’t had that many boyfriends to be quite honest.’ What about Eric Clapton? `We just had a laugh and the media immediately thought . . .’ But did she have an affair with him? `No, he was just a mate.’ Why not? `I didn’t particularly want to.’ She says she wasn’t his confidante, that they don’t keep in touch and she doesn’t want to talk about him. So, back to Will. She says, exhaling deeply, that it’s difficult to say what makes him tick. `He has tremendous drive and ambition. If he wants something, you know damn sure he’s going to get it. He’s less arrogant now, very kind, and thoughtful.’

She sees marriage as a partnership, requiring lashings of trust and honesty. Sexual fidelity is `100 per cent important’ to them both; she doesn’t have a problem with only ever sleeping with him for the rest of her life.

However, she has a `one per cent doubt’ over committing for life – her anxiety is over her own ability to make the marriage work. `If I start being stupid then I’ll lose the relationship. If I don’t pay enough attention to it, work takes over or I start looking elsewhere, for other men, that’s my own fault. But that’s a pretty silly thing to do if you’re going to commit to marriage.

`Because of my lack of confidence, I think maybe he’ll go off me. So I want to make sure that I’m going to be perfect for him for the rest of my life.’

Does she fear divorce? `I can’t see a marriage working if you’re thinking on that level.’

At the moment, they’re living in rented accommodation and house-hunting in west London. She wants to travel before having children. Will, she says, will certainly see his job through until the World Cup next year. They currently appear together in a TV advertisement for Quorn, part of a £5 million campaign for the veggie substitute for meat. The problem is, media sceptics suspect he’s a carnivore. Is he a vegetarian? `No, no, no,’ she says. `But I am. I’ve never liked meat, fish, eggs, cheese or milk. I have an appalling diet. I just eat sweets all day.’

She loathes being categorised as a blonde bimbo, and is annoyed at being known only as the woman who’s marrying Will Carling. Why, then, does she like relationships with celebrities? `There are people who do that on purpose. Dear God, I hope I don’t. Jeff was a celebrity when I was wetting my nappies, not when I went out with him.

SHE was snatched off the street, sexually assaulted and mutilated by a convicted killer who left her for dead in a blazing squat.

But only 48 hours after the attacker was jailed for 20 years, she is able to say: ‘I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

The courage that helped the 28-year-old career girl relive her ordeal at the Old Bailey is more evident than ever as she gives her first interview. Her face is expressive and lovely. She is beautifully turned out and talks in a calm, self-assured way.

Of her assailant, Anthony Ferrira, she says: ‘He could have cancelled my life. I don’t believe he deserves to live. I won’t ever forgive him.’ But what she really wants to stress is how lucky she is. The world is mostly full of good, kind and thoughtful people, she says, smiling. She loves her friends and family. She is intensely grateful to those who have helped her overcome the trauma. Every day feels like a bonus. ‘I love my life,’ she says. ‘That’s why I fought so hard for it.’ It was 7.15 on a February morning and the buyer with a top London store was walking through Brixton, South London, to a business meeting when Ferrira lured her into the squat by pretending his pregnant girlfriend needed help. When she resisted, he produced a knife.

‘I can’t describe the fear when I realised there was nobody else in the room and I thought he was going to kill me,’ she says.

He tried to strangle her then attacked her with a knife, cheesewire and a broken bottle. ‘The sexual acts were repulsive, humiliating and degrading, but I thought I’d do anything to stay alive,’ she recalls. `Then this crazed violence started. I fought to stop him killing me.’

The wounds Ferrira inflicted needed 100 stitches and she lost half her blood. `I wanted to lose consciousness,’ she says. `I wanted it to stop, just to stop the pain, even if it meant dying.

`I felt this deep whirling as if I was being spun round faster and faster. Then there was this profound agony, which I presume was unconsciousness. I didn’t even know whether I was dead. I tried not to breathe so he’d think I was dead, but the fire he’d started began burning my leg so I had to move. He began pounding my neck again.’

Eventually he left. `I hoped I’d die before the flames got to me,’ she says. But she was rescued by a neighbour.

In hospital, fear overwhelmed her. `Ferrira had the contents of my bag and my name,’ she says. `I was scared to go to the lavatory alone. My sister and best friend slept with me every night.’

She needed plastic surgery and still has scars, but doesn’t hide them. She has only just regained the use of one hand.

After hospital, she went to stay with relatives in Spain. `I couldn’t live in this country until he was behind bars.’

At present she is staying with her sister. `I loved living alone before,’ she says. `Now I have to live out of a suitcase.’

She had no partner at the time of the attack, but there have been boyfriends since. `I didn’t know if I could have a normal relationship,’ she admits, `but I’m lucky, I don’t think of Ferrira as a man. A partner in a loving relationship is very different.’

Her greatest difficulty is in being alone. `I won’t go anywhere without a mobile phone. If nobody’s at home, I ring someone from the car before I get out and they talk me through going indoors.’

After three months off work, she went back part-time. Her mother died when she was seven and her father three years ago. `To be honest, his death was far worse than any of this,’ she says. `There’s no way I can fill that gap. But I can rebuild my life and do things he’d be proud of.’

The former convent girl still believes in God. `Things happen for a reason,’ she says, `though I’m not quite sure why this happened. Maybe it was to make me stronger.

`I don’t have nightmares. I don’t feel any guilt or shame about what happened. I didn’t ask for this. Now I just have to get on and deal with it.

`The firemen who rescued me are receiving counselling. I went to see them. I don’t want anyone else to be scarred.’

She admits she found the trial terrifying, particularly the discussion before it was decided she could be screened from Ferrira. `In the end I saw him briefly and was surprised I felt nothing. He looked a pathetic character – not big, as I’d built him up to be in my mind.’

Although he is behind bars at last, she knows her troubles are not over. But she is strong enough to say: `I’m so lucky, I should have died. Now I feel today is the first day of the rest of my life.’