If a long walk through the Spanish countryside sounds enticing, consider a route that’s been travelled by pilgrims for over 1000 years.

Since early in the last millennium, pilgrims have trekked the Camino Frances, crossing over the Pyrenees Mountains from France and following the Milky Way above to lead them through what is now Pamplona, Burgos, Leon, Astorga and on to Santiago—the legendary burial place of Saint James. Although millions of pilgrims have found their way to Santiago de Compostela over the last thousand years, every pilgrim walks a unique Camino, for the Camino is a metaphor for life.

Nowadays, pilgrims come from all over the world and for all kinds of reasons. Most walk, some bike, some skip over parts by bus or by hitching a ride. Some people stay in hotels and pensions, some camp, but most make use of the many “refugios” that provide basic lodging for pilgrims for a small fee. Some pilgrims do the Camino in sections over a series of years, some race to get to Santiago in the least possible days, most take almost 5 weeks to walk the 800 kilometers from the French border. Although there are religious pilgrims who walk the Camino strictly as an affirmation of their faith, these days most pilgrims have more varied reasons for doing the pilgrimage.

I had been drawn to the Camino since I first heard of “a long walk in the north of Spain” several years ago. After researching the walk, I decided it would be the perfect challenge to mark my 45th year. To prepare for the walk I read several books and, of course, bought new boots and did a lot of walking. After four books on the pilgrimage, I stopped reading. I didn’t want to have too many expectations. I wanted to discover the Camino for myself. I did survive a test walk of 20 km with my loaded pack, but my fear was whether or not I’d be able to get up the next day and do it again—and the next and the next? I knew I faced a mental and spiritual challenge as much as a physical one.

My Camino started in the border town of Roncesvalles—784 km from my goal. I spent the night there in the ancient monastery’s refugio, collecting the first stamp in my pilgrim’s passport. The scene in the refugio was intimidating. People frantically rushed to claim beds—even though there were several large rooms crammed with bunk beds. They raced, towels flying, to win the limited hot water in the unisex bathroom facility (I wondered if my modest friend would ever shower en route). Their wet clothes steamed as garments were hung from every available railing, and excited conversation echoed off high ceilings and metal bed frames. Feeling like outsiders, we quickly left to explore the town.

In early May there was still snow on the trail between St. Jean Pied de Port, France and Roncesvalles, Spain. I eavesdropped on stories of people losing the trail in the Pyrenees, cold and snow-blown. I felt unprepared and more like an imposter than a fellow pilgrim. But, after dining with eight other novice pilgrims, I felt more a part of the experience. And what an experience—my first night on the Camino is a vivid memory full of nostalgia for the start of a big adventure. Our cosmopolitan, multilingual dinner group shared stories and laughter; a recurrent theme for my Camino. As an after-dinner treat, a young Basque man at the table offered us the most beautiful song. That song helped keep my thoughts charitable when the talented tenor’s snoring later attacked my eardrums and killed all hopes of a decent sleep.

In the early morning we began the journey exhilarated, though sleep-deprived and still jet-lagged. The way started easily, through ancient Basque villages, along quiet roads framed by large trees. Soon, however, the track lost its solidity and we sank into mud—extra thick and sticky, sucking at our feet and loading our boots with an extra 10 lbs each. We shuffled into tiny Larrasoaina 17 km later, grateful we had avoided wiping out and turning into mudmen. Santiago Zubiri, then-mayor, refugio-operator and Camino-enthusiast, welcomed us warmly to the refugio. Excited that we could communicate in basic Spanish, he insisted on showing us his collections of postcards and rocks other pilgrims had sent him, as well as the much-valued signatures of Shirley MacLaine and her Brazilian friend Ana when they had passed through town.

In the refugio, walkers tried to clean off the mud, dry out socks and boots, and tend to their blisters. We all had them; the normal friction of walking exacerbated by slipping around in the mud. After a couple of days of mud-walking we arrived in Pamplona and the next day climbed over the Sierra del Perdon on a dry trail and strolled into a sun-filled valley of lush farm fields lined with vibrant, happy poppies. The Camino, like life, offers both joy and pain.

We soon settled into the rhythm of the Camino: waking shockingly early to be on the trail before sunrise; breakfasting on bread and fruit; hoping to find a café open in one of the towns along the way for coffee and a sandwich; arriving in the early afternoon at the next refugio and lining up for a bed; heading out for a big meal after showering or doing laundry; returning for siesta; rousing ourselves for some sightseeing and food shopping; retreating to the refugio for dinner, tea and conversation with fellow pilgrims; and, finally, collapsing into bed.

The geography, vegetation and architecture change throughout the Camino. For me, a walking pace is the perfect pace to really notice things—flowers at the trail’s edge, clouds in a massive sky, family crests on centuries-old houses. Simple joys lifted me right off my blisters—discovering a cozy café open in the early morning, witnessing sheep being escorted through a village street, exchanging greetings with locals who, without exception, wished us a “Buen Camino.” I enjoyed the company of other pilgrims, the cool water from the towns’ historic fountains, and the gift of a sunny day. In my journal I kept writing “another favorite day.”

Some days the kilometres vanished as a fairytale little town on a hilltop in the horizon was suddenly the same town we were entering. Other days the milestone markers spread further and further apart. I dragged myself into the big cities of Burgos and Leon—past car dealerships, warehouses, sterile housing developments and retail shops—finally achieving the prize of the centre. Both cities are architectural gems, but it was the countryside that really restored me.

Between Burgos and Leon stretches the meseta—a high, windy plain where the scarce towns are tucked into protective ravines. Initially I disparaged, feeling tired and no pueblo to be seen on the sweeping horizon. Then suddenly the trail dropped into a ravine, revealing the much-anticipated town. Eventually I grew to appreciate the meditative advantages of the meseta’s straight tracks over longer distances—we were now walking over 30 kilometers a day.

The trail is marked from start to finish by yellow arrows, pointing the pilgrim onto the right path. We quickly became attuned to spotting these arrows, which may be painted on rocks, on walls, on pavement, or on signposts. The arrows are joined by milestones on the meseta and in Galicia there are arrows, milestones and crosses to mark the way.

The closer we got to Santiago, the more hum and buzz I felt from all the other pilgrims. Many people begin their pilgrimage in Astorga, roughly a 10-day walk to Santiago. I confess I felt nostalgic for the more isolated stretches we had passed.

It is appropriately symbolic that the longest single climb on the whole Camino is the trek into Galicia, Santiago’s home province. Entering Galicia was entering a different world. The Camino became a green tunnel shrouded by mists and shadowed by streams. The vegetation was reminiscent of our West Coast, with lush ferns and blooming Foxglove.

Upon reaching Santiago, the pilgrim is said to be reborn. As I approached my destination, I wasn’t sure I wanted to arrive. What had I learned? What did it mean to be reborn? And what would I have to give up—living in the present moment for so much of the day, with no other commitments or responsibilities except to walk, was the ultimate in freedom for me. I felt sadness for the coming end of the adventure.

We spent our last night on the Camino in Arca, just a few hours shy of Santiago. In the morning we slipped out even earlier than usual and needed my flashlight to search out the yellow arrows in the forest. I was curious about the city that had been our destination for so long. I didn’t know what to expect. Fortunately, the walk into Santiago de Compostela is still pleasant and we were quickly into the old town, passing historic churches and plazas. The city, a UNESCO World Heritage site, is worthy of the honour of a thousand-year-old pilgrimage. We followed the traditional route into the immense Plaza del Obradoiro. I faced the cathedral and, as is intended for the arriving pilgrim, I was dazzled by the magnificent architecture towering over me—the scale of the whole plaza reinforcing a sense of smallness in the universal scheme of things, a final nudge towards humility.

We continued in the pilgrims’ footsteps through the cathedral’s 12th century Portico de la Gloria to view the relics of Saint James (Santiago in Spanish) and to attend the pilgrims’ mass. The relics hold no meaning for me, but I was struck by the sight of the marble steps worn inches down by the multitudes of past pilgrims. I felt a connection to and respect for all this humanity and the devotion and awe they experienced. The Camino left me with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and a continuing awareness of the joy of simple pleasures. It affirmed my soul’s need to be outdoors and my body’s need to move. For me to be reborn was to be renewed, replenished with a sense of wonder and a heightened belief in possibilities. My pilgrimage now over, I celebrated the end of my deprivation from comforts with gusto—including champagne and a long hot bath.

If you set out for Santiago, be prepared to find your own unique Camino. There may be soul-drenching rain, skin-scorching sun and ankle-twisting rocks, but there will also be staggering natural beauty, a warm sense of community with fellow pilgrims through the ages, and hours on end for quiet contemplation. Buen Camino!

Tips:

Take earplugs, extra socks and a readiness to laugh.

Keep your pack light and make sure your footwear is well broken in. Everyone gets blisters. As in life, some suffer more on the Camino than others. My friend’s toes were the talk of the trail at one point as she sported blisters on her blisters. Her little toe looked like something from another planet, and one blister covered over a third of the bottom of her foot. She got infections, she took antibiotics, she marched on.

Learn some basic French and Spanish—it will enrich your exchanges with locals and fellow pilgrims.

Attend the Pilgrims’ Masses—even if you don’t understand a word, the masses are a way to continue a historic tradition, to be a part of history. It is also often the only opportunity to view some wonderful chapels and, in the convents, to catch some divine singing by the nuns.

The best guide to have on the Camino is the compact, lightweight Pilgrim Guides to Spain: The Camino Frances, provided by the English Cofraternity of Saint James, and a map of northern Spain. This is all you really need because the trail is so well marked (unless you are travelling in winter—in which case you may want more detailed maps). The Cofraternity also has a guide for cyclists.

My favorite book describing a modern day experience of the Camino is by Jack Hitt, called Off the Road: a Modern-day Walk Down the Pilgrim’s Route into Spain.