An unlikely pilgrim

The person is a whole, but it is not a closed whole, it is an open whole … it demands by its very nature to social life and to communion – Jacques Maritain.

My pilgrimage was never meant to be meaningful.

The Camino de Santiago, in Spain, is over a thousand years old and trodden by tens of thousands of pilgrims each year. For me, though, it was simply a cheap holiday. A safe walk to do as a solo traveller. And, I'd been told, a sure way to get fit. I didn't believe that the remains of Saint James had somehow managed to end up in Santiago de Compostela. And I wasn't expecting any miracles.

So I feel like a fraud collecting my pilgrim passport in Pamplona — a document that gets you into the less-than-salubrious pilgrim accommodation along the way. I hand over the equivalent of about $12 for my bunk and dutifully accept my first stamp.

My first impression is of a basic backpackers hostel. But there are some differences too.

I listen to three nuns, in habits, sing grace before their meal in the common room.

I inhale a pungent mix of stale sweat and tiger balm.

And I watch a German woman tend an English woman's blisters.

'I'm doing this for my son, you know,' the English woman says. 'He died last year.'

'I'll be praying for you and your son,' says the German woman, lotion and bandage in hand.

I'm perplexed by the exchange. They can't have known each other more than 48 hours. I slip away to my bed. It's clear no-one else regards the Camino as a budget boot-camp, and I don't want to be found out as a fake.

The next morning, I set off, just me, a backpack, and a walking stick I call Jimmy, my one nod to the saint this walk is supposed to be all about. The path is simple enough — a dirt track, marked by yellow arrows. A cheery hola and buen camino greets me as the first (of many) pilgrims pass me on the trail.

I'm not sure why everyone is being so friendly. I'm not feeling particularly chipper as I tackle my first big hill. My feet are starting to hurt