A suggestion from a friend led to a seven-day walk on the French way of famous Camino de Santiago for JUDY MURPHY. Renowned as a pilgrimage route since medieval times, it leads to Santiago de Compostella, believed to be the burial place of St James the Apostle. People walk it for many reasons, not all religious, as she learned.

Whoever said ‘it’s better to travel than to arrive’ had clearly never walked the hills of the Basque Country in sideways torrential rain, trying to stay upright while sliding down an unforgiving ravine. It’s equally unlikely they’d ploughed through rivers of mud in the same region, again just trying to stay upright.

Those were the outstandingly hard moments of an unforgettable seven-day walk between St Jean Pied de Port in France to Logroño in Spain, along the French section of the Camino de Santiago.

The many highlights included walking through fields of gold in glorious sunshine. On those days, we marvelled at the rapeseed crop, the olive groves and the lush vineyards of Navarra, as we chatted to random strangers during breaks for coffee and sustenance at hillside cafes or roadside vans.

The Camino hadn’t been on the bucket list until a friend had suggested it during a Christmas gathering in the dark days of December.

Easter seemed far away then but next thing, we were meeting at Dublin Airport, frantically cramming essential items such as walking poles into the bag we’d checked in, while ensuring our carry-on luggage would meet Ryanair’s weight requirements.

Having been warned that the Basque Country doesn’t cater for vegetarians and knowing protein would be needed, essential items included a jar of peanut butter and protein bars. A nuisance but, as it happened, necessary.

Of the many Camino routes that lead to Santiago de Compostella, our chosen one was the French way, starting in the foothills of the Pyrenees in the beautiful, medieval St Jean Pied de Port.

My friend Bairbre had done trojan work planning our journey and had prebooked our accommodation, following advice from experienced friends, a Camino app and the invaluable Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino.

Home on the first night was in a beautiful, traditional house nestled among the mountains – the same ones we were about to ascend!

Breakfast included homemade croissants and the best omelette ever. As we chatted over this feast, we learned our host had once worked in La Gavroche in London and had run his own Michelin-starred restaurant too. As it wasn’t included in the price, we stoically accepted that we’d pay well for his culinary skills – and we did! But it was perfect sustenance for a trek which included an ascent of 1,450 metres – the walk, all told, was about 30km. The previous evening we’d called to the town’s pilgrim office, where wonderful volunteers explained that we’d be walking through an agricultural area, where shepherds were working and people needed to be mindful of this.

Our luggage had gone on ahead, courtesy of a wonderful transfer service that we’d prebooked, so we just had backpacks. These contained food we’d bought the previous evening, along with water and a Berocca tablet each. A friend who had taken this route previously had recommended them for when an energy boost was needed – a brilliant tip.

The rucksack also had a €2 rain poncho from Galway’s EuroGiant, which earned its keep on day one.

Everyone had told us of the amazing views we’d have once we started climbing. There’d be forests and valleys, flora and fauna – all manner of magic. Maybe so. But we saw nothing, because we had mist for the entire journey. Full of enthusiasm, we accepted our fate as we climbed the Napoleon Route to the Spanish border, chatting with fellow pilgrims and watching out for the shell-shaped signs that marked the way.

Home on night two was in a hostel – formerly a monastery – in Roncesvalles, where processing some 500 pilgrims who all arrived at about 3pm was like a military operation. Eventually we got bunks in a mixed dormitory. Our closest companions, a couple in their 40s, were pleasant people, but during the night there was no refuge from the man’s snoring – despite getting up twice to poke him. Not very Christian, but better than killing him, which was also considered!

However, it’s a beautiful, historic building and for €50 we got a pilgrim’s dinner, breakfast and lunch. But the disposable bedsheets were an environmental let-down, given its 500 pilgrims nightly.

We bumped into people from home at dinner and spent the evening with them and other Irish people. The Irish were last to leave the pub at 9.55pm, mindful of the hostel’s strict 10pm curfew. We made it with a minute to spare!

Pictured: Taking a breather on Puente de Arre before the final stretch into Pamplona.