My rucksack weighed 14kg at the airport. After three days it was 10kg, which was still too heavy. Shampoo went in the bin, soap would do. The mosquito net was given away and not missed. Several books were left in hostel libraries. I cut my towel in half and the sleeves came off my tee shirts. I saw people tear pages from books - once read they were just extra weight. As well as the surplus from my rucksack I lost 8kg, which was a pleasant surprise on returning home.

I was hiking the Camino de Santiago, an ancient pilgrimage route dating back to the 9th century. The main route, the Camino Frances, starts at St Jean Pied de Port, situated in the foothills of the Pyrenees. The route is a well trodden path across the north of Spain to Santiago, a whopping 760km.

The official hostels are amazingly cheap (usually about 4), however to stay in one you must have a pilgrims passport, this can be collected from the pilgrims office in St Jean. Once you have it you are officially a pilgrim. It was late in the day and I would not make it to the next main hostel so I booked into a private hostel called the Orisson. It is only 8km from St Jean, but a tough 8km - more than three hours up very steep inclines.

At 28 the Orisson was not cheap, but it was worth every cent. That evening, drink in hand, I watched the sun set while relaxing on the cliff edge viewing platform, happy my first day on the Camino was complete. Dinner was tasty and wholesome, but more importantly the company was interesting and fun. Sixteen of us sat down at one long table to eat and the chatter featured a multitude of European languages. It was indicative of the varied nationalities and cultures I would meet along the trail.

Next morning the noisy packing of rucksacks dragged me from my sleep. It was still dark yet some of my fellow pilgrims had decided on a (very!) early start. I went outside with my steaming hot coffee and watched the sun rise between the towering peaks of the Pyrenees, an incredible sight and well worth the early disturbance. Okay, so there were some benefits to getting up early.

Tolerance is an absolute for hostel living. Most people, I found out, start walking at 6.30am (sunrise), finishing by about 2pm and so leaving time for a siesta during the hot afternoons.

Roncesvalles is not a town but a medieval abbey, and a resting place for pilgrims. The hostel accommodates 120 people in bunk beds, the largest single room communal hostel on the route. I wondered if I would sleep, but as was the case on most nights sleep came easily and quickly. There was the occasional night where I was kept awake by a snorer, though thankfully not often, but I quickly learnt that a loud cough will usually stop them for a while.

I had taken a journal to record my musings on life and the events I would encounter. I was not the only one; journal-writing seemed like a prerequisite - scribblers anonymous. Each little tree had a pilgrim lazing on the ground beneath it writing. But after a few days there was little to write about, apart from the antics of the other pilgrims. I had wanted time to contemplate life, but the mental noise of every day life quickly evaporates while trekking, and the need to always be thinking slips away.

There are beautiful old churches in every little hamlet, and incredible cathedrals in each city. However the pilgrims I met along the way provided the greatest entertainment.

I met a sixty year old woman who had walked from London. Each year she sets out on a long distance walk of about 2000km.

Another night I slept on the floor in the church Bell tower at Granon and had a free communal diner presided over by the local priest. I met two Italian girls called Sylvia, one wanted to be a movie star, the other had a little cats bell on her pack that drove me nuts as we walked along quiet desolate paths, silent apart from the bell. Two Polish girls with unpronounceable names were christened north and south.

The company of people from all over the world, from diverse cultures, and many different backgrounds made this trip. Most pilgrims had started alone, and walked with people they met. A camaraderie developed that does not normally happen on holiday, or even in life.

Walking into Santiago was fulfilling but disappointing. Like life the journey was to be remembered, not the anticlimactic finish. Santiagos narrow streets teemed with tourists, too many people for pilgrims who had become accustomed to the quiet countryside and great hospitality of small Spanish towns.

There are many web sites for information, but the best I found was the Confraternity of St James. (http://www.csj.org.uk/) or (http://www.caminodesantiago.me.uk), I walked on the Camino for four amazing weeks. Four weeks without mobiles ringing, without television, without newspapers, and without background radio noise. I did not miss any of it, but after a long day in the heat and dusty plains of the Mesita a bath would have been appreciated.