How my 11-day walk along the Camino de Santiago brought me back to myself

It took me two years to walk the Camino de Santiago, one of the world's most famous pilgrimages.

Not literally, of course. The actual route I followed was a meandering 11-day trek along the Portuguese coast up into Spain's Galicia region. But as those in the community know (yes, there is a community), the journey begins long before you step foot on the pilgrim trail, when you first get the “calling” – the calling to say goodbye to your daily luxuries and hit the well-trodden path.

No stranger to weekend walking holidays, I entertained the idea of a more long-haul trip when I stumbled across Alastair Humphreys' book My Midsummer Morning, a tale of walking, camping and (badly) busking through Spain. Fed by more books, podcasts, articles and chitchat with anyone who would indulge me on the topic, that idea blossomed into a well-formed plan by the start of this year.

Outwardly, I was embarking on a fun adventure to be at one with nature. Quietly, I was searching for space; space to breathe, to think and maybe even heal. There was also the lingering pain of grief I never dedicated time to process and I was still reeling from some big life decisions that ultimately went awry.

Remembering my mum's own walk across Spain about 18 years earlier along the Camino, I decide to follow in her footsteps. The pilgrimage is also known as the Way of St James, named after the disciple of Jesus who played a role in spreading Christianity in Europe, ending at his tomb in the Santiago de Compostela cathedral in Galicia, Spain.

Despite its religious significance, I'm not the first by a long shot to embark on the journey for reasons otherwise. Now, people from all walks of life put on their hiking boots seeking a fitness-focused holiday, a soul-searching break or simply to soak in the scenery.

Setting off from Porto, a municipality in Portugal, day one had me hugging the coastline, which moved from rugged to sandy, as the weather switched from sunny to rain and hail – something of a teaser clip of what was to come.

The following morning, I slung on my backpack after my first night sleeping in an albergue – a dedicated hostel for people walking the route – and was out the door not long after 5am. Spooked by just how pitch black it was walking alongside the beach, I went off course to walk inland until the sun rose, winding along farm roads.

Day three brought torrential rain from morning to night, yet wound up being the best yet. I had settled into my walking rhythm and had my timings right. I knew where everything was in my pack, having perfected my on-the-move access to essentials.

Earphones stayed idle at the bottom of my backpack every step of the way as waves crashing, cockerels crowing and birdsong became my soundtrack.

My daily missions included finding the first coffee of the morning, collecting passport stamps (marking my route to acquire a certificate of pilgrimage once complete) and stopping for fresh fruits, nuts, olives and of course pan con tomate (tomato on toast) until my next bed stop – all the usual mind-consuming concerns of normal life put on hold.

Such triumphs made way for the space I was seeking. Usually one to slam the door when grief comes knocking, I did the mental equivalent of putting the kettle on this time.

Martin Sheen's 2010 film, The Way, popularised the idea of finding a “Camino family” – an opportunity to meet new people from around the globe, exchange origin stories and walk side by side until your paths converge to form a pack. While I didn't make a family on the path, I was lucky enough to have friends from the UK fly in here and there to join me on my travels – one for a long weekend in Porto before I set off, another to tick off four days trekking as we crossed over into Spain. Two friends joined me in Padron for the final hurrah, and a final two flew in to celebrate with me in Santiago De Compostela as I hung up my boots and let down my hair.

But, as I discovered, the Camino was also a nice place to be alone in my head, away from the daily grind, to-do lists and expectations. I wanted to savour it. It gave me time to process, experience realisations and find moments of inspiration – something of a reset button. It was also a reassuring reality check; in a society where many are struggling internally, it's good to remember that there's not necessarily “something wrong with us” – a belief many people experience at some point. The world can be a troublesome place at times. Maybe we can go a little easier on ourselves?

I felt a bittersweet feeling a few days later, sitting in a church in Padron after my penultimate day. Ready to be met by friends joining to walk to the finish line with me, which I was so excited and grateful for, I realised that my time of isolated introspection was coming to an end. And for the first time, my eyes welled up.

Sitting with my group of loved ones a few days later (where I recognise a new seed planted in a few), I'm asked if I'll go again anytime soon. “Maybe in like 10 years?” I say. “I mean, it's been amazing, but there's so much more I want to do, see and experience.”

While said in earnest at the time, sitting in Abu Dhabi a few months later, I can't guarantee it will be so long until the calling finds me once again.