Buen Camino were the words that marked Liam’s first foray into a foreign language. Granted, he wasn’t trying to learn Spanish at the tender age of five. He was just trying to follow on to the bedtime story his mum was reading to him. Each night, opening the rather tatty children’s book that had once belonged to his mum, with the corners of pages showing where Grandma had often paused reading for the evening.

But those strange, exotic words, from a far away land, were to stick with Liam all his life, pulling him ever closer to a destiny that for many years he hadn’t realised he had been searching for.

Forty years had passed since that cold, wintry night in Yorkshire, and again, here he was, being wished a “Buen Camino” by everybody he came across. The landscape had changed, as had the country, but he now understood the words. And even had a basic grasp on the language to return a salutary greeting, or two.

“Como estas?” Liam asked the man straining under the weight of a backpack that looked to have a lot more than the official Pilgrim website recommended.

“Bien, gracias,” replied the weary walker.

Liam had passed a lot of people in the days since he set out from St Jean Pied de Port. Ensuring he was in his bunk early, wearing the ear plugs that he considered an extravagance when he bought them from the online store, each morning he woke early and refreshed. Only pausing for the first cafe con leche of the day before he bid adios.

He was determined to make a good pace, walk at least 30kms each day, which resulted in him passing those that were on a different timeline to him. Pilgrims who sauntered. Only aiming to reach the next refugio before claiming their bed for the night, and spending the afternoon out of the boots that felt at times like they had become one with their feet. Cautiously counting toe nails. Doing an inventory from the morning, to see if the numbers had further reduced.

And for the first week he had done just this. Reviewing his fold out paper map each afternoon, with the condensation from his first cold beer of the day leaving wet rings on the map, he was happy with his progress towards Santiago.

But as the days passed, Liam got the sense that he wasn’t doing this pilgrimage justice. The point, he had told himself that first night in Paris, was to walk slowly, and see what happened. What he meant by “what happened”, he wasn’t sure, but he had read enough books about the Camino to know that most people, whether they expected it or not, underwent some kind of spiritual transformation. Liam often scoffed at such stories. Isn’t a walk just a walk, however long? Sure, 500 miles really is a walk, but could it change you? Liam had his doubts, but something deep inside him wished he was wrong.