I must have looked like a pilgrim with my walking boots and wet hair, as incessant rain dripped off my coat.

Alas we were not on the Camino, preferring the comfort of a train or local bus to get around Spain.

But every day thousands of bedraggled people from every corner of the planet, including locals from the Southern Highlands, plod along one of the pilgrim routes to pay their respects to the bones of good old Saint James at one of the most significant religious sites in Christendom.

In fact the one constant on our five week journey through northern Spain has been pilgrims on the Camino, some walking the entire 800km from France across Spain.

We were never far from their sturdy boots, colourful backpacks, walking sticks and sweaty clothing as they trudged this well-worn path used for centuries by devout Christians.

These days the journey is made by all sorts of people for all sorts of reasons.

Like many things in life, this ritual began with a legend.

As the story goes, back in 813 a bright star guided a shepherd to the burial site of Saint James at Santiago de Compostella.

After a couple of miracles were conjured up, Pope Leo XIII declared them to be the bones of Saint James, but these days the Vatican remains uncommitted, with their public relations team suggesting that verifying the bones is not as important for Catholics as completing the pilgrimage.

One British lady who had just finished the walk told me most conversations between pilgrims on the Camino revolve around food and feet.

She reckons this must be the only time people actually take selfies of blistered and battered toes to send home.

In Roman times it was believed the end of the earth was at Cape Finisterre, about 90 kilometres on from Santiago de Compostella.

So some dedicated pilgrims even walk out to Finisterre to burn their clothes and walking boots.

Not sure if they catch the train back home barefoot and naked, but it does seem a quaint ritual.

I was speaking with a French pilgrim who was taking the walk to Santiago de Compostella very seriously.

He was telling me the Pope has decreed that anyone completing the pilgrimage this year will be forgiven of all their sins.

"My slate will be wiped clean," he said with a playful twinkle.

Like a true pilgrim, this Frenchman had been staying in frugal dormitory accommodation, called Albergues - five euros a night for a bed and a wash basin.

These are often in old monasteries and run by nuns, so it is lights out at 9.30pm and no shenanigans with someone you took a fancy to on the trail earlier that day.

Outside one Albergue we saw a sign - take what you need, leave what you can. That is not bad is it?

A message we perhaps could apply to other facets of life in this often greedy grasping materialistic society we have become.

Which brings us to Dudley, who backpacking around Spain he met a frisky young lady walking the Camino.

They had a good night. He was tempted to join her to on the final leg of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella, but commonsense prevailed.

He waved her off, bought a coffee and sat down in the main square reading an English language newspaper he had found in the bin.

He looked a mess. His hair was disheveled, his shirt dirty and a half empty bottle of red wine stuck out of his raincoat pocket.

He opened the newspaper and began reading as a priest sat down on the bus beside him.

After a few minutes Dudley turned to the priest and asked, "Hey, Father, what causes arthritis?"

"My Son, arthritis is caused by loose living, being with cheap, wicked women, too much alcohol, excessive gambling and a contempt for your fellow man."

"Well, I'll be buggered," muttered Dudley, returning to his paper.

The priest, thinking about what he had said, nudged Dudley and apologized.

"I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to come on so strong. How long have you had arthritis?"

"I don't have it, mate," said Dudley nonchalantly.

"I was just reading here that the Pope has got it."