When we rolled into the square at Santiago after 3 years of planning, after two summers cycling, after 29 days of crawling out of a tent, swinging a leg over the crossbar and setting out into unknown landscapes, after 2531.5km of roads that stretched out before us, crawled up mountainsides, swept down into valleys, after storms and punctures and missed turnings, after days of aching legs, sunburn, thirst and exhaustion, after evenings spent drinking local wine out of camping mugs, lunchtimes around cafe tables or sitting on the roadside munching baguettes and fruit, after long days of silent contemplation of the road, after the campsite bonhomie of shared reminiscences of our youth, our likes and dislikes, our selves, after weaving a strand that linked the windswept ruins of St Andrews with the sunbaked opulence of Santiago, after our journey was complete, after all that, and all that, we did not really know what to do next. We didn't know what to think. We didn't know how to react. There we were. We had reached our goal. We had arrived. We stood on the brink of anticlimax.

We queued to visit the relics of St James. We watched bemused as pilgrims queued to embrace the pillar at the entrance to the cathedral and to place their palms in the well-worn hand-shaped depression in the stone. We wandered around the great spaces of the cathedral, admired the side chapels, looked (in vain) for the botafumeiro; the great censer of the cathedral. We went for a beer. After a while, we remembered that we could, on showing our pilgrim passports, obtain our Compostela, our indulgence, our proof of achievement. We climbed the stairs to the mediaeval upper room where this little piece of bureaucracy is accomplished. We each approached a clerk at the desk. We handed over our passports. The clerk examined them carefully. He then turned to a large volume which he consulted with great care before inscribing our names in Latin on the paper before him. He brought down upon it a rubber stamp, a seal, the mark of St James. He then handed to each of us our Compostela. Only at this point was I moved. "Gracias," I said, "Muchos Gracias." My voice trembled, my eyes glowed and a hot tear emerged into each of them. I turned away and stood rather helplessly in the middle of the room. "Muchos gracias", I whispered.

Ken, meanwhile, was in dialogue with his clerk. One of the elements of the procedure had been to complete a form upon which you had to tick a box that best described your motivation for undertaking the pilgrimage: religious, spiritual, cultural, tourism or sporting. Ken had failed to tick either of the first two, which had opened him up unwittingly to a charge of 100 euros. On the spot, he took Pascal's wager, and rectified the lacuna, thereby saving both money and possibly also his soul!

I can't speak for the others, but I still really had no clear idea why I had done this journey. I did not at all regret having set out, at no point did I question myself. I was convinced that I should do it, but I could not articulate precise motives for going. I was just impelled to do it. There is something very powerful about a journey, about the notion of it, about the making of it. It was a progress. A process. A project. I have no idea whether it changed me. My legs are stronger, my fear of 50 mile days and steep climbs has gone. I have something to be proud of; something to look back upon. If I could set out tomorrow and do it again, I would go with joy in my heart.

The highlights of the whole trip, apart from setting out and arriving, which had their own sense of moment, were the mountains, the fast stretches and the one or two places where we were made to feel really welcome. There were three mountain passes that really struck a chord: Ibaneta, Leon and Cebreiro. Each involved extraordinary effort to reach, was characterised by a change in the landscape that made you feel that you were in an extreme place and each had a number, inscribed on a sign at the top, that told you precisely how lofty was your achievement: 1057; 1500; 1335. The fast stretches had a different quality to them, legs turning, wheels whirring, speed creeping up and then sustained at a normally unachievable pace for mile after mile after mile. Bazas to Roquefort, through the forests of Les Landes; La Perdraja to Leon, 200 flat kilometres across the baking hot plains of Burgos. Riding at speed, it is as if you are trying to keep up with the bike, dashing across the landscape. The places of welcome were Vezelay and Monsegur, the two Sundays of the French leg. One characterised by a deep calm and dignity that prompted reflection; the other a joyful, sunny, convivial, musical festival that prompted exuberance and cheerfulness.

There were no deep low-points. Yes, there were days when one or other of us did not feel good on the bike, found the hills a strain. There were many evenings when we were exhausted to the point of silence and sometimes irritation. There were a few mishaps and misjudgements. But there were no times when I asked myself what on earth I was doing there and I didn't sense that the others questioned themselves in that way. In fact, the worst of it was the awkward logistics of doing it over two summers and having to get the bikes from Spain to Scotland and back again. A bike is a wonderful companion when you are riding it but it becomes an awkard burden when you try to treat it as luggage. Bus companies, airports, even getting them into the car gave cause for concern. But we managed.

Do we have any advice for other pilgrims? Apart from "do it!", probably not. Your pilgrimage will be different from ours. Ken and I wished we could have done it in one go, rather than having to break off half way. On the other hand, spreading it over two years extended the whole experience and allowed us to be pilgrims for longer. We wished that Gus hadn't sustained his injury and had come with us. But Andrew was good company and a welcome companion.

Are we better people for having done it? Really, that is not for us to judge.

Bon Camino!