Having just celebrated my 30^th birthday, discussion, unsurprisingly, turned to some of the more memorable moments of the last decade.

While my twenties were punctuated with some really wonderful experiences, I’ll be honest here and admit that over the course of the last decade I did some pretty regretful things.

In fact, some of the choices I made – with and without the help of alcohol – would make most people question whether I was capable of looking after a balloon, let alone myself.

And yet, there is one particular event which always stands out in my mind.

At the age of 26, I walked the first 300km of the Camino de Santiago, and on the eve of our final day on The Way, myself and my walking buddy decided we’d get up extra early in order to make it to our final destination by late morning.

Slipping into our bunk beds the night before, it seemed like a genius idea.

Tying up our hiking boots the following morning, it seemed like a good idea.

And stepping into the pre-dawn darkness afforded by a village with no street lamps, it seemed like the worst idea of all time.

With head lamps so feeble they lit just three feet in front of us, myself and my friend made tentative steps from our hostel to the trail marked by the now widely-recognised yellow Camino arrow.

With our backpacks forcing us forward ever so slightly and our hearts hammering in our chests – the sound reverberating in my eardrums – we began walking.

The yellow arrows encouraged us along what might be considered a main road in the cold light of day, but signalled the route to hell before 5am, and slowly we began to follow them.

They say it’s darkest before the dawn, and never was a truer word uttered. I struggled to see a metre in front of me, but I attempted to keep my eyes glued to the Camino shell dangling from my friend’s backpack.

The Way was absolutely silent save for the sound of gravel beneath our feet, and I could already hear the RTÉ bulletins which reported the disappearance of two young Irish women who made the decision to hike by themselves in the pitch dark purely so they’d have time for extra pints in Bilbao.

After approximately 30 minutes, we reached a mid-point in the main road and it was at that moment. I decided not to communicate my concerns to my friend.

I felt that saying it would make it real. We had made a really stupid decision, and the last thing either of us needed was to hear it said out loud. The logic of the bewildered leaves a lot to be desired.

So, we walked in silence. On and on and on, we walked.

And then we reached an arrow which pointed us in the direction of a dirt road. What possessed us to follow it as opposed to waiting until sun-up or returning to the hostel, I’ll never know.

But follow it, we did.

Maybe it was a reluctance to show fear or maybe it was a misguided attempt to illustrate the Camino spirit, but we left that arrow behind us and slowly made our way towards an isolated Spanish farmhouse.

Constantly searching for the next yellow arrow in the pitch dark, we passed through sprawling farmyards, crept by deserted barns and promised God, Jesus and all the sweet angel babies, that we’d be good for the rest of our lives if we made it to sun-up without incident.

While skidding on rapidly dislodging rock shards, I saw my breath billow out in front of me and had a soul-wrenching thought.

Who else can see it?

Glancing from side to side, I attempted to make out the various structures that lay to the right and left of me, before taking a deep breath and focusing my eyes on the light afforded by my head torch.

On and on we stumbled, barely speaking, save for the odd whimper and stifled gasp.

With the sun refusing to make an appearance and the passing of two long, cold, terrified hours doing little for our nerves, we suddenly made the acquaintance of hundreds of sheep whose beady eyes lit the short walkways between their pens.

Standing stock-still sporting dead stares, these creatures appeared to signal danger (as if we hadn’t already gotten enough signals) and I decided it was probably the right time to lose my mind completely.

Never has the sound of silence been so sinister.

No one knew where we were. We barely knew where we were. And yet we continued walking.

With every horror film I’ve ever seen running through my mind, my body almost completely numb with cold and my friend’s undeniable fear rendering her speechless, I thought ‘Well, this is it.”

Teeth chattering, mind spiralling and bowels loosening, I accepted the fact that today would probably be my last day on earth… and all because I was craving a hotel room and a pint.

After then we ascended a hill.

Greeted at the top by a 30-foot stone cross looming large against the night sky, I allowed myself a small whimper before reciting prayers I hadn’t heard since my days in Junior Infants.

And so what if they were pre lunch-time prayers which spoke of blessed sandwiches and kind hands, I was ready to try anything.

Just as I was about to give up and wait for the deluge of serial killers I was certain were hiding in the barns we had just passed, the sun rose.

The sun actually rose.

It was like someone had flipped a light switch. I literally roared laughing with relief.

I stood for a moment and basked in the light of it.

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.

But like almost every bad decision I made in my twenties, the moment I came out the other side, I promptly forgot how idiotic I had been and focussed on the fact I made it out alive.

And the cycle continued…