Click, thunk, click, thunk. It is only the click, thunk of hiking poles that I can hear. It is this rhythm that must propel me the last three kilometers. However, as I round the corner and my eyes dart up the hill that promises not only a convent but also a bed, shower, and meal I see a group of six retreating down the hill. I am crushed – another one full or closed? “Its beautiful up there!” a pot bellied Irish man at the head of the pack yells down to me. “That church – 12th century! – what a sight,” the woman behind him concurs.