‘Pardon?’ She yawned and ran her hands across her face, then through her hair. He watched.

‘The trail, y’know, to Santiago?’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Sort of. Are you?’

He laughed. He had a loaded pack, strong boots, wet-weather gear, a tent, a sleeping mat.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked. He tried to sound casual, as if it wasn’t essential she say yes.

‘You’re Australian,’ she said.

‘And you’re a Pom.’

She smiled. ‘I sort of know a woman in Australia.’

He stood up. ‘You don’t say? What’s her name? I’m sure to know her too.’

Alison found this funny, so she took his proffered hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. He was a handsome boy, wholesome-looking, with sandy-blond hair, broad shoulders and slim hips, a swimmer’s physique. He looked supremely fit and healthy, and wonderfully well organised, Alison thought. She’d met all types since accidentally becoming a pilgrim, and Michael McCormack belonged to the category she’d identified as mountaineer. He’d be perfectly at home at Everest base camp; he had all he needed to make a summit attempt.

They found a tiny bar and he ordered two beers. While they waited, she told him she’d walked here from Logroño with three German nuns, who’d felt good about sharing their loaf with her, and their cheese. Before that, she’d walked to Logroño from Los Arcos, to Los Arcos from Estella, to Estella from Puente la Reina. Sometimes she was alone, she said, but more often she’d walk alongside other people, who fell into step along the way.

‘Well, you’ll know what I mean. Folk just join you, don’t they, or you join them, and chat?’

He thought for a moment, and pictured narrow dusty tracks disappearing into infinity. ‘I think I walk too fast for that,’ he said.

Oh, Alison thought: a racer, then, a competitive type, not a mountaineer. She’d encountered a spirited Scottish woman a few days ago, bearing down on the dawdlers and amblers, calling out, ‘Single file, on the left, single file,’ as she forged her own path through.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘If you dawdle like me, you meet all sorts of people.’

‘But they don’t all speak English.’

Oh dear, she thought.

A waiter slid up to them, balancing their beers on a tin tray. He placed them on the table, along with a plate of tortilla, cut into narrow slices. Alison said, ‘Ah, gracias,’ and he winked at her, and grinned. Michael noted this; noted, also, the way she offered the plate to him first, before she took a piece herself.

‘So,’ he said, ‘where’s all your gear?’

‘Gear?’

‘For the trail?’

‘This is it,’ she said. ‘What you see is what I’ve got.’

‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘What’re you thinking of?’