‘I will definitely go,’ I promised, as we disappeared into a tunnel and Christ the Redeemer vanished from view.

Forty minutes later, we pulled up at the Caesar Park Hotel. Across the wide road lay Ipanema Beach, deserted for the present due to the early hour but simply magnificent, stretching as far as the eye could see.

‘Here is my card, Senhorita D’Aplièse. My name is Pietro and I will be on call for you any time you wish to go out in the city.’

‘Obrigada,’ I said, thanking him, and I handed him some reais as a tip before following the porter into the lobby to check in.

A few minutes later, I was installed in a pleasantly spacious suite with a wonderful view of Ipanema Beach from the large front windows. The room was ridiculously expensive, but was all they’d had available at such short notice. And given that I rarely spent anything from my earnings, I didn’t feel guilty. Depending on what happened in the next few days, if I decided to stay on for longer, I’d simply rent an apartment.

And what would happen in the next few days?

The past twenty-four hours had been such a whirlwind, propelled only by how panicked and desperate I’d felt to remove myself from Switzerland, I hadn’t really thought through what I’d do when I actually arrived. But for now, having slept so badly on the plane, and feeling exhausted from the trauma of the past few days, I decided to hang the do not disturb sign on the door, then slipped between the fresh, sweet-smelling sheets and went to sleep.

Waking up a few hours later, and discovering that I was hungry but also eager to see the city, I took the lift up to the top-floor restaurant. Sitting on the small terrace that had a wonderful vista of both the sea and the mountains, I ordered a Caesar salad and a glass of white wine. The clouds had blown away like a memory, and below me the beach was now crowded with bronzed bodies sunning themselves.

Once I’d eaten, I felt my brain begin to clear enough to allow me to think about what was best to do. I studied the address pinpointed by the coordinates, which I’d copied into my mobile, and conceded there was no guarantee that my original family was still occupying the house. I didn’t know their names, or anything about them. I couldn’t help a nervous chuckle at the thought of turning up on the doorstep and announcing I was searching for my long-lost family.

But then, I mused, trying to honour Pa Salt’s quote on the armillary sphere, the worst they could do was to slam the door in my face. Perhaps the glass of wine and the jet lag were providing me with an unusual feeling of courage. So I returned to my suite, and before I changed my mind, called downstairs to see if Pietro, the driver who had collected me from the airport, was available to take me to the address I wanted.