The next morning we sat at the bleached wooden breakfast table, the whiff of toast in the air, the clink of white crockery and the rustle of newspapers. It was all Gucci, as Josh would say. At ten-thirty we rang the garage to be told that the windscreen wiper wouldn’t be arriving until the following morning. After a minute or so of disbelief that our journey should be hindered by a windscreen wiper – it was technically illegal to drive without one, according to our mechanic, and it was looking like rain – neither of us actually minded that much; we were on an unexpected and welcome break from the old routine. My deadline for an article was not for another few days and Ness’s boss was very amenable. We made the necessary calls home, got talking to a couple on the next table, and decided to go on a walk – a proper walk. Ness, as ever sensibly clad, was already wearing her walking boots and I had some trainers in the back of the car. So we took photos of the couple’s Ordnance Survey map and pored over the route as we ate our porridge and boiled eggs. We decided on an eight-mile circular route to the lake and back. This was fun. In a way, I felt like I’d been waiting for Ness all my life: an accomplice, an adventurer, a partner in carpe diem.

The proprietor of the inn lent us a backpack and offered us some rain boots, which we refused. I watched the way Ness efficiently packed the bag: water bottle, some Kendal Mint Cake that she’d bought at the counter, the way she carefully rolled up her blue Norwegian parka (the type that people die in on Mount Everest) and neatly stuffed it down the side. She methodically figured out how all the compartments worked. She was thorough. ‘If I’d known I’d have brought my compass. Have you got a waterproof?’ she asked me. I saw a new side to her: she was the tiniest bit bossy but I really didn’t mind; in fact I was enjoying being bossed. Besides, it was a rarity for me not to ask three hundred times whether everyone had been for a pee, brought a jumper, etc. I only had myself to ask today.

I didn’t have a waterproof.

‘Not in the back of the car?’ she asked me, surprised. I bet at home she had a proper hiking bag with a first-aid kit and a pouch where she kept her compass, a flare and a couple of crampons; unlike me with my strappy handbag, lipstick and a couple of tampons.

We stopped at the garage, where she exchanged pleasantries with the mechanic while I put on the trainers and my Topshop bomber jacket, looking like an idiotic townie. Pathetic really – but in the event of an air ambulance rescue service at least I would look good.