He led the way to the stone steps, and ascended them to the road. The bus stop was further down, its tiny shelter empty: they passed it, and Maria paused, producing a small, compact camera. She took a photograph carefully, and they moved on between two rows of squat, heavy houses. An arrow pointed them along the turning to the right – which Maria also photographed. Then they came to a farmhouse, where another arrow was embedded in one of the granite gateposts: it directed them through the farmyard and up round a barn. Up again, and now the path took them into the trees, so they were cutting through a wood, rising all the time. It was steep, but good to be out of the wind.

‘I think you’re fitter than I am,’ gasped Michael, when they stopped to rest.

He was panting. She wasn’t.

She lifted the camera and took a shot of the way they had come.

‘Will you take one of me, please?’ she said.

‘For the folks back home?’

‘Of course.’

She posed with her hands on her hips, and he couldn’t see the smile because half her face was covered. She realised, and pulled the hood back: he took a second picture.

‘You have a camera?’ she said.

‘I don’t.’

‘You don’t have a phone? You must do.’

‘I don’t even have a phone. I left home without.’

‘Why?’

‘No reason. Nobody calls.’

‘You are very brave, I think. When we get back I can send you my pictures. Are you on Facebook?’

‘I’m afraid not. I don’t really do all that. I just… never get round to it.’

‘We use it all the time. You ready now?’

‘For what?’

‘For going on!’

‘Yes – of course.’

The trees grew thicker, and they crossed a stream. Then, just as the leaflet predicted, the footpath divided and the track on the left took them up again. Ancient trees stood either side, and it grew darker before the canopy lifted and lightened, and the wood turned yellow. They went through ferns and brambles, still climbing, and came to its edge. There they paused, a little nervously, for the land beyond was so different. It was stark, bare and brown, offering no shelter at all. The footpath was reassuringly clear, but it led into a kind of infinity – a plateau that was ominously empty of people.

‘What made you come here?’ said Michael.

‘Somebody at my work,’ replied Maria. ‘They were telling me about it – on and on.’

‘What did they say?’

‘That I should come and see the view. I told them, “Every time I get holiday, I try to do something.” I try to get away, so—’

‘Like a walking holiday, or—?’

‘Like an adventure. Like seeing some new place. A gallery, maybe.’

She was taking another photograph.

‘I don’t have much money, though, so it’s not easy.’

‘It’s an expensive hotel. Isn’t it?’