‘Thanks for testing that out for us,’ Carrie says, laughing.

We all choose which of the remaining beds we’d like, and Sarnai explains everything to us while Chinua serves up mugs of steaming white liquid, dropping a couple of pieces of the fried dough into them. Chinua hands them out to us with a smile and a small bow, as we all make ooh and oh noises of excitement over this new exotic drink.

I have the mug to my lips when Sarnai tells us that it is boiled ewe’s milk and that the incredible-smelling doughnuts are salty rather than sweet. The smell hits, and I just know that I’m not going to be able to get this drink past my lips.

‘Chin-chin,’ Rory says, putting on an over-the-top posh accent.

Carrie takes out one of the doughnuts and sniffs at it, like a dog smelling something nasty it’s found on the pavement. She takes a small bite and pulls a face. ‘Um. Interesting,’ she says. She dips a finger into the tea and sucks her finger, then she turns away and I hear her retch.

Martin is holding his doughnuts like they’re biscuits, and sipping contentedly at the tea. Rory has finished his and asking for a top-up.

‘You might find it’s an acquired taste,’ Sarnai says. She giggles again, and I have the urge to throw one of the doughnuts at her head.

‘Maybe just a glass of water,’ I say, putting the cup down at my feet. I glance over at Carrie and she rolls her eyes at me, and mouths ‘What the fuck?’

Through the open door, I can see the light starting to change, from a pale blue to a dim orange, and I’m wondering how soon we can go to bed. Tomorrow will be fine. We just need some sleep.

As if reading my mind, Sarnai picks up a bag of carrots from the floor and starts peeling. ‘Not long until dinner.’

‘What are we having?’ Rory says.

He’s taken his shoes off and is lying down on his bed. Martin is looking at the ornaments and books on the small display case by the doorway. Carrie is sitting cross-legged on one of the cushions, rocking back and forth gently. A familiar smell fills the air, from the second pot that is now on the hearth, in place of the doughnut pan. I try not to breathe it in, but it catches in my throat. I should’ve guessed – the nomads are pastoralists – they tend sheep … the tea is made from ewe’s milk. The gers are covered with felt, and the beds made of a tight woven wool. I have to try very hard not to gag, and realise it might be too late to pretend to be a vegetarian.

‘Mutton stew,’ Sarnai says. ‘The nomadic speciality.’

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