‘Deep,’ I say, draining the dregs of my tea. It’s not at all bad with the vanilla in it, and the sugar hit has given me the boost I needed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound patronising. It’s just … well, I’ve had these conversations with so many people. Ultimately, everyone you meet while travelling is the same. They’re all trying to escape something. All looking for answers to some unknown question.’

‘I get it. You’re a cynic.’ He looks down at my skirt. ‘You look … I don’t know. I thought maybe you were a bit alternative.’

‘Oh I am … but not in the way you mean.’

‘See. You just disproved your own point there. Not everyone you meet when travelling is the same.’

‘Touché,’ I say. ‘Shall we head back?’

We’ve walked quite far, engrossed in our conversation. The doors of the gers are all tied back now. Chinua is outside ours, shaking out a carpet.

‘There’s this place in Cambridgeshire. Rosalind House? It’s a commune, set in an old asylum. They’re very selective about who they allow to live there. Only a small number of people, and the guy who runs it was brought up in various communes so he knows his stuff—’

‘Knit-your-own-yogurt types, is it? Or devil worshippers? Aren’t those the two main types of commune?’

‘You can mock all you like. Just wait until you go back home to your shit job and your normal boring life, then you’ll wish you’d listened to me.’

‘Who says I’m going back home?’

He opens his mouth to say more, but is interrupted by Rory running out of the ger at full pelt, a pained expression on his face, clutching a toilet roll. He throws himself at the door of the toilet hut, almost yanking it off its hinges.

‘Oh dear,’ Martin says to his retreating back. ‘Did someone forget they were lactose intolerant?’ He turns back to me. ‘To be honest, I thought he was making it up.’

‘Surprised you haven’t got any lactase tablets for him, in your bag of tricks.’

He shrugs. ‘Maybe I’m not such a good Boy Scout after all.’