After a decent breakfast of dark bread rolls and blackcurrant jam, and more milky tea – which I am actually growing to like now, with the vanilla enhancement – we are introduced to Batu and Gan, who are going to take us on a horseback tour around the mountain. I haven’t ridden a horse since I was eleven and had begged my parents to let me try it out at the stables near our house. They refused, but my friend had convinced her mum to let me go with her instead. My parents had handed over the money without any fuss. They weren’t short of cash – they lived off the inheritance that my grandparents left – and were abundant in indifference, a trait that I used to my advantage many times in later years. Anyway, half of the time at the stables was spent learning to groom and muck out, and I realised then that I was never going to be a horse person. When I did finally get to ride, I found it uncomfortable, and vaguely terrifying, and I never asked to be taken again.

‘Oh, I love horses,’ Carrie says, surprising me. ‘What breed are they?’ She chatters away to the guides as they take us around to the far side of their ger, where the horses are roaming around, seemingly oblivious to us.

‘They are Mongol horses,’ Batu says. ‘They have been here for many, many years. Since times of Chingis, our great leader. These horses helped to build our empire. You know there are three million of these animals … more than the humans here, in Mongolia.’

The ‘horses’ are more like ponies. Short and stocky, with long manes and tails. They don’t look like they can carry our weight. Batu sees our expressions and nudges Gan, and they both laugh. No doubt they are used to this reaction.

‘Very strong,’ Gan says. He throws a blanket over the horse nearest to him, and it nods its head as if in agreement. Then he places a very small, multi-coloured saddle on top. The seat – I think it’s called the pommel, from vague memories of that day at the stables – seems very high, and the stirrups very short.

Gan pats the horse on the hind and gestures at me to mount it. Why the hell he has chosen me to go first, I have no idea. Perhaps he can sense my reluctance.

‘Er … do you have any with longer stirrups,’ I ask. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to get my feet in unless my knees are at my ears.’

Batu and Gan laugh. ‘All same,’ Batu says.

Gan has dressed a second horse and is gesturing to Carrie, who shrugs and sticks her foot in a stirrup. Gan shoves her up and over, and she manages to land correctly on the saddle. Her knees are bent at almost ninety degrees. ‘You can stand if better,’ Gan says.