Pushing myself out of my sleeping bag, I try to rearrange my Harpo Marx–mad hair. I hardly slept a wink last night. My sleeping bag felt like a suffocating cocoon, my body was too hot and my head was too cold. I had a ridge in my sleeping bag exactly where my shoulders wanted to be. There was a chorus of snores coming from all of the other tents, like some kind of novelty orchestra act. I was, however, pleased to note that there were no antisocial sounds coming from my immediate neighbour’s tent. I pull the tea and the bowl of water towards me, switching onto autopilot as I go through the washing motions.

It was dark last night. So dark that it kept me awake—if that makes sense. There was no light pollution from nearby street lights—nothing. Just a sliver of moon and rash of stars. Every time I tried to slide into dreamland, I stuttered and stumbled and jerked myself awake. Someone once told me that when you have that feeling it’s your heart stopping momentarily and that your body causes the jerk to restart it—that’s never helped me to relax. Quite frankly, that’s far too much information. And although I was lying on the floor I held on to my sleeping bag to try to stop me falling. But it was no good—I tripped as I tried to reach Jake heading for the door, I staggered from the kerbside as I followed an elusive Neve, I slipped on the steps as I climbed the foothills of the Himalayas and Dean reached out to catch me. I just kept falling, falling, falling until finally sleep found me. I think that was about half an hour ago. I did, however, manage to survive the night without having to struggle through the darkness to pee in a hole in the ground that passes as a loo and I’d class that as a result.

Breakfast is set out on a trestle table with the mountains to one side and the river to the other. I think it’s quite possible that during the night I have died and gone to heaven. Dawn is breaking and everything is pink and rosy. In this light, the snow on the mountains makes them look as if they’re tipped by strawberry ice cream.

Dean is already seated. His hair is damp and curling round his face. He’s clearly more adept with his bowl of water than I am. And, call me shallow, I am missing my hairdryer. Marginally more than Jake at the moment.

‘Hey,’ Dean says and pats the camp stool next to him. He is too chipper by half. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Wonderfully.’

He gives me a wry smile. ‘I heard you tossing and turning.’