At a more leisurely pace, we don our rucksacks and I don’t know what I’ve got in here—I know it’s not the kitchen sink because I’ve seen someone else carrying that. I’m becoming acutely aware that everyone is wearing utility clothing in shades of khaki and beige—except me. Despite the best efforts of the man at the Outdoor Shop, I shunned the utility, zip-off trousers in mud shades and put together my very own mountain ensemble. Which means that I’m wearing Miu Miu embroidered combat pants, a Kookai tee-shirt and a pink baseball cap with a diamante star on the front.

Dean grins at me. ‘Are you going for the award for the most glamorous trekker?’

‘It wasn’t my intention.’ In fact, I’d rather look like a fit bit who could run up hills and eat Yetis for breakfast. Striking a blow for fashion maybe wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.

‘You’d win,’ my guide says. He winks at me. ‘Hands down.’

I think it’s a compliment.

Still glancing over his shoulder at me, Dean herds us together and then Sanjeev takes up the lead as we set off just before the little hand reaches seven. I’m surprised that I can make my eyelids open, let alone force my reluctant legs to walk.

We make our way out of the village, swinging over the frothing river on an extraordinarily rickety, rope suspension bridge with several essential planks missing. Once that has been safely, if somewhat nervously, navigated, we then head up a steep slope through paddy fields where already the smartly dressed women in richly embroidered saris and Nike trainers are working, harvesting the rice. Children with faces the colour of creamy caffé latte are running up and down the path shouting ‘Namaste!’ as they pass, carrying baskets laden with firewood, ears of corn and complaining chickens squawking loudly. A little boy in a Dick Tracy tee-shirt and Snoopy shorts stops and smiles shyly as he hands me a marigold flower, before running away chuckling madly. These kids could melt the most frosty of hearts and mine is already dissolving like an ice cream in the full blast of a fan-heater. My sister’s kids are noisy, robust, loud and, to a man, constantly demanding. These children are open, innocent, gently insistent. They don’t wear Nikes. They don’t wear shoes at all. Nor do they have the latest labels, just a ragtag of clothing that looks like the leftovers in an Oxfam shop. They follow us laughing through the villages, running in the dusty lanes, not frightened to hold the hands of pale-faced strangers; they give us marigolds, pretty quartz stones and golden smiles from filthy faces.